Stone shook his head, diving into the lemon loaf.
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“Probably the last time we were all together.”
My brows drew as I did that math, figuring out what exactly that meant.
“You haven’t seen Fig since you got out of prison?”
It had been blisteringly hot that day.
And dry.
The air tasted like the red dust surrounding us.
Stone had been sentenced to a supermax prison out in the Utah desert. At first I didn’t understand why—everyone there had multiple life sentences—but after my roommate, I understood too well. That prison was crawling with Mafia, and Stone was surrounded.
Stone shrugged at my question.
I dragged a hand down my forehead. Something that tasted a lot like guilt burned acid into my throat. Fig was even younger than I when Stone went to jail. I glanced at the photo on my fridge, taken just a few weeks before Stone was arrested.
They were both incredibly stubborn. I could see a very real future where anything filial in our family died with that photo.
“What are you doing next week?” I asked.
Silence settled again. Stone quietly finished off a slice of the lemon loaf. Only when the stoneware dish was covered in crumbs did he speak.
“Nothing.”
I opened our group chat and sent the first message since—Jesus, three years ago. Fig had messaged the group to let us know her missed call was a butt dial.
Stone and I are in town. Lunch?
A few moments later, my sister replied.
Whatever.
Stone stared at his phone, eyes wide, face blank. “Where should we go? What does she like?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “She always loved that one restaurant, maybe there?”
He nodded, as if to himself, then stood.
“Thanks,” he grunted, gesturing at the food, then left.
The clock on the oven blinked a neon-aqua 9:30. I leaned against the counter, absently focusing on the yellow crumbs on his plate.
Is she good?
As if fate sent the cue, a notification lit up my phone.
Shay had reactivated her dating profile.
Was she matching with other men?
Of course she was. She was the hottest, most interesting person on there. My mind immediately leaped to the kind of fuckers that would respond to a profile like that.
Not like I could claim to be a good guy. The bruises on my knuckles were the least-bad thing about me.
