Jo

Oh my God the ace shirt makes a lot of things fall into place. It’s funny that we have the same shirt—mine’s in slightly different colors, since the nonbinary flag has yellow instead of gray, in a different order—but also funny that I think we each took one glance and had a light bulb go off. I caught the way Jamie looked at me when I shucked my hoodie, and it wasn’t because I had to find a place for it that won’t trip us up.

I think he clocked it when I hesitated at introducing myself to Dune. They gave their pronouns, and my brain blinked out for a moment, because … well. I don’t mind she/her, and I like wearing dresses, and sometimes it’s easier to just go with the flow. I know Dune noticed, because they gave me one of those looks that says maybe I’m back at the start of their journey, but I think Jamie did, too. He didn’t ask about it, but he double-blinks at the colors on my barcode before he turns to the next slip.

He’s fast. I guess anybody who does anything this frequently gets fast at it, but man. There’s a reason he got out a cutting board and knife and made just enough space for me: they’re going to be through their rolls in no time, and it’s going to take me a while to slice the rest. I’m not fast to begin with, and the thought that people will be paying for these makes me a little more careful about lining up the knife and getting the thickness of the bottom half just right. Once I’ve thought I can’t let their five-star rating go down the drain I have to focus on not paralyzing myself into inaction. A couple wonky buns might not make a difference, but come on: I’m here to help out, not cause more problems.

There’s no music playing in the food truck, and most of Ricky’s conversation is directed outward. Some noises drift in from outside, but I should’ve brought my headphones. I wasn’t planning on coming to PrideFest until hours from now, closer to the drag show, because Ricky asked me to. My original plan was to be home, reading or maybe trolling the internet for more photos of Jamie’s old neighborhood circa 2000. I’ve got a newspaper subscription in general, but this is specifically looking for stories about that one part of Milwaukee, and that’s not easy to search for. It’s a lot of clicking and scrolling, just to be sure.

Jamie’s still working his way through the copies I made him, and he’s diligent about it. He doesn’t have many photos of his time in Milwaukee, considering both where it fell in the evolution of cameras and how people living alone don’t really take snapshots of the things they see every day, but he’s got some of his family coming to visit. His dad grew up there, and Allan visited a lot, usually when things weren’t going well with whatever woman he lived with at the moment. He’s been married three times, but I think you’d probably call him a serial monogamist. No matter the reason his marriage broke up, he’d move in with someone else after a short stint with Jamie.

And Jamie never dated anyone because he didn’t want to. Granted, there’s a whole spectrum of asexuality, but considering the zero previous interest I have to assume he’s the black stripe on the flag and not the gray. It’s also a possible explanation for some of the awkwardness when I intrude on his personal space bubble. Not everyone who’s ace is touch-averse, but he might be. Even though, right at this moment, we’re very close indeed.

I think it’s even more distracting because of the lack of music. It just makes me listen to see if I can hear him breathing. Down, girl. You can come to his rescue and maybe not drool over the confident motions of his hands.

He probably works out. Maybe his forearms are like that because of being in the kitchen like this, but how else would he get those biceps?

The Thirty-One totes are nice because they fold down flat, so once I empty one I can get it out of the way and move on to the next. There’s no room for it up on the counter, and I can’t get too far ahead of Jamie because there’s not enough space. This isn’t an operating room, but there are still food-safe surfaces, and he handed me a hairnet and gloves before I got started, so this is serious business. I haven’t looked around enough to see if there are any certifications on display somewhere, but he’s got to be inspected and licensed and stuff, right? If he’s serving food, there are all sorts of codes, even if it’s on wheels and not a brick-and-mortar restaurant.

Is there one proclaiming that all staff are suitably trained? All my own certifications lapsed when I got laid off because of COVID, and even then, my extent was making espresso drinks and bagging bakery. I had to cut bagels back then, I guess, but that was with the bagel slicer that did not exactly live up to its name. Maybe the hair net and gloves are enough, as long as I don’t cut one of my fingers or something.

The cafe always had music going. What kind of music depended on who was there, but it was always something. Nobody worked in silence, whether it was us or the customers. It was near campus, so just far enough away to make students feel like they were leaving school for a bit but definitely close enough for study groups or grad students and their mentors.

Jake never came with his mentor when I was on shift. I figured he didn’t want to mix the professional and personal, meaning he wouldn’t be able to help it if I was around, and not that he was ashamed of me for not going on to grad school. I picked up after him, I kept him fed, and I respected any time he told me he had a meeting or wanted to work late. Maybe he was cheating on me back then, too, and not just with Tess, but that’s never come up. I can’t say I really want to know.

Okay and music also gives my brain words to think that aren’t just my own thoughts.

Mom and Dad called this morning, of course, and we talked a bit about my work for Margot but not the stuff I’ve been going over with Jamie. I think they’re both convinced that, if they don’t entertain my fantasies, they’ll dry up. Since we haven’t actually talked about it, I don’t know if they think I’m making it up because of the Jake thing.

They don’t think it’s the concluded contract thing, because hey, I got all that money. Kara and Tess fulfilled their half of that deal exactly as they said they would, and paid quite well, so I should be happy. Maybe not so happy that I turned Davis in like that, but happy that I could be part of the chain that means the police finally had enough evidence to arrest and charge him.

There’s enough for that. There’s just not enough to convict him of all nine, except what police department wants to think they missed two serial killers instead of one? They’ve already lumped the nine together, so even the work Jamie and I have been doing to try to track down everyone involved with that neighborhood—he asked if I’d looked into divorced dads whose kids lived there, and I kind of groaned and swore and added that to my list—will be pointless unless we can find someone who fits.

It’s really not time to get distracted and think about my own life and where—or how, or if—Jamie himself fits.

---

Chapter Eighteen – coming October 18

June

Jamie

How long did it take to form a habit? Jo had been to three game nights. She’d met Talon and Dune, so she was able to put faces with the two remaining group chat phone numbers. He’d had two farmers’ markets since meeting her, but he hadn’t signed up for the one today because PrideFest started at noon. Jo hadn’t shown up to either of those, but she’d been there for lunch after, mostly because of Chase.

