“Pretty sure I’m out.” I don’t think I’ve ever bought cilantro. I’m not even sure I could distinguish it from parsley.
Sloane’s forehead scrunches in disappointment. At one time I would have thought it was cute, but now it just seems childish. “Do you mind popping out for some?” she asks.
“We could have spaghetti instead,” I suggest. “I’ve got some tomato sauce in the cupboard, it would be easy to throw together.” I think of the spaghetti Melissa cooked last week, and suddenly I’m craving it.
“But have everything else for the lime chicken.”
I consider lying, and telling her none of the grocery stores in Somerset are open past eight. But I have no desire to make small talk while she cooks, so I nod and grab my jacket. Sloane will probably take the opportunity to snoop through my apartment and check for signs that anotherwoman’s been there. She won’t find any, but I almost wish she would.
So I drive out to Superstore to buy cilantro for the first time in my life. Fortunately, the herbs are clearly labeled, and it’s easy to find. There’s only one checkout line open, and I find myself in line behind Ethan.
“Hey, Luke.” He looks embarrassed to see me, which isn’t surprising after our conversation last night. But he’s clear-eyed and seems sober, so hopefully last night was just a blip.
And actually, anyone seeing us in the checkout line would probably be more concerned about me than about Ethan. I haven’t had a chance to shower since hockey, so I’m still a sweaty mess, and the only thing I’m buying is a bag of fucking cilantro.
“Hi, Ethan,” I reply.
He glances at the bag of cilantro in my hand but doesn’t ask, and I’m grateful. There’s no way to explain it without giving away the fact that Sloane’s in my condo, cooking a fancy dinner that’ll wreck my kitchen and probably won’t even taste very good.
An uncomfortable silence falls, and Ethan turns his focus to the cashier scanning his groceries. After he taps a credit card and gathers his bags, he gives me a nod. “Have a good night, Luke.”
“Yeah, you too.” If Sloane wasn’t at my condo, I would have invited him to come over again tonight. We could microwave something for dinner, watch a game, and hopefully get past the awkwardness.
But Sloane is at my place, and when I get home, I see that she’s already done a number on my kitchen. Every mixing bowl I own is on the counter, along with a number of utensils I’d forgotten existed.
I hand her the cilantro wordlessly.
“Thanks, Luke,” she says brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready. I opened a bottle of wine from the cupboard, I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure. Do I have time to grab a shower?”
“If you make it a quick.”
When I get out of the shower she has dinner ready, and I help her carry the plates to the table.
“I met one of Austin’s friends at the hockey rink,” Sloane says conversationally. “Melissa. She seems nice. Not his usual type, though.”
“Uh huh.” Melissa’s not Austin’s usual type, she’s way too good for him. But it’s not a subject I want to discuss with Sloane.
Sloane looks disappointed by my refusal to pick up that conversational ball, but she rallies quickly. “I’m almost done analyzing the data for our research paper. I’ll show it to you after dinner.”
“Sure.” I wish I’d never agreed to help with the project, which seems like a colossal waste of time—a study on how doctors introduce themselves is hardly groundbreaking science—but I feel guilty backing out. A lot of medical journals love this sort of touchy-feely crap, and if it gets published, it will look good on Sloane’s fellowship applications. It won’t hurt my resume, either, if I’m ever looking for another job.
“Is something wrong, Luke?”
I take a bite of quinoa and set down my fork. A lot of things are wrong. The beautiful woman sitting at my table has gone to considerable effort to cook me dinner, but the quinoa tastes like cardboard. And when Sloane leans forward and her sweater slips down one shoulder, the sight of her bare skin does nothing to stir my blood.
“Why are you really here, Sloane?” I ask.
Her eyes widen; she clearly didn’t expect me to be sodirect. “Because I think we made a mistake, Luke. We were good together, and we gave up too easily.”
I lean back in my chair. “We still want different things, Sloane.”
“Not really, Luke.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’d be willing to move to Somerset?”
There’s a pause. “Maybe for a few years,” she says carefully.
