She laughed and took the fork from my hand. “Okay. Maybe just a few bites.”
While we ate, she told me about making the pie with her grandmother today, how labor-intensive it was, how she’d never been too interested in baking from scratch before but found something really satisfying about it.
“When I go home, I’ve got strict instructions from Grams to teach my sister Emme how to bake this. She’s getting married next month, and Grams is convinced that homemade pie is the glue that holds a marriage together. Keeps a husband from straying.” She rolled her eyes. “She actually used those words. I love her like crazy, but she has some seriously old-fashioned ideas in her head.”
“I don’t know,” I said, sticking another bite into my mouth. “This pie is pretty fucking good.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you like it. But it’s not magical. Grams talks about it like it has mystical powers.”
“It might.” Setting down my fork, I tipped back the rest of my beer. “If I could eat something like this every day, I’d stay put.”
She smiled. “You’re not the type to stray, anyway. I can tell.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Curious, I sat back and studied her.
“I’m good at reading people. And I can tell you’re one of the good guys. You’re honorable.”
That’s because you don’t know that right now I’m thinking about how good your tits look in that sweater. “Really.”
She lifted her shoulders. “Really.”
God, she was so fucking pretty. And I loved that she thought I was honorable, even if I wasn’t so sure. I wanted to know more about her. “You just have the one sister? Or are there more of you?”
“There’s one more. The baby sister, Maren. She’s out in Oregon with her fiancé.” She laughed nervously. “Both my younger sisters are getting married before me. Feels kind of weird.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just always been first to hit the big milestones. This feels a little like a failure, to tell you the truth.”
“Nah.” I shook my head, surprised but flattered that she’d confide something so personal. “I’m pretty sure you’ve never failed at anything your whole life.”
A blush crept onto her cheeks. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”
“Two sisters. Both older than me.”
“Are you close?”
I thought for a second. “We were as kids. But we don’t see each other that often. They’re married with their own families. You close to yours?”
She nodded and set down her fork. “Very. Family is really important to me. I have great memories of visiting Grams and Gramps with my sisters when we were young. We used to fight over this swing in the yard.”
“Swing?”
“Yes, there used to be one hanging from a big old birch tree. Gramps made it and he used to push us on it.”
I imagined the scene—three little golden-haired girls all clamoring for their turn. I’d have bet anything Stella let the others go first. I tilted my empty beer bottle this way and that on the table, torn between wanting to ask her more about herself and hoping she’d leave soon so I wouldn’t have to talk about me.
But I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her. This was definitely the most words I’d said to anyone but Mack in the last few months. Maybe I could keep things focused on her. “You grew up downstate somewhere?”
She nodded. “Just north of Detroit. I still live there.”
“And you’re a therapist, right?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you’re good at reading people?”
“Partly.” She pulled all her hair over one shoulder. “But I think I’ve always been kind of good at it. I was very shy as a kid, not much of a talker. More of an observer and a thinker. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Were you a talker or a thinker as a kid?”
“Neither. I was just plain wild. An adrenaline junkie.”
She smiled. “I bet you had a lot of broken bones.”
“I did.”
“The military must have been a shock.”
I nodded slowly, wondering what all she’d heard about me. “At first.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What made you enlist?”
I didn’t want to get into losing my mom and the shitty aftermath of her death, how I’d been so fucking angry, but also searching so hard for something good, something right, some cause worth dying for, so I kept it simple. “I was nineteen and needed to get out of the house. Didn’t have the money for college. Wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.”
“You were a Marine, right?”
“Yes.” I rubbed a hand along the back of my neck. My dim little kitchen, which only a moment ago had felt cozy, now felt slightly claustrophobic.
“Did you like it?”
I didn’t answer right away. “That’s a complicated question. But I’ll say yes.”
“Were you overseas?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Iraq, then Afghanistan.”
“What was it like there?”
I shook my head. Crossed my arms again. “You don’t really want to know that.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one really wants to know that.” My tone was a little harsher than I’d intended it to be, but she was pressing on a bad bruise. How many times had Brie told me not to talk about the war when we were out with friends because it was depressing and no one wanted to hear about depressing things on a Saturday night?
