Page 47 of Hearts on the Line

“You’re really good at it. Cooking, I mean.”

He reaches behind his neck and scratches, drawing my focus to his arms and the tattoos there. The curiosity of knowing more sits heavily on my tongue.

“Thanks.” He blows out a breath. “Listen, we should talk about what happened.”

“Hmm, did you think I was too heartbroken to realize you ghosted me?”

“No, I’m just too chickenshit…”

That earns him a smile. I can’t help it. “You have a lot on your plate, and then I show up. I get it. Lots of things are coming up for us both. But we can be friends.”

He grimaces, but I’m not going to let him get away so easily. “You should make a few specials for the restaurant.”

“No one goes to Merritt’s Catch wanting the kind of food I cook. They want lobster rolls drenched with butter or cold with mayo and a side of fries.”

I shrug, knowing him well enough not to press.

“Hey, Gloria and June usually sleep over, so we can head out whenever you’re ready.”

I lean forward, clutching the counter, and kick my feet. “You’re kidding. Your grandmother has a sleepover with her girlfriends every week?”

“What else are you going to do when you’re in your late seventies?”

“I want to be Bridget when I’m older.”

“What, a menace to society?”

“Look at that. I just crossed something off my to-do list.”

“I like you, just as you are now.”

“I could be cooler, maybe not such a cliché.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t make yourself the punchline.”

I frown. “I’m…” My voice trails off as I try to search for the right words. “I don’t remember you being so…”

He arches his brow, challenging me. I remember a lot about Ethan Murphy. An inconvenient shiver runs down my back as my heart speeds up against my ribcage.

I remember the way his mouth moved over me and my body like I was some holy light for him. The confession he whispered as he moved inside me, breaking me into a thousand tiny pieces I’m still trying to put together.

I’ve never been the same since.

“Fine, let me say goodbye.” I jump down and strut to the door. I can feel his eyes on me, can feel the way they bore into my back, and some part of me wants to spin around and yell, “What is it that you want to tell me?”

I don’t.

But the wine makes everything move a little slower, makes my cheeks ache as I lean against the doorway and smile while Bridget plays UNO with her friends at the same family table where I would share dinner with Ethan, his family, and my brother and dad. Where we’d laugh until it hurt, and we’d sneak smiles at one another as Jack would crack another joke and Annie would put on a dance performance with ribbons as Bridget cheered her on.

“It’s time for me to go,” I say, breaking up the fun.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Bridget tosses down her cards. “We can make room for you. Stay the night.”

I shake my head, about to answer when I feel the heat of Ethan collide against my back.

“She’s going to catch a ride back with me, ladies.”

Warm and deep, with the perfect messy scratch, his voice booms through me. It wakes something up I thought was long dead. And then, suddenly, I’m standing there, battling with the memory of him and me in the back of my dad’s Charger that summer.