Page 67 of Hearts on the Line

I don’t really know what to say, even as my pulse picks up.

“Would you like me to stay for a while? I’ll have some Jell-O too.”

“I think they have lime.” Ruth grabs my hand. Her fingers are fragile, papery, and they remind me again too much of my dad’s at the end. God, it makes my chest hurt.

“You can have fun with it, the paper I mean. See if you can give it a second chance because I think it’s time for me to let it go,” she says. “You’re the only person I trust to take it over.”

I’m already helping Ethan out, so taking a second job makes my stay in Merritt Point feel permanent. I swallow down my panic and let out a small chuckle, trying to keep the mood light.

“My salary request is going to be high.”

She tosses my hand down. “You’re impossible.”

I’m a lot of things, including possibly entering some complicated summer fling with my roommate. The woman who ran from her wedding. The daughter who is still struggling with losing her dad.

It’d be easy to say no and leave at the end of the summer with one less thing connecting me here. But I’m tired of running. Even if I’m not ready. Even if I have to feel all the things I’ve gotten comfortable pushing aside.

“All right, boss. What’s the first order of business?”

Chapter 22

Ethan

The dryer buzzes behind me. I flip the chicken and rush over, my arms full of laundry when Sloane pushes through the door a little past six.

“Hungry?” I ask.

I try my best not to appear too eager, but all day, all I’ve wanted to do is see her, touch her, taste her again.

“Starving. Even the Jell-O is horrible at the hospital.” She slips off her sandals by the door and pauses, noticing the small hook I put up this afternoon for her purse. She hangs it up, then spins to me. “How can they mess that up?”

I shrug, toss my laundry into the empty basket, then return to the stove.

“You’ll never guess what Ruth asked me.”

“No idea.”

“She wants me to be editor of the paper for the rest of the summer.” She rakes both hands back into her hair and smiles. Completely overwhelmed and happy. At least I think she is, and that makes me smile, which is something I don’t do too often.

“What did you say?”

“Told her I’ll do it. I mean, you should see her in that hospital bed. She just looked… she was all by herself in that big house when she had her stroke. I couldn’t say no.”

Mentally, I catch myself doing gymnastics, trying to figure out what this means for me and covering shifts at the restaurant, and I hate that that is the first thing I think of.

“I think it’ll be good for you.”

She shrugs, trying to downplay the news. So I don’t push it any further.

“What are you making?”

I slide a tomato onto the cutting board. “You like tomatoes?”

“Always, but especially in summer.”

“Good answer. I’m making bruschetta chicken.”

“And pasta?”