Page 104 of Dying to Meet You

I didn’t order any groceries, so I hurry toward him. Before I get there, the front door opens and Natalie steps outside. “I’m supposed to give you this.” She hands him a tip.

“Hey, thanks,” the guy says. “Here’s your receipt.”

Natalie carries a grocery bag into the house, leaving the door open.

I grab another bag before I step through the door. “Natalie! For the love of all that’s holy, could you please keep the doors shut and locked?”

“Sorry,” she says, trotting out of the kitchen. “Dad shopped.”

“I see that.” I set down my work stuff, haul the rest of the bags inside, and make sure the door is shut and locked. Then I double-check the lock. “He went to work?”

“Yup. At four.”

I practically sag with relief. I’m too tired to sit across from him at the dinner table and pretend not to feel awkward.

“But Mom—I found something.” She’s bouncing on her toes.

“Is it a job?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. Tessa and I are job hunting tomorrow after I take my bio exam. But seriously. I have things to show you right after I put the groceries away. I told Dad I would take care of it.”

“Sure. But give me five minutes.”

I run upstairs to change, trying not to feel shaky about the way Natalie’s bubbling over with enthusiasm after a few hours with her dad.

After putting on jean shorts and an old T-shirt, I find a sticky note on the bathroom mirror, with a drawing of a roasted chicken and a steaming bowl of... mashed potatoes?

I forget to breathe for a second, because I’m back in our Ithaca apartment, finding another note just like this, telling me what’s for dinner.

He’s signed it “H,” as if I wouldn’t know who it was from.

Feeling slightly off-kilter in my own house, I pad downstairs to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator to find it full of food.

“There’s also a salad he made earlier.” Natalie points at a covered bowl containing a chopped Greek salad.

Hmm. Am I too petty to eat the groceries that Harrison sourced?

Natalie takes the lid off a paper carton of mashed potatoes and the smell of warm butter wafts through the kitchen.

Not too petty, then. I get out two plates. I pour myself a glass of wine and carry my dinner to the table.

Just as we’re sitting down, the sound of a motorcycle hums down the street, grows louder, and cuts out completely in our driveway.

“Oh, that’s Dad’s bike,” Natalie says. “That guy Rick said he was going to drive it over here. I’ll get the keys from him.”

I take a gulp of wine and say nothing. But of course Harrison still rides a damn motorcycle. I hope it’s not the same one, because then at least I won’t have to eye it in my driveway and remember the time he bent me over the damn thing and lifted my skirt.

Natalie returns a moment later and slides a key ring onto one of the hooks by the door.

“Okay, check out what I found.” She plunks herself into her chair in front of me. “This is going to blow your mind.” She unlocks her phone and shows me a photo of a woman.

Her face is familiar, but it takes me a minute to remember why. “Oh God. The funeral!” It’s that woman who sat beside me—the sobbing one. The same woman who ran out the back door when it was over.

“Yeah. She cried so hard.”

“Who is she?”

Natalie’s smile is smug. “Her name is Laura Peebles. P-e-e-b-l-e-s. I found her on Facebook.”