Page 26

I sit across from Sadie at the same table as last time, the smooth wood still sticky under my forearms. The afternoon sun oozes through the oversized windows.

The late-lunch crowd thinned to only a few tables.

A trio of women on the jukebox warn about a boyfriend being back in town, the music filling the quiet gaps between clinks of cutlery and bursts of muted laughter from the counter.

Sadie curls her fingers nervously around her glass of water, the black polish on her nails chipped at the edges. Her dark braid slips over her shoulder as she leans forward, the pink streak glinting under the light.

“My professor didn’t grade the last assignment yet,” she says, voice a little rushed, “but she gave me this little thumbs-up when I left the lecture, so,” Sadie wiggles her thumb in the air, grinning sheepishly. “I’m hoping that’s a good sign.”

I nod, feeling a swell of quiet pride. Even to someone as socially challenged as me, that seems like a fairly obvious good sign.

“Yes. I-I w-would agree.”

She flushes, the color a soft pink high on her cheekbones.

I once heard her tell Quinn that she’s glad she doesn’t blush.

That was right after a teasing joke had turned the other woman the color of a fire engine or the Chicago jersey her husband still wears just to mess with Vic.

At the time I thought it was funny Sadie didn’t know, but then Quinn didn’t correct her and I realized no one besides me seemed to notice.

I like that fact significantly more than I should.

“Thanks, Rags.” She ducks her head, almost shy, but I still see her lips curve in a smile. She runs her pointer finger through the condensation on her glass. “I really appreciate all your help.”

I push aside the menu. I already know what I’m ordering. She, however, seems hesitant, eyes darting over the laminated pages but not landing anywhere. She wasn’t this hesitant the last time we came. I try to catch her eye and she avoids me. I frown.

The last time we were here, I ordered nothing, mostly because I was headed back in to the gym.

Maybe she’s worried I won’t eat again? It’s not what would bother me, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worrying the woman across from me.

It’s the kind of thing that would bother Kat.

I have a memory seared in my brain from the last time I was home: my baby sister furiously opening the refrigerator and sighing like the world was ending.

All because she wanted a yogurt and had decided she couldn’t eat it if no one else was hungry. There’s an obvious solution.

Our waitress looks like she’s doodling on her notepad as she hovers. We’ve already sent her away twice, not quite ready to order. This time I make eye contact and nod, telling her to come back. A sigh lifts her shoulders.

“I-I’ll have the t-t-turkey c-club. No…no…no m-mayo please.” When I look across the table, Sadie is staring at me wide-eyed. “F-fries?” She nods, just a slight dip of her chin, but it’s enough. “Sh-she’ll have f-f-fries with extra k-ketchup. Did you w-want anything e-else?”

Sadie shakes her head and the waitress barely even glances at us as she jots down our orders before she shuffles away.

“Sorry,” Sadie says, her eyes jerking sideways before coming back to mine. “I wasn’t sure—I could have done that. Thank you.”

I can’t help the smirk that tugs at the edge of my mouth.

“I-isn’t that the d-deal? Y-you did well on y-your last assignment, and n-now I w-work on my s-social skills.”

Also, I think, you looked uncomfortable. I wanted to fix it.

I keep that last part to myself. I’m not sure why my normally comfortable, bubbly, personable Sadie Jones suddenly seems full of self-doubt.

I want to pull on the thread of her anxiety.

Unravel it like the skeins of yarn Amma uses to crochet.

Was it just food? I know Americans have weird relationships with eating, but then again, she seemed off during my ice soak, too.

Nervous. Uncomfortable. Like her skin didn’t quite fit right.

She looked the way I typically feel around most people.

Is it me? The two times she’s seemed unsure of herself, I’ve been there.

That would be horrible irony. The only non-family-member that I can talk to feels uncomfortable around only me? Well, I guess it’s a good thing we agreed I’d keep my feelings for her under lock and key. I can’t imagine her knowing just how into her I am would help in any way, shape, or form.

“Well then,” she grins at me, back to making eye contact. My heart turns over in my chest. “I wasn’t sure if maybe diner food wasn’t on your meal plan.”

Technically, it’s not, although I don’t have any sort of formal one.

I have a personal chef, like most of the guys on the team, but it’s not what most people think.

She doesn’t live in my home or serve caviar and fresh baked bread, instead she meal preps and stocks my fridge for me and a few of the other guys.

