pots and pans and utensils hovers above it all.
With a kitchen like this, there’s no doubt in my mind Ace knows how to cook.
My mistake. I never should’ve doubted him.
He places the bag on his counter, pulling out eggs and OJ as I nonchalantly peer around the rest of the space.
In the far corner is a fireplace, covered in worn brick with names I can’t read stamped into random places. Oversized leather furniture is arranged conversationally, and a cable knit blanket hangs haphazardly over the back of one of the chairs. On the table, a lamp is clicked, providing a small amount of light, but every window in his palatial townhome is shaded and dark.
I stand in silence, glancing around as he unloads the groceries.
This place is hard like him. Dark. Walled off.
“So,” I say, almost breathless for some reason.
It’s as if all of a sudden, I’m realizing how silly it is that I picked up groceries at the store this morning and carried them all the way here, thinking he’d be appreciative of my efforts. If he truly doesn’t remember our conversation, it makes all of . . . this . . . seem a little ridiculous. “You want me to make you breakfast or you want me to leave?”
Ace stops unloading groceries and locks his gaze into mine. “No. Stay. You can make breakfast, and then you can tell me exactly what we talked about last night.”
16
Ace
“I’m going to shower really quick.” I carry my plate to the sink. “Don’t clean up. Just leave everything. Make yourself at home.”
Aidy dabs the corners of her ruby red lips with a napkin and swallows the last of her omelet.
“When I get back, we’re going to talk,” I call out before disappearing down the hall. We didn’t talk over breakfast. I watched her cook, and we sat in silence, side by side, as we ate. I’m sure I smelled like alcohol and dirty sheets, and I wasn’t about to blast her with all that in the name of getting a few answers.
As soon as I step out of the shower, I dry off and then slip on a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt. Slicking my hair back with my fingers, I finish getting ready and come out as soon as I’m confident that I don’t smell like I slept in a pile of garbage all night.
“You ready?” I ask, startling her. “Thought we could get some fresh air. Do a little walk and talk, as my old coach liked to call it.”
She was standing by the mantle, examining the assortment of photographs lined up in varying sizes. Most of them are of family, but there are a few pictures of me with some Firebirds.
“Yeah.” She exhales, smiling. Her eyes drift to the mantle once more, to a picture of me and my four younger brothers, and then she spins on her heel. “Let’s go.”
Outside, the streets are almost vacant. I’ve always loved the way the city clears out on the weekends. You never know how much you need that breathing room until you experience it firsthand. Holidays are like that too. Labor Day. Fourth of July. Memorial Day. Everyone scatters to the Hamptons or Cape Cod. Me? I prefer to stick around and enjoy the depopulated city before they all come back.
“So,” she says.
We kick along, our shoes scuffling lightly on the sidewalk.
Aidy shoves her hands in the pockets of her white denim shorts and her blouse hangs off her shoulders. I’m beginning to think it’s intentional, this look of hers.
“You going to tell me what I said?” I ask.
Fuck me if I rambled on about Kerenza.
Her lips pull up on one side as she looks up at me. “I don’t know where to start. You said a lot of things. I never knew you could talk so much.”
Massaging my temples, I pull in a sharp breath. Whatever I said, it must have compelled her to come here today, because I can’t think of another reason she’d show up at my door offering breakfast and a listening ear.
“You were vague about everything,” she says. “Mostly. You didn’t give a lot of details about anything really.”
Oh, thank God.
“First you apologized for calling me.” She laughs, reaching for a dainty gold necklace hanging around her neck, twisting it between neon pink fingernails. “Took a while for you to realize you weren’t dreaming. And then you said you’d been having a rough year, and that you haven’t been yourself lately, and you