“I’m sorry,” Stella said, sitting back and putting her hands in her lap. Her eyes dropped too. “I don’t mean to pry. Sometimes I can’t help it.”
“I don’t need a therapist, Stella,” I snapped, hating myself for being a dick but needing to put my cards on the table. “I don’t have PTSD, I’m not depressed, and I sleep just fine at night. Not all of us came back damaged.”
Her cheeks went from pink to plum. “I never said—”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of shit is going around about me in this town, but they can all go to hell. I moved up here to get away from the talk.”
“I haven’t heard anything,” she protested. “Honestly, I was only trying to get to know you.”
“Well, maybe it’s better if you don’t.”
We sat there in silence for a moment. I was positive she was going to get up and leave any second—I would have.
“Boy,” she said. “You weren’t kidding about conversation.”
I grimaced. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m sitting here trying to figure out a way to apply Grams’s advice, but somehow saying how fun you are to talk to doesn’t seem quite right.”
Fucking hell, I was a jerk. But it was better she knew that up front, wasn’t it?
She stood up. “So I think I’ll just go. Keep the pie, you can return the pan to Grams whenever.”
When I didn’t say anything more, she walked out of the kitchen, leaving me there at the table, arms crossed and scowling.
I should have been relieved she was gone. So what if I’d enjoyed her company for a few minutes? I was bound to fuck it up sooner or later. And I didn’t need a friend, didn’t like people asking me questions, didn’t want her to know me. This was for the best.
I lasted about three seconds.
“Stella, wait.” Jumping out of my chair so fast it tipped over backward, I rushed through the house and caught her at the front door, grabbing her arm. “Listen, I’m sorry.”
She looked at my hand on her arm, then met my eyes. Her expression told me she wasn’t sure I was one of the good guys anymore.
I loosened my grip on her but didn’t let go. “Really. I’m sorry. I’ve never been good at small talk.”
She arched one brow. “You were fine at the small talk, actually.”
I frowned. Tried again. “Look, the last few years of my life have been difficult. They’ve left me with some … rough edges.”
While we ate, she told me about making the pie with her grandmother today, how labor-intensive it was, how she’d never been too interested in baking from scratch before but found something really satisfying about it.
“When I go home, I’ve got strict instructions from Grams to teach my sister Emme how to bake this. She’s getting married next month, and Grams is convinced that homemade pie is the glue that holds a marriage together. Keeps a husband from straying.” She rolled her eyes. “She actually used those words. I love her like crazy, but she has some seriously old-fashioned ideas in her head.”
“I don’t know,” I said, sticking another bite into my mouth. “This pie is pretty fucking good.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you like it. But it’s not magical. Grams talks about it like it has mystical powers.”
“It might.” Setting down my fork, I tipped back the rest of my beer. “If I could eat something like this every day, I’d stay put.”
She smiled. “You’re not the type to stray, anyway. I can tell.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Curious, I sat back and studied her.
“I’m good at reading people. And I can tell you’re one of the good guys. You’re honorable.”
That’s because you don’t know that right now I’m thinking about how good your tits look in that sweater. “Really.”
She lifted her shoulders. “Really.”
God, she was so fucking pretty. And I loved that she thought I was honorable, even if I wasn’t so sure. I wanted to know more about her. “You just have the one sister? Or are there more of you?”
“There’s one more. The baby sister, Maren. She’s out in Oregon with her fiancé.” She laughed nervously. “Both my younger sisters are getting married before me. Feels kind of weird.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just always been first to hit the big milestones. This feels a little like a failure, to tell you the truth.”
“Nah.” I shook my head, surprised but flattered that she’d confide something so personal. “I’m pretty sure you’ve never failed at anything your whole life.”
A blush crept onto her cheeks. “What about you? Brothers or sisters?”
“Two sisters. Both older than me.”
“Are you close?”
I thought for a second. “We were as kids. But we don’t see each other that often. They’re married with their own families. You close to yours?”
She nodded and set down her fork. “Very. Family is really important to me. I have great memories of visiting Grams and Gramps with my sisters when we were young. We used to fight over this swing in the yard.”