The times when she’d hung out with him while he smoked weren’t because of Chase, though. She’d never spent a full day, and it was sort of catch-as-catch-can based on her time in the archive and Margot’s most pressing questions, but he was now somehow almost used to a text from her: Coffee before I head to the archives? Or Can I stop by? They were always questions, like he’d ever tell her no.

There were times when he wasn’t sure if she’d change her mind because he’d always work in Mom’s schedule or whereabouts if she was there or expected back soon, but she didn’t. Jo now knew that Mom was more of a tea drinker than a coffee drinker, and then actually a tisane drinker, so she’d show up with three cups and hand one off either in passing, if Mom was going somewhere, or during a short chat.

Mom had yet to suggest they have Jo over for dinner, as something official, but it wouldn’t be long. Right?

Jamie didn’t really have time to think about that just now. The problem started when he checked his supplies before heading down to the harbor to park the food truck and he saw that the lid of one of his containers hadn’t been fastened all the way. Something—mice or maybe even squirrels—had gorged on an entire bin of his rolls. Shit. Today was not the day to run out of the one ingredient that really made his product street food. But he was late, and Ricky was running behind, so he loaded up what they did have and pushed off the bread problem for another few minutes.

Ricky had other things on his mind. He’d been accepted to perform during the drag show, and being Jamie’s first-shift help was not even on his radar. Jamie had to prep as well as he could and hope Ricky showed up at the stroke of noon, although at least he didn’t have to worry he’d be in any part of his costume. The ensemble would only be revealed at the right time, when it was complete. For now, Jamie did what he could to get set up, alone.

When Ricky arrived, he was cheered by the little line already waiting out front. Because it was Ricky, he waved and blew kisses like a beauty queen. “You look pissed,” he announced as he squeezed around Jamie, but there was nothing to indicate that he thought Jamie’s mood might be because of him.

“Something got into the rolls, so we’re going to be short.” Jamie all but shooed Ricky to the window to take the first orders.

He did, working through a half-dozen or so before asking the next person if they wouldn’t mind hanging on a minute. Jamie wasn’t behind, at least not noticeably, but Ricky stepped away from the window and pulled out his phone. Jamie tried not to sigh, especially when he started the conversation with “How much do you love me?”

Chase loved him a whole heck of a lot, but Chase also didn’t need all of the information Ricky proceeded to give: where they bought their rolls. What account number to use. “I’ll text you a photo, but at this point anything close is good.” And then he ended without saying any form of Love you.

“Jo,” Ricky said with a shrug as he took and sent the photo so he could slip his phone back in his pocket. Today it was jeans and a rainbow tie-dye T-shirt that proclaimed here. queer. fabulous.

Jamie passed some orders down the counter. “Jo loves you enough to go get rolls?”

“Right, right,” Ricky agreed, almost distracted. “Thanks for waiting! What’ll you have?”

Okay. The only conclusion was that Jo loved someone enough to go get rolls, and Jamie knew Jo well enough by now to mean that had to be a lot. She was good at masking her social anxiety, but anytime she had to do something new—say, buy a ton of bakery and ask to put it on an account—she preferred time to prepare a script and maybe even go through a practice run.

Shoot, she’d also have to pay for admission into PrideFest. Maybe they’d let her in carrying dozens of rolls based on her story about the food truck, because who else would show up like that, but they’d also be within their rights to demand the entrance fee. Was Jo even planning on coming to anything before the drag show? She was cool with his game night friends, but what about the community in general?

There wasn’t much time to dwell on things. The lunch crowd came in strong, ready to peruse the stalls and check out whatever was happening on stage now—the drag show was later, after most of the vendors had left and things shifted from come one, come all, to PG-13—and eat their fill while doing it. This wasn’t Jamie’s first year here, but things varied drastically according to the weather, and that was something you couldn’t predict with much accuracy. Some diehards would hunker down and endure a deluge, but others wouldn’t come at all if it was going to be cold and rainy.

Some people showed up in the sorts of outfits Ricky would totally change into after handling the food and were probably chilled no matter what the weather.

Jamie himself was in jeans and a T-shirt that had a barcode in black, gray, white, and purple stripes next to the text ASSUME NOTHING. It was the asexual flag, because he specifically hadn’t looked for one with the aro-ace flag, and it was also more on the subtle side. If you didn’t recognize the colors, then most of the meaning went over your head.

Even in a group like this, Jamie was never sure how many people would recognize the colors. It wasn’t the most popular flag.

Generally he lost track of time on days like this, when it was a rhythm of looking at slips, making what they said, and grabbing the next one. He had his watch on, sure, but Jamie hadn’t checked to see when, exactly, Ricky had called Jo, so it was a surprise when Ricky first leaned out of the window to wave frantically and then pulled back in. “Open the back for her,” he told Jamie, even though that meant he’d need new gloves.

Like there was any universe in which Jo wasn’t worth new gloves. Jamie stripped them off and opened the door, blinking at the sight of Jo loaded down with large, reusable tote bags. “Did you know Amanda does Thirty-One parties?” she asked as she handed one up, like it made any sense.

“Uh.” Jamie shook his head a little and shifted things around so he could make room for them.

“I think it’s a bag or two more than you asked for,” she added, “and they’re not all sliced, but if you’ve got a bread knife and can squeeze me in, I’ll take care of that.”

Jamie didn’t even say uh again. Yes, it was tight quarters, and yes, having to slice rolls would slow him down more than usual, but how had it even occurred to her to ask? He just took the last tote and then offered her his hand, since it was a pretty big step up and her legs weren’t as long as his. “I’ll see what I can find,” he rasped because here she was, bright-eyed and smiling within kissing distance, and he’d better turn away as much as he could before he got any brilliant ideas.

---

Chapter Seventeen

Jo

I am an absolute disaster human being. Mentioning Jake like that? Giving cagey answers about my parents? Disaster. Really it’s for the best that I stay in my apartment the rest of the day, looking at but not responding to further texts that are really just introductions: This is Ricky. Mitch. Trevor. You’ve been added to the group chat.

I really shouldn’t have mentioned Jake.

