After the pie went into the oven Polly went out to play, stopping just shy of the back door to thank me for letting her help bake. Now, alone in the kitchen with Leo, maybe I could get some answers.

“I’m hungry—you hungry?” he asked, turning away and rummaging in the pantry. Answers would not come quite yet, apparently.

“I’m not so much hungry as I am confused.”

“Confused?” he repeated, seeming to be determined to make me say it all. To put my shit right out there before he did.

“Confused, as in, what the hell, Leo? Why didn’t you ever tell me you had a—”

The front door slammed. “Can we go down and see the chickens? I want to see if they remember me.” Polly came running into the kitchen, and stopped just short of plowing into me. “I mean, when the pie’s done, of course.”

I knew my limit, and I’d just about reached it.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna take off now. Don’t worry, the timer is set, and remember what I said about seeing the juice bubbling up? When the timer goes off, if the pie is bubbling, it’s ready to come out. If not, just give it a few more minutes. You can help her check on the bubbling, right, Leo?”

“Rox—” he started.

I spun for the door. “I’ll get the baking stuff later. Nice to meet you, Polly.”

I all but sprinted for the door, hauled ass across the lawn, and was backing out of the driveway in the time it takes to say there she blows.

All things considered, I thought I’d handled it pretty well. Until I realized I’d forgotten my purse.

I slowed down to the speed limit. There was no way I was going back now.

Chapter 18

I slammed the pan down on the burner. My knife cut angrily through the butter. I tossed a pat or two into the pan, watching it instantly sizzle.

Dammit.

I added olive oil, swirled the two together, then pressed a sixteen-ounce rib eye into the hot pan. I let it char on one side, while I chopped the parsley as if it had done something personal to me.

Dammit.

I listened to the steak sizzle, trusting my ears to tell me when it was time to flip it as I murdered the parsley. The familiar rhythm of chopping distracted me from the thoughts that were rolling around inside my brain like bowling balls¸ heading down the alley toward my very firmly ensconced pins.

Pin 1. Don’t get involved.

Pin 2. Enjoy the penis. Engage no other organ.

Pin 3. Attachments are for suckers. See also Mom.

Pin 4. Falling in love sucks.

Whoa, whoa, hold the phone there. Falling in love? Who said anything about—

I mentally picked up the bowling balls and threw them through the plate glass window in the bowling alley in my mind.

Dammit!

After I’d left Leo’s I’d driven home, circled the driveway, headed back into town, dropped by the butcher shop, and asked for the biggest, most beautiful cut they had. The Flintstones-sized rib eye was perfect. I scraped my parsley into a bowl and started pulverizing a perfectly innocent clove of garlic.

Innocent, my foot—let’s see what you’re hiding. I pounded and smashed, added a sprinkle of kosher salt, and mashed it all into a beautiful little paste, which I stirred into the parsley, which was glad to no longer be the object of my . . . anger? Was I angry?

Did that parsley just snort at me? I drowned it in olive oil, squeezing a lemon over the entire mixture until it yelled “Uncle!” then whisked it into oblivion.

All to avoid feeling the . . .

Steak’s done! I forked it onto the cutting board, covering it with foil to let it rest while I looked around the kitchen for something else to massacre. Tomatoes. Oh, look at that—tomatoes. Harvested by hand, from plants nurtured in perfectly tilled soil by perfectly bearded hipsters, in the land of organic milk and asshole honey, where everyone was happy and in tune with the earth, and the entire world narrowed down to slow, sustainable, and the concept du jour—local.

Fuck local. I’d fucked local, and look where it got me. Angry/not angry, listening/not listening for a phone call or text, feeling/not feeling overwhelmed, confused, betrayed, and slightly . . . used?

I grabbed the goddamned tomatoes by their stupid vines, tore the door almost from its hinges, and threw them as hard as I could across the backyard, splashing through the tangle of vines to spatter against the Airstream.

“Nice shot.”

Dammit! The last tomato in my hand became gazpacho. I whirled around to find Leo standing next to the house, and I had to resist two simultaneous urges. To mash the tomato into his face. And to then lick it off.

I chose neither, opting for calm and neutral.

“What are you doing here, Leo?” I asked, throwing the dripping tomato into some bushes and stalking back into the house, knowing he’d follow. As I rinsed and dried off my hands, I was surprised at how much they were shaking. So much for neutral.

I could feel his eyes on me as I moved around the kitchen, and I avoided his gaze, tidying up, restacking plates that didn’t need it.

He didn’t answer my question, so I finally looked up at him, raising my eyebrows. His face was cautious, tinged with something a little like . . . hope? I steeled myself.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally answered, watching as I uncovered the steak that had been resting.

I picked up a carving knife and began to slice. “So, talk,” I replied, arranging the steak on a plate and drizzling the parsley and lemon mixture over it. No way was I going first here. I wasn’t playing my hand until I saw what else he might have.

He said, “You ran out of there so fast this afternoon I didn’t have a chance to—”