A woman with a staff badge walks past, clutching a huge tumbler. She gives me a look like she’s trying to decide whether to dodge a lunatic or step in. I flash her a tight half-smile, irritation mixed with apology, and shake my head.
“Really?” I mutter, loud enough for him to hear.
George doesn’t answer right away. He just tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to read every thought I’m not saying out loud.
“Is this what we’re doing now?” My voice comes out dry and brittle.
I start walking toward my car anyway, keys already in my hand like ending this conversation is still an option. George falls into step a few feet behind me, keeping his distance like he already knows pushing too hard will make me bolt.
My eyes drop to the black tote bag. It’s not greasy takeout. Through the opening, I can see the clear lid of one of those heavy glass containers he always used at home. It’s something homemade. The realization hits like a slap.
The bastard cooked for me.
A sharp spike of disbelief and anger shoots through me. He has the nerve to show up here, digging straight for the old memories he must fucking know still hurt.
George swallows once. “You must have skipped dinner again.”
I bark out a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t what?” I cut in, voice rising. “What is this? Some kind of divorced dad visitation schedule? Tuesdays and Thursdays you show up at my job with food like some kind of penance?”
The joke dies instantly between us.
George doesn’t smile. His face folds in on itself, like every sharp word out of my mouth is something he believes he deserves. It makes me want to scream.
“I made too much,” he says softly.
That breaks something in me.
George never made too much. He measured rice with the precision of a surgeon. Timed sauces down to the second. He cooked like feeding someone was sacred. There was never any “too much” by accident.
My throat closes up. I look away, eyes burning.
We reach my car and George takes one careful step closer as I stop beside the driver’s door, moving like I’m something wounded enough to spook. “Lance—”
“No.”
His jaw flexes. He pushes his luck. “Can you just listen to me for a minute?”
I laugh again, softer this time, meaner. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Raw and unguarded pain flashes across his face.
“You decided there was nothing left to say, remember?” I say. “You made that call for both of us.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to show up here in Seattle months later acting like bringing me home-cooked meals changes anything.”
“I know it doesn’t.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
George looks exhausted suddenly. It’s not something you fix with sleep, coffee or whatever self-inflicted nonsense he’s been running on lately.
“You won’t answer my texts or calls.”
