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I closed the laptop and walked over to my couch, where I’d tossed Hudson’s sweatshirt. I had washed it twice and still hadn’t returned it, mostly because returning it would require admitting I’d deliberately kept it. The sleeves covered my hands, and even though I’d washed it, it still smelled faintly of the cedar-scented soap he used.

Just seeing it gave me butterflies.

Twenty-two minutes later, three firm knocks sounded against my door.

Steeling myself, I walked over and opened it.

Patty barged in, holding a foil-covered aluminum tray in both hands. A paper grocery bag hung from one wrist, and her face carried none of the exaggerated cheer she usually brought into my apartment.

“You look disturbingly responsible.”

“I feel horrible.”

“That’s worse.”

She carried the food to the kitchen. The smell followed her, smoky and sweet, with enough garlic to render future social interactions unlikely.

I locked the door and joined her. “Where did these come from?”

“Uncle Dave smoked them.”

“Did he know they were for an intervention?”

“No. I told him I had a protein emergency.”

“Did he question that?”

She shook her head. “He gave me extra coleslaw.”

Patty unloaded the tray, two containers of sides, napkins, and enough wet wipes to clean a minor crime scene.

We prepared plates and sat across from each other at my small dining table. The chair beside Patty still had a slight wobble I had been meaning to fix for three years.

I picked up a rib. “So,” I said. “Do I eat before the emotional devastation or during?”

“During. It prevents fainting from low blood sugar.”

I took a bite. The meat was tender enough to fall off the bone, the sauce sticky across my fingers. Under different circumstances, I would have focused on the food.

Instead, I watched Patty pull meat from the bone without eating it.

“What happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing happened.” She paused. “I mean, nobody found out.”

My stomach clenched. “Oh.”

There it was. The subject of the dinner.

The lie.

Patty set down the rib. “We need to talk about how long this is going to continue.”

I picked up a napkin and methodically cleaned my fingers to buy time. “How long what is going to continue?”

She gave me a wholly unimpressed look.

“Fine,” I said. “Bad opening strategy.”