I work on the book about the natural disaster, which is somehow the only Erik Larson I’ve missed, and knit some more. At least I’ll have progress to show Mom next week. I eat a healthy microwave dinner and get to bed on time, and because it’s past the first couple nights in a new bed, I even sleep pretty well. Then it’s morning, and I get to enter Waiting Mode while on alert for Jamie’s text.

A teenage Allan resented having a baby in the house because it meant too much parental supervision, and here Jamie and I are decades later, annoyed by that same thing. Helen’s used to having Jamie to herself. It’s been just the two of them for years now, and even the smoker keeps him home a lot. Game night means he’s still there, even if she’s not. He moved back from Chicago so she wouldn’t have to be alone after the death of her husband of, what would that be, fifty-something years, and that’s a huge change. If she’s clung to Jamie in the wake of all that, who can blame her?

That’s a lot to shake up, and I don’t know if it’s worth trying. I already did Jake and Elaine, and right now Helen’s more like end-stage Elaine. It was Jamie’s suggestion to avoid her, though. Is that good or bad?

My phone lights up: The hen has flown the coop.

I guess it could be worse. It’s not like I have to worry about Helen checking my messages or something, so I don’t have to delete it, even if he ends up doing that on his phone. What do you want from Babycakes?

The bubbles pop up and disappear a few times. The meaty would be great, thanks.

Sure, but What about coffee?

The bubbles do their thing again. I guess technically he could say no, but I’m offering. I’m putting on my shoes to head up there anyway, and I’ll be buying myself stuff.

Just a black coffee, thanks.

I give that a thumbs-up and grab my backpack. Maybe it’s a black coffee because it’s less expensive, and maybe it’s a black coffee because he likes it. Either way, he’s getting a large black coffee.

It’s a familiar walk by now, even with the little detour to Babycakes. I’m not sure if it’ll be soothing or embarrassing when they start to recognize me, but since today it’s two orders to go instead of one for here, I’m not predictable yet. Jamie’s house isn’t that far, and he must’ve been keeping an eye out because he opens the door before I can knock, with that same sort of surprised smile. Maybe he’s used to people not following through.

“Thank you,” he greets me, taking the cup I hold out. I can slip my shoes off without having to kneel down or take off my backpack, though, so he just nods me on toward to the dining room table.

It seats eight, which is fine for game nights I guess, but it’s too big for just the two of them. He’s already got a stack of papers at one seat, so I go for the chair across from it. That gives me plenty of room to spread out my own stuff. It looks like he’s taking me seriously.

Jamie grabs plates and silverware and even gets us both glasses of water, hovering a moment before sitting down. So he’s used to being the server in this space, even if Chase kind of took that over from him on Friday. If Helen, Jamie, and Chase were in here at the same time, who’d get the override?

“Okay, so.” Jamie sits down and starts opening his breakfast burrito, and wow, yeah, that’s basically breaking the silence. I’m not necessarily a chatterbox, but I’m also not usually good with quiet when I’ve just met someone. “I haven’t made it through everything, but I did …”

Wow, I missed his laptop. He opens it and clicks to a bunch of pictures before turning it so I can have a look.

It’s the crime scenes. That’s the place where Julie was found. They’re pretty sure it’s also the place where she died, but that certainty goes down the further into the series a murder happens. They figure the killer got more comfortable with disposal, and wanted more time with them, so for the later women it’s a second—or third—location.

“Google street view, mostly,” Jamie tells me with a little shrug. “I was trying to visualize it. Do the trip from my apartment and all.”

I hesitate, but my backpack’s right here. I’ve got a map with the most likely paths and average walking times handy. He didn’t get a copy of that, but I pull it out now and pass it to him, smiling a little as his eyebrows go up. “I really did my due diligence to make sure it wasn’t you.”

“Yeah, well.” He pulls the map closer, leaning in, and frowns. “Wait, how did you …?” Jamie traces a certain convergence of lines.

I lean in, too, because the table’s nice and large. It’s hard to share a single sheet of printer paper. The section he’s pointing to is a foot path, overgrown at this point but still noticeable if you’re looking. “I’ve been there.”

“You’ve walked it,” he corrects, going for something more specific.

I nod. Not Forgotten fans have made pilgrimages, but they don’t know about this path because they weren’t starting from the same spot. I went in daylight, and it’s basically at the edge of the stuff that’s been gentrified—Jamie’s building was torn down a few years back and turned into ritzy condos—but it was still there. I have photos.

“Wow, so, uh.” He grins at me, adorably lopsided and entirely open. “I was going to try to be helpful, but I think I’m just redundant.”

I can’t help but grin back. “Try me anyway.”

Was I wondering if he was taking me seriously? He’s got his own map, and he’s marked out about how long it would take to walk to certain areas, including the places he knows were corners for sex workers. They’re not necessarily the spots mentioned in the podcast, and I’m not going to ask him how he knows, but it’s the sort of information only a local could give me. I do have a reason to get out my notepad, and I barely eat my own burrito before it gets cold, and partway through Jamie pushes his plate across the table so he can sit next to me and we can look at things at the same time, and I really shouldn’t be thinking of what he smells like or how his arm’s on the back of my chair while we’re discussing seven murdered women.

---

End of Part One (May)

Chapter Sixteen

Jamie

It wasn’t panic stations, exactly—if anything, Jo fit in almost seamlessly—but Jamie wasn’t entirely satisfied with lunch, either. Sure, they started listing Tumblr memes and compared favorite episodes of TV shows and discussed favorite actors, but they were all riding Ricky’s energy. Chase could do that basically all the time, but Jamie didn’t always have Ricky to fall back on. He wanted more time with Jo when they didn’t have Ricky to fall back on.

Sure, they dragged things out with the cinnamon rolls, and he and Jo shared one, unspooling it as they went, but that was all time with other people. Jamie spent so much time quietly by himself, but it didn’t seem like the sort of thing he could just ask Jo: hey, do you want to pick one of your books and read it near me? It sounded like a serial killer thing.