“Swing?”
“Yes, there used to be one hanging from a big old birch tree. Gramps made it and he used to push us on it.”
I imagined the scene—three little golden-haired girls all clamoring for their turn. I’d have bet anything Stella let the others go first. I tilted my empty beer bottle this way and that on the table, torn between wanting to ask her more about herself and hoping she’d leave soon so I wouldn’t have to talk about me.
But I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her. This was definitely the most words I’d said to anyone but Mack in the last few months. Maybe I could keep things focused on her. “You grew up downstate somewhere?”
She nodded. “Just north of Detroit. I still live there.”
“And you’re a therapist, right?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you’re good at reading people?”
“Partly.” She pulled all her hair over one shoulder. “But I think I’ve always been kind of good at it. I was very shy as a kid, not much of a talker. More of an observer and a thinker. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Were you a talker or a thinker as a kid?”
“Neither. I was just plain wild. An adrenaline junkie.”
She smiled. “I bet you had a lot of broken bones.”
“I did.”
“The military must have been a shock.”
I nodded slowly, wondering what all she’d heard about me. “At first.”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What made you enlist?”
I didn’t want to get into losing my mom and the shitty aftermath of her death, how I’d been so fucking angry, but also searching so hard for something good, something right, some cause worth dying for, so I kept it simple. “I was nineteen and needed to get out of the house. Didn’t have the money for college. Wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.”
“You were a Marine, right?”
“Yes.” I rubbed a hand along the back of my neck. My dim little kitchen, which only a moment ago had felt cozy, now felt slightly claustrophobic.
“Did you like it?”
I didn’t answer right away. “That’s a complicated question. But I’ll say yes.”
“Were you overseas?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Iraq, then Afghanistan.”
“What was it like there?”
I shook my head. Crossed my arms again. “You don’t really want to know that.”
“Why not?”
“Because no one really wants to know that.” My tone was a little harsher than I’d intended it to be, but she was pressing on a bad bruise. How many times had Brie told me not to talk about the war when we were out with friends because it was depressing and no one wanted to hear about depressing things on a Saturday night?
“I’m sorry,” Stella said, sitting back and putting her hands in her lap. Her eyes dropped too. “I don’t mean to pry. Sometimes I can’t help it.”
“I don’t need a therapist, Stella,” I snapped, hating myself for being a dick but needing to put my cards on the table. “I don’t have PTSD, I’m not depressed, and I sleep just fine at night. Not all of us came back damaged.”
Her cheeks went from pink to plum. “I never said—”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of shit is going around about me in this town, but they can all go to hell. I moved up here to get away from the talk.”
“I haven’t heard anything,” she protested. “Honestly, I was only trying to get to know you.”
“Well, maybe it’s better if you don’t.”
We sat there in silence for a moment. I was positive she was going to get up and leave any second—I would have.
“Boy,” she said. “You weren’t kidding about conversation.”
I grimaced. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m sitting here trying to figure out a way to apply Grams’s advice, but somehow saying how fun you are to talk to doesn’t seem quite right.”
Fucking hell, I was a jerk. But it was better she knew that up front, wasn’t it?
She stood up. “So I think I’ll just go. Keep the pie, you can return the pan to Grams whenever.”
When I didn’t say anything more, she walked out of the kitchen, leaving me there at the table, arms crossed and scowling.
I should have been relieved she was gone. So what if I’d enjoyed her company for a few minutes? I was bound to fuck it up sooner or later. And I didn’t need a friend, didn’t like people asking me questions, didn’t want her to know me. This was for the best.
I lasted about three seconds.
“Stella, wait.” Jumping out of my chair so fast it tipped over backward, I rushed through the house and caught her at the front door, grabbing her arm. “Listen, I’m sorry.”
She looked at my hand on her arm, then met my eyes. Her expression told me she wasn’t sure I was one of the good guys anymore.
I loosened my grip on her but didn’t let go. “Really. I’m sorry. I’ve never been good at small talk.”
She arched one brow. “You were fine at the small talk, actually.”
I frowned. Tried again. “Look, the last few years of my life have been difficult. They’ve left me with some … rough edges.”
