Chapter 10: The Plan

On Sunday evening, there was roast chicken on the table and nobody had mentioned the word cancelled.

Dane had made it without a word.

He had also set three places and put my chair at the corner, where the draft from the window couldn't reach it.

Rory came in from Columbus with a duffel bag and a sunburn.

He took in the table, and Dane at the stove, and then me.

"Sunday dinner's back on?" he said.

"Sit down," said Dane.

We ate in silence for ten minutes.

Then Rory put down his fork and pushed his cap back on his head.

"I need to say something about Wednesday," he said.

"The kiss was supposed to be one kiss, and it wasn't, and that's on me."

"It's on both of us," I said.

"I'm sorry," Rory said, and then, honestly, "I'm also not very sorry."

Dane carved a second slice of chicken.

His knife didn't slip, and his face didn't change.

"Pass the potatoes," he said.

Rory passed them with a hand that was not entirely steady, and I looked at my plate.

I did not look at Dane's wrist, or at the hand that had held mine.

"Okay," I said, putting down my own fork. "I have something to show you both. I've been thinking about it since Saturday."

I took out my phone and set it on the table between the potatoes and the salad.

"This is a voice memo Lacey sent me on the Thursday night before the tailgate."

I pressed play.

Her voice came out of the little speaker, sweet and warm and unhurried.

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