Some people just couldn’t exist in silence. If there wasn’t music playing or ambient noise, Ricky had an earbud in place. He even had a noise machine when he slept. How would that have worked if Chase needed utter quiet? Even the best earplugs in the world couldn’t cancel everything out.

It didn’t help that Ricky kept giving him meaningful looks about things he and Jo had in common, even though they’d already covered a number of them before Ricky came into play: Hannibal and Star Wars and Family Guy. They had The Simpsons, too, even if Jo cared more about Broadway musicals than he did and she’d never really gotten into Futurama or Marvel. Most of what he watched was because Mom put it on the TV, anyway, and it was apparently rude to go off and do his own thing and just leave her to it.

Mom was clear proof that some people weren’t able to sit alone, in silence. Having Jo around Ricky so often meant he’d never find out if Jo could do silences.

When they all stood up to clear the table, Jamie seized his chance, clumsily, but with both hands: “I’ll walk you home.” He didn’t even know if she was going home.

Jo gave him a long look, the sort that made him suspect that it was more awkward—or more desperate—than he’d realized. “If you’re not all worn out after work,” she told him with a little shrug. “That’s a long time to be on your feet.”

Wait, was she merely being polite or offering him an out in case he didn’t actually want to do it? “Walking’s better than standing in one place.” It was true, but adding something like It’ll oil my joints just made him feel too old.

She grinned, though, so maybe it was all okay, after all.

Ricky didn’t comment, possibly because Chase had a death grip on his arm, so that was even better. Jo just picked up her backpack, and with her three new books it was a heft again, and he knew where Brent and Amanda lived, so he knew which was to turn. There were a couple options for getting there, depending on whether she chose the slope or the stairs, but he could confidently turn right and fall in beside her.

And now … okay, the part that he maybe didn’t think through: it was up to the two of them to carry the conversation.

“So it’s you and Ricky in the food truck, right?” Jo asked, and she left her arms swinging freely instead of hooking her thumbs through her straps, so was he supposed to take her hand? That was a thing some people did, but Jamie had never been some people.

He settled on a nod.

“Does he talk the whole time?” she continued.

Jamie laughed, even though you weren’t supposed to laugh at your friends. “He does, but it’s to the customers, so it’s even more annoying because he says the same things over and over and over.”

“You can’t, like …” She gestured to her ears. “Put in headphones and just make whatever order slips he passes you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t own any headphones.”

“Wait, you’re just stuck alone with your thoughts?” Her eyes were wide. “My God, you are a serial killer.”

“You just told them I’m not!” he protested, laughing, as he gestured back behind them.

“Them just now, my parents this morning …” Jo tilted her head, looking forward again, but she was smiling.

Was that an opening? Jamie didn’t want to pry, but he was curious. “Your mom’s Amanda’s age.”

Jo nodded once, even though the smile all but disappeared. “I was an emergency placement. They were young, but it stuck.”

Emergency placement. It took him a few steps, and then they were at the street corner so they either had to turn right or wait for the light. Jo waited, and now her thumbs were hooked into her backpack straps, and she watched the don’t walk sign intently like it needed mental effort to change.

He licked his lips. “How old were you? Do you already know I was two?” Sheesh, give her a chance to answer one question before he shot off another.

Jo nodded once. “Maybe seven.”

That maybe was weird. If courts got involved, they had you fully documented. CPS had pages upon pages of little Jamie, whose last name hadn’t been Whittaker at the time.

Wait, and even then, if she was seven … “Was your mom even out of college?”

“Just.” Jo shrugged a little, but he couldn’t tell if it was irritable or dismissive since she also started walking again. “They got married in the middle, summer after her sophomore year, and they started on the foster thing right away. It’s what they always knew they wanted, but …” She flashed him a smile and gestured to herself. “I was a handful.”

Okay, and was this the part where he could ask if her being a handful tied in with her also being maybe seven?

“It was better after we moved to Michigan,” Jo offered, tilting her head toward the walkway and stairs so she wouldn’t run into him. “Then nobody knew my parents without me, and I guess a lot of my friends’ parents didn’t want to ask, considering our ages. They just assumed my parents had me in high school and still both got through college.”

He nodded slowly, trying to imagine it. “Allan’s ten years older than I am.” Maybe she knew that part already. “We used to dress alike—Mom’s got the photo collages upstairs. He was out of the house when he turned eighteen, but he was just so excited to have a brother.” Then he held up a hand like he had to signal a rewind. “Shane was a surprise. It’s not cool to have a baby in the house when you’re fifteen and trying to score cheerleaders.”

“Teenage girls don’t like babies?” She frowned.

“Babies mean someone’s always in the house so you don’t get to sneak up to your bedroom.” Ugh, and the way he explained it made it sound like he thought about it that way, too, even though it was really just Allan laughing about it, years later, the night before his wedding to Suzanne.

Jo smirked, though. “I didn’t really date anyone until Jake. It happened fast, but everyone thought it was solid.”

This shrug was definitely disheartened, and was that a message? Whatever he thought he felt for her, at this speed, and however his friends reacted to it, he didn’t want to be another Jake. Had she dated anyone since Jake?

Honestly the customs house was too close. That was part of its appeal: the walkability, at least when there wasn’t a foot or more of snow on the ground. Jo nodded them down the side and stopped at the door to get out her key. “Oh, hey, I don’t have your number.”

Jamie blinked and reached for his phone. “Right. Uh.” What did you text someone when you didn’t want to be a Jake but you also weren’t just going to turn and walk away? Most emojis were dangerously loaded with deeper meanings, but words weren’t exactly safe, either. If he sent her one of the pigs, would she realize he meant pork or think it was an insult? He pulled up her name, because of course he’d added her into his contacts, and decided to send the blue one that popped up when he typed truck.

She opened the door and slipped off her backpack, using it like a doorstop, so she could check her phone. Apparently the emoji was a good choice, because she grinned. “Cool. Do you want to text me tomorrow when your mom’s leaving? I can grab you something at Babycakes.”

He nodded because honestly he’d agree to anything Jo suggested that meant spending time together. “I’d better go study, then.” Shoot, that made it sound like a chore.

Jo just smiled. “I’ll bring my red pen.”

