Page 30 of Butcher & Blackbird

Did you deliver orzo pasta to my house??

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

But…since it’s there, you might as well get it out.

And if there’s parmesan in the bag, you should probably start grating that.

Oh and mince some garlic too, if there is any.

Are there mushrooms? Maybe wash those.

Asparagus goes well as a side. Is there asparagus?

The phone rings and I force myself to wait for a moment before accepting the call.

“Can I help you, Blackbird?”

“What are you doing?” Her voice is wary, but I still detect the faint trace of amusement beneath her trepidation.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You delivered food to my house?” There’s a pause. I imagine she’s probably checking the windows, looking for any sign of me. “I have food, Rowan.”

“Good for you. I think that qualifies you as a fully-fledged adult.”

I can almost hear Sloane’s eyes rolling, can nearly feel the heat of the blush creeping into her cheeks, if I could touch that dusting of freckles that speckles her skin.

Her long, steady exhale is the only sound between us. Sloane’s voice is melancholy and quiet when she asks, “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done the other day. I’m cooking with you,” I say. “We’re going to make it together. Put the phone on speaker and start grating the parmesan.”

Another pause weighs the thread between us until it feels like it’ll snap.

My voice is low, the amusement burned away when I say, “I wish you would have stayed, Blackbird. I would have taken you back into the kitchen. We could have made something together.”

“You were busy. I was…intruding.”

“I would have made time for you. You’re…” I swallow before I can say more than I should. “You’re my friend. Maybe someday my best friend.”

The silence stretches on so long that I pull the phone from my ear to check if the call disconnected. When Sloane’s voice comes through the line, it’s little more than a whisper but still cuts louder than a scream.

“You hardly know me,” she says.

“Really? Because I bet I know the darkest parts of you better than anyone. Just like you know the darkest parts of me. And despite that, you still want to hang out with me. Most of the time, anyway.” I smile when Sloane’s breath of a soft laugh travels through the line. “So, I think that makes you my friend, whether you like it or not.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and then the sound of a drawer opening, cutlery rustling in its confines.

“I’m supposed to grate this whole block of cheese? It’s the size of a small baby.”

I know I must look ridiculous, grinning like a fucking lunatic next to a tree, but I don’t give a shit. “How much do you like cheese?”

“A lot.”

“Grate enough to make a baby head.”

“Are you serious?”

“You said you like cheese. Get to work, Blackbird.”