I kissed her again, softer this time, and when we finally started walking again, her hand was in mine and the future felt like something worth hoping for.
10
Maggie
Jack’s apartment was different than I remembered, though it had been decades since I’d stepped foot inside. But I still remembered how organized he was, just like me.
The records were alphabetized. Coltrane next to Davis next to Ellington, jazz spines lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. The newspapers were stacked by date on the coffee table, oldest on the bottom, each one read and folded with military precision. His books occupied a single shelf above the television, arranged by author. The whole place had the feeling of a mind that needed order to function, that found peace in systems and categories.
“I moved things around since the last time you were here,” Jack said, watching me take in the space. “I’m not here that often, but I needed a change.”
“I get that. It’s very… you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.” I moved to the bookshelf, drawn by the single photograph that broke the room’s careful neutrality. A young man in uniform, dark hair, easy grin, the kind ofsmile that suggested he’d never met a room he couldn’t charm. “Danny?”
Jack nodded. He’d gone still the way he always did when his brother came up—not tense, exactly, but watchful. Like grief was a wild animal that might spook if he moved too fast.
“He looks like you.” I’d forgotten how much they looked alike.
“Everyone says that. I never saw it.” He took the photo from my hands, studied it for a moment, then set it back on the shelf. “He was better looking. Taller. Better at everything, really.”
“Jack—”
“It’s not self-pity. It’s just true.” He shrugged. “Danny was the golden boy. I was the afterthought who showed up sixteen years late. Practically different generations.”
I wanted to argue with him, to tell him that he was enough, that comparing yourself to a ghost was a game you could never win, but I knew better than to offer comfort he wasn’t ready to receive. So instead I said, “I believe I was promised dinner.”
His kitchen was tinier than I’d remembered, barely room enough for two people to stand without touching, which meant we spent the next hour touching constantly. Shoulders brushing as we reached for pots. Hips bumping at the stove. His hand on my waist as he moved past me to grab the colander.
The pasta was a disaster.
“It’s supposed to be al dente,” Jack said, poking at the gluey mass in the pot. “This is al… something else.”
“Al cardboard. Al regret.”
“I followed the directions.”
“Did you salt the water?”
He looked at me blankly. “You’re supposed to salt the water?”
I started laughing and couldn’t stop, the kind of helpless laughter that feeds on itself, and after a moment he was laughingtoo, and we stood there in his tiny kitchen with ruined pasta steaming between us and laughed until my stomach hurt.
“In my defense,” he said, wiping his eyes, “I’m an investigative journalist. Not a chef. My skill set involves uncovering corruption, not uncovering the mysteries of boiling water.”
“The mystery of salting boiling water.”
“Exactly. Very advanced culinary technique. Way above my clearance level.”
“It’s literally step one. It’s on the box.”
He picked up the pasta box and squinted at it. “It says ‘add salt to taste.’ That’s ambiguous. Taste when? Before? During? I don’t taste my water. Do you taste your water? That’s weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“And yet you’re still standing in my kitchen.”