---

Chapter Fifteen

Jo

Chase picks up a menu and hands it to me before the woman behind the cash register can ask, moving us aside so the people who came in after us can start their order. “I’ve had everything here,” he tells me, not having to bend down to do it because he might actually be shorter than I am. “Jamie’s predictable. He gets the same thing every time.”

Helen Whittaker took a look at the books I was checking out and commented on how they’re such an eclectic mix. I stopped myself before I said yeah, sure, I get bored of the same thing over and over, but only just. She’s the sort of woman who’d think I was talking about her son when seriously, it’s just books. I only got three this trip, two nonfiction and one fiction, but yeah, they don’t have much to do with each other.

I flip the menu over, then back to the front again. Between the cutesy names and the Scandinavian terms, I’m overwhelmed. I wasn’t planning on this much social time, thanks, even if Chase is far less of a mine field than Jamie’s mom. “If I’m only coming here once, then I absolutely have to try …?”

“The cinnamon roll,” he answers promptly.

Well, yes, but in my current mood I should really go for some protein before I hit the sugar.

Chase grins. “The cowgirl.”

Yeah, see? That doesn’t tell me a thing about it. “Sounds like a winner.”

“And their signature latte?” Even though it’s not his own place, Chase is ready with the upsell.

“Decaf.” The sugar will be bad enough.

“Not to insult the income of a professional researcher, but …” He pulls out his wallet, which is the same brown leather as his belt and his shoes. Does he swap it out if he wears black? “Grab that table.”

There’s a single open table for four, so yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I’ve been roped into the usual after-market late lunch, the way I was roped into yesterday’s game night, and mostly I’m just thankful to Chase for appearing at the library and inserting himself into the conversation Helen started. I get out my phone, because everyone always gets out their phone when they have a few minutes, except I don’t have Jamie’s number. I don’t know what I’d text him if I did, but I don’t have to figure it out.

Chase orders for everyone, so Jamie doesn’t even have a chance to say no thank you. He’s just assumed to be coming, the way Ricky assumed I was invited yesterday, and I don’t know any of them well enough to tell if Jamie feels comfortable saying no.

After Chase orders he moves down the counter slightly and waits for the next person to pour him four cups of water. I hear him tell her that distinctly: “Four today.” I guess the usual number’s three, unless they routinely rope Jamie into double dates.

This isn’t a date.

Chase carries all four cups easily, because apparently he used to be a waiter, and he deals them out before pulling straws out of his breast pocket. It’s the weekend, he’s just hanging around, and he’s still in khakis and a dress shirt. He takes the seat across from me and offers a commiserating smile. “Hope I wasn’t overstepping with Helen. You looked like you could handle it.”

“Handle it with PTSD flashbacks,” I mutter, unwrapping my straw. “My ex-mother-in-law.”

“Never good enough for her perfect little angel?” he guesses.

I wrinkle my nose. “I was good enough to cook and clean and put him through grad school.” Except Jamie clearly cooks, and if he needs someone to clean up after him, that his mother’s job.

Chase looks toward the door and leans in, resting his elbows on the table in defiance of Ms. Manners. “Jamie’s never dated anyone. His brothers have gotten married, and Helen didn’t even attend Allan’s third wedding, but Jamie’s never had anyone in his life.”

Meaning, what, I’m in his life now?

He starts to take a breath, but then just nods and shoots me a look at a grin because Jamie and Ricky show up, and even though I’m sure Ricky passed on that I’d be here, Jamie’s face breaks into a delighted grin when he sees me.

Okay, point to Chase.

I’m on the bench side of the table, and Jamie slides right in next to me. “Hey,” he says, which is probably good, because even if he had a witty line, I wouldn’t be able to come up with a proper response.

“Can’t stay away?” Ricky asks as he takes the chair next to Chase, but I’m saved, at least slightly, because the barista calls out our drink order. Ricky pops up, but the size of the mugs means Chase gets up again, too. It’s only a short reprieve, just the two of us at the table, but my eyes catch on Jamie’s and we both smile and look a little too long.

Right. Okay. “I ran into your mom at the library.” I blurt it and feel myself blush because that’s like the opposite of diffusing the situation.

He just nods to my backpack. “What’d you get?”

“One natural disaster, one man-made disaster, and one thriller.” Honestly I can’t remember the titles.

His eyebrows go up even as he nods his thanks to Ricky for his drink. “Three at a time, huh?”

“Oh yeah? I’m game.” Ricky bats his eyelashes at me, and it’s a pretty good imitation of innocence. Only the first couple rows of seats would see through it.

Jamie leans a little closer and lowers his voice. “Is he the natural or man-made disaster?”

I cover my mouth because seriously, again? I’m just primed to snort-laugh around him, because of course he’s not just cute, Mom. He’s also funny, and he’s got the best lopsided grin, and even though he’s clearly had a long day already and his hair is frizzing out of his usually perfectly-smooth ponytail, those broad shoulders are easy.

Damn. Okay. Never dated anyone, huh? Not for lack of options, but that’s also a long streak. Who am I to think I could break it?

To be fair, I’m not the only one thinking it, and maybe not even the first one thinking it. Ricky was all over me last night about staying, and the way Chase talked about lunch like it wasn’t even a suggestion, just a given …

“How close did you come today?” Chase wants to know, and apparently it makes sense to the other two.

“Six,” Ricky announces with pride, and then takes pity on me: “Six servings left over. Jamie’s got this down to a science.”

I nod, even though maybe I should be more impressed. “You did make the top ten list of food trucks in the state,” I point out, like maybe Jamie doesn’t actually know.

Chase’s eyebrows go up. “So you researched more than just Jamie the serial killer.”

Seriously, this again? “I couldn’t make him work as a serial killer,” I protest, but how did Chase find out? When did Jamie tell him?

“Yeah, he’s totally a cinnamon roll,” Ricky teases. “Speaking of …”

Apparently Chase ordered two giant cinnamon rolls for the table. They barely fit with all our sandwiches. Also apparently Ricky spends as much time on Tumblr as my mom does.

