Page 78 of Just One More Thing

She moves to the table.

I head back into the kitchen, plate the food with hands that feel steadier than they did five minutes ago. I wipe a smear of grits off the rim of her plate twice before I’m satisfied. I’ve plated this dish a hundred times. None as important as this one.

When I walk out, she’s turned her chair slightly toward the window. Candlelight catches the side of her face.

I set her plate down. Then mine.

She looks at the food, then at me. “This smells incredible.” She takes a bite. I notice the way she tilts her head just a little. The small sound she makes before she catches it. The way her eyes lift back to mine, definitely not expecting this.

We talk the way we always have. About Maddy’s latest chaos. Hank’s ongoing war with French Fry. Frank’s plan to sell bunless hot dogs next to The Salty Dog, insisting it’s a different category.

“He wants to call it Buns Out.”

“That’s actually not a bad name.”

“Miss Hattie would bury him. Figuratively and literally.”

“She’d relish it.” I hold for half a second. “Get it?”

She groans, rolls her eyes, then picks up her napkin and throws it at me while laughing.

Halfway through dinner, she reaches for the wine bottle and refills my glass without asking. Then hers. I notice and let that normalcy settle somewhere I don’t mess with.

I don’t tell her about dessert. I just bring it out and set it between us.

The streusel is maybe a bit too dark. The peaches aren’t as neatly arranged as hers were, but I’m still excited to surprise her.

She stares at it.

Then up at me.

Then back at it.

“Jake,” she says carefully, “where did you get this?”

“The June issue of Southern Living,” I say. “Page ninety-six.”

“You read Southern Living.”

“Sometimes. For the recipes.”

She stops reaching for her fork. “How long?” she asks.

I take a sip of wine. Give myself a second. “A while.”

“You read the magazine I work for,” she says, softer now.

“In the checkout line,” I say. “I buy it when your name’s on a recipe.”

She goes quiet and gets that shine in her eyes that means she’s about half a second away from pretending she’s fine. “That is the most Jake Wheeler thing I’ve ever heard.”

I glance at the crisp. “Tell me I didn’t insult your life’s work.”

She takes a bite. Chews. Sets the fork down. Covers her mouth.

“Mo.”

“It’s perfect,” she says from behind her hand. “And I’m not about to cry over a dessert.” A tear slips out anyway. “Traitor,” she mumbles, swiping at it with a finger.