Page 18 of The Gift
“Stop,” he said, chuckling. “I’m beingserious.”
“So am I,” I said, turning my head to glance at him. “Lack of coffee would behorrific.”
“This asshole, Shane Goode… Do you rememberhim?”
I grabbed a frying pan from the cabinet and set it on the burner to heat. “I don’t thinkso.”
“He’s about my age. We went to school together. But he’s never outgrown his emophase.”
I shook my head. “Not ringing anybells.”
“He’s still obsessed with his high schoolgirlfriend.”
I looked at him again. “In a stalker kind ofway?”
“Yes. But no. She died years ago.” He shook his head in frustration. “I’m not telling thiswell.”
“You’re really not,” I agreed, putting the bacon in the pan. “Take a deep breath and startover.”
He took my suggestion literally, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall while he inhaled deeply and then exhaled in arush.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
He crossed the room to the counter near the stove and pulled himself up to sit there, the way he’d done countless times while I prepped dinner. Every time he did it, I imagined what my mother would say about asses not belonging on counters, but I loved it. I loved him being at homehere.
“Here’s the backstory, youready?”
“Hitme.”
“Once upon a time, Shane Goode dated Molly Burke. She died in an accident. Shane never got over it. He talks about her like she’s still alive, like they’re still together. He’s never dated anyoneelse.”
“That sounds kind of sappysweet?”
“No,” he corrected. “Not in this case. He’sgross.”
I grinned. “Ah.”
“And Molly was my friend Jamie’ssister.”
“Jamie who works at the diner?” I guessed, grabbing a fork to turn the bacon. “I methim.”
“Yes. And I swear, Shane talking about Molly all the fucking time makes Jamie mental, but whatever. Jamie’s an adult. It’s none of mybusiness.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand. I really couldn’t care less about O’Leary and it’s weird and wonderful history, but I could listen to Julian talk about it—or anything else—allday.
“So, you’re upset because he was talking aboutMolly?”
“No. I’m upset because he was talking aboutyou.”
I dropped the fork in the pan with a clatter. “Me?”
For a second, my heart stopped before I managed to start it again. It wasn’t like I was in the witness protection program here. I’d left Manhattan voluntarily, needing to put some physical distance between myself and all the fucked-up shit I wanted to forget—my career, my family, my ex-wife, the friends who’d mostly forgotten my existence once everything else imploded. My life wasn’t actually in danger, even if someone in town connected the dots between Daniel Michaelson, O’Leary’s hermit, and the bestselling author and heir to the Michaelson fortune I’d oncebeen.
But I’d carefully constructed this life from bare earth, almost literally, and I liked it. I liked the rhythm of my days, and my weird menagerie of pets, and the fact that no one expected anything from me. I liked the Daniel I was when I was with Julian, and I liked that Julian had no idea who I’d beenbefore.
“A couple of people have gone missing,” he said. “Acamper—”
“I remember you telling me that,” I said, carefully not looking at him as I fished the fork from the bubbling pan. “What does that have to do withme?”