Chase tilts his head and frowns, studying Jamie. “There’s got to be something else on the continuum, doesn’t there?” he asks. “It’s not like you could kill someone, but you’re not really a cinnamon roll.”

Seriously, were they all spying on my FaceTime call? If someone says blorbo, I’m out.

“Jo, I like your shoelaces,” Ricky announces, and ugh, he’s caught me.

I sigh. “Thanks. I stole them from the president.”

Laughing, he raises his mug and won’t move until we’ve had a proper cheers.

---

Chapter Fourteen

Jamie

Normally Jamie didn’t mind being the guy fixing the orders instead of the guy at the window, but it meant he couldn’t keep an eye out in case Jo came to the farmers’ market. He didn’t think she would, exactly, and it was probably silly to hope for it, but it was still a strange annoyance. Then again, Ricky was at the window, so he didn’t think he’d be allowed to miss it if Jo was out there.

Jamie had to be there early to make sure the truck was in place and he wouldn’t drive through other vendors’ stalls, but Ricky generally showed up at the last minute, handed Jamie his to-go cup from Dead River Coffee, and adopted his morning person persona right before he opened the window. Friday nights weren’t really the best choice for game night considering how two of them generally had early Saturday call times, but it was the only night Mom was reliably out of the house.

Maybe Mom latched onto Jo so suddenly because at least it meant the guys hadn’t made him gay.

The market ran from nine until one, and even at nine people lined up at Jamie’s Food Truck. It was kind of a brilliant name because it was so simple, even though he figured Allan and Shane thought of it as a joke. It wasn’t even as specific as Jamie’s Barbecue Truck. Shane said it was so they wouldn’t limit his creativity, but Jamie always suspected it was because Shane didn’t care enough to learn what kind of food Jamie actually liked making. He was supposed to be grateful that they’d thought of him at all.

Okay and it was probably a good thing his mood didn’t actually get imparted into his cooking.

Ricky could turn it off and on when he wanted to, and there were times Jamie wondered how Chase put up with it instead of wondering if their relationship was just another part of the act, but he could see the usefulness, too. He didn’t really need it, since he looked at the order slips and prepared the paper dishes while only interacting with Ricky himself, but he’d studied it. Ricky was flirty with everyone, but it didn’t mean anything.

Well, at the beginning Ricky had flat-out told Jamie he was flirting with him and it did mean something, but he also hadn’t let Jamie’s sorry, no get in the way of their friendship. Was that a gift or a hard-earned skill?

Food truck days were far more exhausting than smoking days. On smoking days he was like so many hard-working Americans: on his ass for eight hours or so. Food truck days meant a lot of standing, and even with shoe inserts and the memory foam mats, he’d still gotten into the habit of taking Aleve in the morning to try to get ahead of it. Being younger, Ricky was of course in the habit of rolling his eyes, but he’d get there.

Jo was Ricky’s age. Jo’s mom was basically Jamie’s age, which was weird as fuck, but Jo was Ricky’s age. That was an acceptable gap. Honestly his entire friend group was people who couldn’t find someone within a decade. Maybe Jo’s mom was the same, but ugh, fifteen and twenty-five? That was a problem.

If he really wanted to know, he could text Allan about his friend Brent’s wife’s friend from college, but he didn’t want to know badly enough to let Allan in on it. He’d ask, but he’d want to know why, and Jamie didn’t even know Jo’s mom’s name. Somebody Lewis. Yeah, Allan, Amanda’s friend Somebody Lewis.

Ricky waved to their final customer, turned the sign over to CLOSED, shut the window, and held his smile until he stepped just out of sight. “Phew,” he declared, twisting his back and making Jamie wince with the popcorn crackle. “How close did you call it today?”

Jamie eyed the leftovers. “Close enough to make me nervous. Looks like half a dozen.” He didn’t have to worry about the bottom line quite as much since the Rusty Bucket was a steady paycheck, but Mom only ate chicken and fish, and most of his friends were probably sick of free pork.

“Booyah.” Ricky held up his fist and Jamie stripped off his plastic gloves before he bumped it. “Okay, let’s see what our lunch plans are.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. They were both in jeans, with their cobalt blue Jamie’s Food Truck shirts on top. Jamie had a T-shirt, and Ricky had the short sleeve one that buttoned up the front. Jamie started to put things away but turned back when he heard Ricky’s chuckle. “Alrighty then.”

Frowning, Jamie took his phone to see the most recent text from Chase: Meet Jo and me at Trenary Toast. “Uh.” He didn’t think Jo had given her number to anyone else.

“He was going to the library,” Ricky offered, taking his phone back so he had both hands free for cleanup. “Maybe he ran into her there.”

Maybe Jo ran into Mom there. Jamie couldn’t always keep track of her hours, but she’d go there even when she wasn’t volunteering, especially when the weather wasn’t good enough to sit around outside.

Ricky paused long enough to raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he rescued Jo from your mom?”

God, was he that transparent? Jamie turned back to the prep counter and got busy. “I don’t know if she was there.” Did Jo even know Mom volunteered there, or would she have been blindsided? Seriously, he’d only met her Thursday and he couldn’t think of her as not knowing something about his life.

The fact that Ricky was silent for long should’ve warned him, but instead Ricky clucked his tongue loudly and almost made him jump. “I’m calling it now: you’re not strictly aro-ace. You’re gray in at least one of those spectrums.”

“I’m pretty sure the plural is spectra.” Oh, good comeback there, Jamie. Clearly with a single sentence he’d stopped all of Ricky’s thoughts in their tracks.

“Jamie, buddy. Pal.” Ricky turned and put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, which wasn’t hard considering the size of the food truck meant he couldn’t exactly escape. “Does it help if Chase and I both agree she’s crushing on you right back?”

No. No, actually, it didn’t help, and he turned away like he really needed to make sure the lower cabinets were secured and not because it meant Ricky wouldn’t see the expression on his face.

---

Chapter Thirteen

Jo

My mother is nothing if not predictable, so I’m on the couch ready for the ten o’clock FaceTime call to begin. At least I was up early enough to do a Walmart run before the call, so I’ve had breakfast and I have a fresh cup of coffee along with my knitting. My iPad screen changes and I swipe and tap to answer. “Hey.”

