Page 98

Mateo inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
A slow grin spread across my face.
“But,” he added, jabbing a finger at me, “if I start losing my basketball players to homophobic nonsense, you have to help me deal with the fallout.”
“Deal,” I said instantly.
Mateo rolled his eyes, then reached over and stole my last piece of broccoli.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered.
I grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Chapter twenty-eight
Mike
Thegrocerystorewastoo bright. The kind of bright that made me question every decision I’d ever made, including wearing this particular pair of jeans and convincing myself I could survive on coffee and spite.
I wandered the aisles like a zombie, pushing my cart with the enthusiasm of a man who had lost the will to live but still needed toilet paper. I missed Elliot, wondered how he was doing, wished he could be with me as I roamed the aisles, foraging for food. I missed his laugh, his stupid, lopsided grin, the way he fought tonotgrin half the time. He acted all tough and surly, but I knew better. Underneath the bluster and six-foot-three wall of muscles, he was a mush pit.
And I missed him, damn it.
The wine section loomed ahead.
Perfect.
I stopped in front of the bottles, tilting my head as I scanned the labels.
Which pairs best with longing and despair?I wondered.
The Merlot looked too hopeful. Pinot Noir was for people who still had dreams. I needed something with the emotional depth of a black hole.
Ah. A Cabernet Sauvignon so dry that just looking at it made my throat tighten.
Perfect.
I set it into the cart and kept moving, dodging a very intense-looking elderly woman who was having a passionate conversation with a wedge of Brie. Some people shouldn’t be allowed out on their own, without their probation officer, or ankle bracelet.
“You know what?” I asked myself, as I stared blankly at a display of canned tomatoes. “I should cook tonight. Something fancy. Something that says, ‘I have my life together.’”
That was how I decided—against all logic, reason, and my personal history with kitchen appliances—to make lasagna from scratch.
By the time I got home, I was mentally prepared for a culinary masterpiece. I had fresh pasta sheets, cheese that cost more than my dignity, and a determination that could not be extinguished.
Unfortunately, neither could the actual fire I was about to start.
It began with the sauce.
I threw onions into a pan with the confidence of a man who had never actually burned water before.
Within minutes, the kitchen smelled like charred failure.
“Well, shit, I was supposed to add oil to the pan before the onions, wasn’t I?” I muttered, waving a dish towel at the smoke. “Not a strong start, but we can recover.”
Without scraping the black bits of onion out of the pan, I added tomato paste, canned tomatoes, and a very enthusiastic amount of garlic. Things were looking up. For approximately thirty seconds.
Then, I reached for the salt.