Page 93 of Best Served Cold

“What?” she asks, laughing. “They don’t just carry those at the grocery store all year round.”

“No, but I know a crafter who can make something out of anything. I was thinking we’d get a Trader Joe’s bouquet, some ribbon, and make one ourselves. We can do a boutonniere too, if you want.”

“Really?” she asks. “Did you go to prom? I saw a few old photos of you at your parents’ house?—”

“My dad’s house,” I correct, feeling like a bit of a dick because it came out harsher than I’d intended. “It’s my dad’s house.”

She nods, understanding flickering in her gaze. “Sorry. I know that. Did you go?”

“Nah. I was a loner mostly.”

People pass by my car, giving us curious looks through the windshield. I suppose it is unusual to sit in a hot car talking, when we could be out there under a tree in the warm summer breeze, but it feels like we’re alone in here. It feels…intimate.

“Did you already play in a band back then?” she asks.“Yes.” A phantom ache throbs in my hand. The old anger isn’t far behind, but I swallow it down.

“Garbage Fire?”

“Nah…” I rub my chin. “I was in Bad Magic.”

Her hand lifts to her throat. “TheBad Magic?”

I nod again, my throat tightening. “I was the rhythm guitarist.”

“How did I not know that?”

Bad Magic made it big nine years ago—after I was forced to quit because I couldn’t go on tour with them. They’re a local fucking success story, and their lead singer is famous. I could have been too.

It’s been hard to let that one go. Every day, going about my business, it whispers in my ear.

That could have been you.

But there’s plenty to like about my life now, things I wouldn’t willingly let go of.

If I’d gone on tour with the band that summer, I’d be richer. More successful. But maybe not better. Maybe the drive to drink would’ve hit me anyway, and it would’ve been harder to stop with no one around to tell me no, or to give me a reason to think I should.

“Jonah has his reasons for not wanting to talk about it,” I say, clutching the wheel hard enough that it hurts. “I have mine.”

She reaches for my hand, grasping it. As I release the wheel to weave my fingers through hers, an awful, aching need fills me. Oh, this is no good. No fucking good at all.

My eyes find hers again, like I can’t help myself.

“It was his fault,” she says. “Jonah’s.” In her tone I can hear how much these last weeks have changed her. She’s on my side, no questions asked.

“Are we telling each other?” I ask gruffly.

She knows exactly what I mean, and a look of panic flashes across her face, cutting the tension with the efficacy of an obsidian knife. “Not yet.”

I’m disappointed but not surprised. She didn’t share her secret with Jonah, and she’d almostmarriedhim. Why would she tell me? We’re just having fun together. Making Jonah jealous. Helping Emil.

“All right, sunshine,” I say, clearing my throat, trying to pull myself up out of those low registers. “Let’s get you those flowers.”

She squeezes my hand. “I’m afraid you’ll look at me differently once you know.”

I try to smile, but I don’t quite manage it. “Don’t start caring what I think now, Soph. You might give me the wrong idea.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

SOPHIE

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