“There she is!” Mom announces like I’ve been gone for weeks instead of just since Wednesday. She sits back and adjusts her own iPad so I can see Dad, too, and he waves. “Okay, sweetie, first order of business: is Jamie Whittaker just as cute in person?”

I turn to Dad, even though the effect is probably lost over FaceTime. “Are you hearing this?”

He grins and shrugs, a balding man with large glasses and a sharp nose. “The way I figure, the math checks out. What was it, honey? Half your age plus nine?”

Oh God. I’d drop my face into my hands except I’m holding knitting needles.

The problem, though, is how now I have to do that calculations. I mean, I saw all the other guys doing that last night, but if they’ve already got Ricky and Chase, when Ricky and I are practically twins and Chase is also probably in his late forties …

I only do a little more than squeak by when it comes to Jamie. Mom’s actually not that much older than he is.

At some point I’ll probably have to explain that to Jamie, but he hasn’t asked yet.

“So he is cute,” Mom concludes smugly. She has the kind of hair that holds a haircut perfectly, so it’s this ruler-edge just above her shoulders that shifts with her self-satisfied nod.

“And not a serial killer?” Dad asks, at least sixty percent serious.

Women in the twenty-first century don’t go to talk to people connected with serial killer cases without making sure their bases are covered. “I didn’t think he was in the first place.”

“Looks like he could kill you, but he’s really a cinnamon roll?” Mom suggests.

“Mom’s been spending too much time on her iPad again,” Dad tells me in a stage whisper. Then he blinks. “Plus I don’t think any of those photos were a looks like he could kill you type.”

“Is there something between cinnamon roll and looks like he could kill you?” Mom wants to know.

Uh. There must be, even if I can’t think of it right now.

“Blorbo?” she muses.

“That’s not what blorbo means.” God, imagine Mom ever meeting Jamie and telling him he’s my blorbo.

Wait, I’m imagining Mom meeting Jamie?

“Okay so this guy isn’t a serial killer,” Dad concludes, getting us back on track. “What is he?”

“Cute,” Mom reminds him.

He rolls his eyes and grins. “Fine, he’s cute. Kiddo?”

“He has the food truck,” I remind him. “And the Grillennium Falcon.”

Mom clucks her tongue. She’s a Star Trek fan.

“And?” Dad prompts.

“And?” I echo. I mean, it’s only been a few days. “He sucks at Monopoly.” Although not in the same way I have to assume Ricky sucks at Monopoly.

Dad looks at Mom, then back at me. Well, back at the iPad screen. “When are you seeing him again?”

We don’t actually have anything planned. The farmer’s market started at nine, so I figure he had to be there earlier than that, and I have no idea if he’s a morning person or what. “Probably tomorrow.”

“Probably?” Mom actually giggles.

What, am I going to tell her that we’re waiting until his mom leaves the house so we can get together? Sure, it’s to talk about Davis and the theory that sometimes feels like an obvious truth and sometimes feels like some delusion. “We haven’t confirmed it.”

They share another look, and they don’t even need to say Jake’s name. We all know exactly how long it’s been since I’ve gone on a date, and maybe tomorrow isn’t a date, but it’s more than anything I’ve done in a while. Hell, game night was more than anything I’ve done in a while.

Dad takes the pressure off by asking about my research, and Mom wants me to hold up my knitting so she can see how far I’ve gotten since, you know, Wednesday. I was away after college, but I had Jake for most of it. He could let her know if something happened to me. Then I was back, and maybe a bit clingier than usual, and now she doesn’t have me around to be quite as needy.

I’m also her only chick. I’ve been out of the nest for a while now, but the whole divorce situation threw her almost as much as it did me. Dad’s a bit steadier, or maybe just a bit more reserved, but he liked Jake. He didn’t see it coming, either.

It’s only been a few days, so we wrap up pretty quickly, and now I have the rest of my Saturday to contemplate. I don’t want to go to the farmer’s market today, partly because I don’t want to be tempted to spend money and partly because I don’t want to run into Jamie like that. I don’t want him to think I can’t wait until tomorrow to see him.

There are bookstores, but there’s also a library. That’s going to cost me, since this isn’t actually my address, but that’s a one-time fee for the year, so it looks like the library’s my destination. Then I’ll come back here and make lunch with the stuff I already bought. When I get depressed, I’m pretty darn convinced my next purchase is going to be just the thing I need.

I don’t even have to look up the address. It’s across from Jamie’s house. I think the entrance with all the steps, the one on the hilly road, might even be open so I don’t have to walk all the way around. And that’s not just because going to look at Jamie’s house when I can’t see Jamie would be even more desperate.

“Lying to yourself,” I mutter as I stash my knitting and get off the couch. Tsk, tsk, Jo. If I keep that up, I’m going to have to use my middle name.

---

Chapter Twelve

Jamie

Jamie was half-afraid Trevor would suggest he do a similar deal with Jo instead, caught up in the good humor enough to make that kind of a joke, but Trevor just laughed and nodded and made negotiations. It was hard to tell where people drew the line on that kind of thing, and if that was true when he thought about his friends, it was definitely true for Jo.

This wasn’t a date. If anything, it was a group date, but it really wasn’t even that. The way they were sitting meant she wasn’t looking at him most of the time, which was probably a good thing, even if it meant he could spend a lot of time looking at her.

When she was thinking, she’d bite her lip, which made him want to soothe her to stop the abuse, or run her thumbnail over it, like maybe she used to bite the nail instead. When he grabbed her bag he saw she had one of those keychain things attached to a zipper that held a tube of ChapStick, but maybe she needed to step that up a notch and get something medicated. And since when did he care if someone’s lips were dry?

Jamie was first out of the game, which was about par for the course. He got up to get a drink of water, but even that was too close to the light and the laughter, and really he just needed a moment to breathe. Nobody was paying attention to him, anyway, so he went on back through the living room and out the sliding door. The blast chiller was in the garage, and it was about time to check on the pork and move it to the fridge instead.