It keeps us from having to worry about adequate nutrition with our busy schedules.

With practice around the clock, frequent travel during the season, and the amount of physical activity we do, most of us don’t have the time to grocery shop or even cook.

Not if we want to eat more than pasta or take out.

I’ll admit I know how to cook very few things. I can boil water for pasta, and follow a clear recipe, but that’s the extent of my skills.Except cocoa. Amma has a mean súkkulaei recipe, and I made sure to master it.

We burn so many calories on the ice, a single turkey club without mayo—because I don’t like it, not because I can’t or shouldn’t eat it—even from a diner, won’t make a difference.

But this conversation isn’t about the French fries, or the club, or the diner.

She’s poking fun, using humor to cover up the fact that something made her uncomfortable.

I want to press. Tease out the tendrils to find out why the thought of eating in front of someone who is abstaining would make her uncomfortable, but I don’t.

First, because she’s clearly moved on. No need to put us back into awkward territory.

Second, because it just might not be something I’ll ever experience.

I don’t know if I escaped that fate being a man, or being from Iceland, but Amma’s always been pretty clear.

Eat until your belly is full, and eat all different kinds of foods. The more colorful, the better.

Our waitress slides plates onto the table, positioning them all in front of me.

“The f-f-fries are y-yours.” I try for teasing and push the plate toward Sadie. It seems to work. She leans back against the vinyl booth and her nose crinkles with her smile. I like this better. A lot better.

She looks up from under her lashes, honey brown eyes warm, and gestures to the plate, offering me a bite. I shake my head. I ordered them, and the ocean of ketchup, just for her.

“You’ve lived in the U.S. for how long and you don’t like fries?” she teases, bumping my foot lightly under the table.

I let out a low chuckle. “I g-grew up in Iceland. L-lamb. S - skyr . Plokkfiskur .”

“What’s plokk —?” She stumbles over the word, the divot between her eyebrows adorable.

“F-fish stew.” Once a meal made with leftover fish, now it’s well known all on its own. Amma adds Gouda cheese over the top of the mashed fish. Heaven. And one of the few things I can handle in the kitchen. “I’ll m-make it for y-y-you someday.”

“I’d like that. It sounds delicious.”

I almost miss her words, maybe because I didn’t expect them. Icelandic food is delicious, but most people have no experience with it. Across from me, Sadie seems one-hundred percent genuine.

“Y-you’re a people p-p-pleaser, Sadie,” I grin.

Sadie freezes, her eyes snapping to mine. “I—what? No!”

I lift a brow. She huffs, then buries her face in her hands, groaning into them. “Okay, I am. But only a little.”

Is there a way to be a ‘little’ bit of a people pleaser? I think you either are or aren’t. Maybe you can be both if you’re in recovery. I think back over my interactions with her. Has Sadie ever told me no? Have I seen her tell anyone no?

A lead weight settles in my gut.

Didn’t she try to back out of that drink after apple picking? That counts, right?

Except I talked her into going, anyway. Fokk .

“No one ever notices.” She scrubs her hands down her face. I bet they don’t. Her smile is a hell of a distraction. “Why are you so good at reading me?”

I shrug, feeling warmth bloom in my chest at the way she looks at me, like she’s not sure whether to scold or hug me.

It probably won’t help to tell Sadie that I just notice everything about her.

Or as much as is humanly possible.But only her.

Just last week, Vic laughed so hard he fell over when he realized I still hadn’t noticed Tristan’s recent haircut.

She taps the table thoughtfully. “Would you ever move your family here? To Quarry Creek?”

I shake my head without hesitation.

“N-no. Their h-home is in Iceland. A-always will b-b-be.”

Sadie lets out a wistful sigh. “I wish I knew where my home was. My history, I mean.” She plays with the edge of her napkin, voice softening. “Adoption kind of erases all of that. Some kids know at least something. But with baby boxes.” An elaborate shrug. “I have nothing.”

My heart tightens.

We talk quietly about the difficulty of those anonymous systems—how they save lives but leave gaps you can’t fill.

Sadie tells me the hard part is that more information would only help.

Mother, baby, everyone. It would be a chance to make sure the person dropping the child off is safe.

Healthy. To offer aid if needed. It would provide some basic answers for the kid, too.

Maybe even an avenue for reconciliation later in life.

But they only work because they’re anonymous.