“And,” I add quickly, “I moved to this housing complex because it’s the nicest apartment building…”
To my surprise, she joins in, finishing the sentence with me: “…closest to the station.”
Her face does that pained thing again, the expression I’ve come to recognize as grief punching her unexpectedly.
“It’s the same reason we moved in here,” she says quietly, using thatpluralagain. “I should’ve moved someplace else after Daniel…” She doesn’t finish the sentence; maybe it hurts too much to. She falls silent, her eyes fixed on the middle distance between us.
I want to ask why she stayed, what keeps her here surrounded by memories. But I sense she’s already shared more than she intended. The last thing I want is to push her back into her shell.
Thankfully, the doorbell rings.
“That must be the food.” She looks relieved as she sets down her bottle and heads for the door.
I watch her go, taking another sip of my beer. Even with the false starts and rough edges, Lily Finnigan draws me in. Sure, there’s that unspoken, brother’s-widow line I shouldn’t cross. But I’m on the hook. For the resilience stitched into everything she does, the way she shoulders what most people would crumble under, and the glimpses of humor beneath her guarded exterior. Lily had no problem roasting me in that ER. And I loved every second of it.
As I stand in her kitchen, surrounded by evidence of the life she’s rebuilt from the ruins of a tragedy, I vow to get a smile out of Lily Finnigan before the evening is over.
5
LILY
I falter outside my kitchen, hidden behind the wall that delimits the semi-open space, takeout bags dangling from my fingers. What am I doing? I’m about to have dinner with a man who isn’t my husband in my apartment while Penny is away. Not that this is a date. Definitely not a date. We are two neighbors sharing food while waiting for a sink part. The most platonic plumbing arrangement in history. It’s presumptuous of me to imagine he might be attracted to me while I look like a sewer vomited me out and smell even worse. I just have to act normal. Make polite, but not-too-intimate, conversation and I’ll be fine.
I square my shoulders and stride back into the kitchen. Josh is still leaning against my counter, beer in hand, looking far too comfortable in my space. His eyes track me as I set the food down.
“Thought you’d escaped out the window,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“It’s my apartment,” I remind him, setting two placemats on the kitchen table. “If anyone’s jumping out windows, it should be you.”
“Fair point.”
He grabs a chair and pulls it out, all easy self-assurance. I line up the takeout boxes to keep my hands busy.
I don’t bother with finesse or Pinterest-worthy presentation because… Not. A. Date. Just two humans consuming calories in each other’s proximity until the replacement hydraulics arrive.
It’s survival, not romance. I pull open a drawer and hold up a fork.
“You need one, or are you good with chopsticks?” I ask, trying for casual but landing somewhere between tense and manic.
“Fork, please,” he says. “I’m not training for ultimate revenge.”
I stare at him, hand frozen mid-air. Revenge against who? My sink? “What?”
His eyes widen. “You know,Kill Bill? Volume two? Pai Mei makes The Bride eat rice with chopsticks as part of her training?”
I continue staring. The reference flies so far over my head it might as well be in orbit.
“Tarantino?” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s this movie where Uma Thurman plays an assassin seeking revenge—you know what, never mind. I’ll take the fork.”
“Sorry.” I hand him the utensil. “My daughter monopolizes TV choices and eight-year-olds aren’t big on Tarantino.”
“It’s an old movie, but fair enough.” He takes the fork and sits down at the table, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes. “Though I bet she has excellent taste in Disney princesses.”
“Moana,” I say automatically, joining him at the table. “On repeat. For months. I can recite the entire script.”
He grins. “That’s a good one. The chicken cracks me up.”
“You have kids too?” The question lodges somewhere between my teeth and my better judgment. I’m not sure what answer I’d prefer: yes, my wife and kids are moving here as soon as they sort everything back home. Or no, I’m single and ready to mingle.