It would be annoying, maybe, if he honestly had anything better to do, but Jamie even had limits for his friends. They were used to him stepping out for a minute and, unlike Mom, let him without even questioning him for an excuse. Low social battery meant something to that group, and yeah, okay, part of it was probably how he was a singleton among pairs, but sometimes he just had to breathe in the silence and let all the words drain out of his ears.

All this was habit now, the end of a lot of trial and error. His goal was consistency so that people knew what they were getting, whether it was at the Rusty Barrel or in his own food truck. The menu there was small, mostly sandwiches with sides, and customers chose and added their own sauces so the meat itself had a chance to shine. Some people—okay, Mom—thought it was overly simplistic and nothing to be impressed with, even if Chase knew better. Maybe Ricky didn’t entirely take it seriously, or even as seriously as he was capable of taking things, but Chase treated Jamie’s pork with quiet respect.

The fact that he was out here in the garage instead of somewhere in the house spoke volumes. The food truck was a sort of peace offering from Allan and Shane when Jamie had to quit his job and move back home with Mom, almost a joke because hey, his room and board was being paid for, so he didn’t really need much more than a hobby. In Chicago, smoking had been a hobby. He didn’t keep journals or do it more than once a month, and then just enough for his friends. Smoking had once been a hobby, yes, and that was Jamie’s Food Truck in white Comic Sans on the side because Comic Sans was the biggest typography joke, but his business was serious.

Usually he liked having this sort of solitude with the known, practiced movements, but right now that just left too much space. Was Jo actually having fun? She wasn’t competing with Ricky, exactly, because that was a losing game, but she seemed to be matching him pretty well. She was paying attention, too, asking questions and quick with her repartee, but did that mean she was enjoying herself? Would she want to come back?

He wanted her to come back. That was strange and scary and something he didn’t even really want to admit to himself, thank you very much. Wanting something meant that you set yourself up for disappointment.

Telling Jo he’d like to see her again meant she could turn him down.

Jamie got the pork moved and made sure the garage locked behind him before he headed back to the house. He blinked when he saw Jo in the kitchen, and blinked again when she smiled and set down her cup and came out to join him. There was only a thin slice of kitchen visible from the entryway, but she’d picked it. “I’m out,” she announced, kneeling down by his feet because wait, she’d brought her backpack back out here again. “I wanted to give this to you before I forgot.”

He accepted the stack of papers and tried not to think about how she was kneeling right next to him. Normally other people were just there, maybe in his space, but it wasn’t quite so … obvious. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well.” She zipped up the bag and stood in the sort of fluid motion that made it clear her knees weren’t nearly as old as his. “I’m probably just grasping at straws.”

Jamie had the stack sort of propped on his hip because there wasn’t room between them for it. Jo was that close. “I’ll take a look. Um.” If it was for her, then she’d have a harder time saying no, right? “Tomorrow I’ve got the opening day of the farmer’s market, but I don’t have anything Sunday. Mom, uh …” Great. “She goes to church and then usually has brunch or something after, so if you came over around 9:30 we’d have a good few hours.” What, to sneak around? Like they were teenagers?

Her lips quivered as she fought a smile. “Early enough that I’d be allowed to eat breakfast?”

“Hey, I like breakfast for dinner,” he protested, trying not to shift his weight. He wasn’t sure if he’d go backward or forward, and the thought of finding out made his heart race. “I’d say we could go out and get some, but maybe you don’t want to talk about that in public.” Or be seen with him in public.

Jo tilted her head. “Is Babycakes open on Sundays? I went there this morning.”

“Yeah, eight I think?” He shrugged like she didn’t have him mesmerized. “You could pick something up on your way. Uh.” Jamie shook his head a little. “If it is on your way?”

“Oh, Jo lives with Brent,” Mitch informed him, and now the entryway really felt crowded.

When Jo took a step back, though, it was to open up the conversational triangle, but she didn’t actually move any further away from Jamie. Mitch was the most distant point.

Wait, what?

“Yeah, he said Brent was like the same class as your older brother?” Jo shrugged. “My mom and Amanda went to college together.”

Okay, but Amanda was a lot younger than Brent. Amanda was closer to Jamie’s age, and if Jo was thirty-four …

The math didn’t work. That made Jo’s mom, what, fifteen when she was born?

“Small world, right?” Mitch asked with a grin. “Jo, do you want to stick around and play something else while we wait for monopoly to be over?”

“Uh.” She looked around and took Jamie’s hand enough to check his watch, just this casual skin on skin touch that made him stop breathing. “I’ve had a long day, so I think I’m going to go. Text me about Sunday?”

Jamie blinked and had to tell himself she was talking to him. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“And we’ll see you again next Friday,” Mitch added with complete and utter certainty.

Jo grinned. “Sounds good. Okay.” Smoothly again, she bent to pick up her backpack and slipped her feet into her shoes when she straightened. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

He didn’t imagine that part. Before she left, she said goodnight just to him.

---

Chapter Eleven

Jo

My driver’s license gets duly passed around, but Ricky’s the only one who really scrutinizes it. Mitch brings up the usual question: “Wait, your name is first name Jo, second name Ann?”

“No E in either.” It’s my standard response.

Chase clucks his tongue. “You used to have a really cool birthday.”

I nod but I also see the way Trevor and Mitch catch each other’s eyes in the sort of panic that says hey, they don’t actually know me. “God, I had so many themed birthday parties. My mom knit us all house scarves one year.”

“Like the most magical thing a kid could dream of is still school,” Ricky scoffs, crossing his arms and finally nodding for me to roll.

Even though they have to reach across me, Jamie takes my license from Chase, tucks it back into my wallet, and then zips it into the inside pocket of my backpack. He was paying enough attention to get it in exactly the right spot.

I also caught the way he and Mitch had to recalculate the first digit in my age. That’s pretty common. Everybody thinks I’m much younger than I am. I guess that means they thought Ricky invited some sort of child to this group, even though he made such a big deal at how small the age difference actually is, but does it matter to Jamie for some other reason?

Okay, focus. It’s early in the game. Roll, buy the first property, and calculate how many more of those mini quiches I can eat without their teasing turning to some serious concern.

Things settle in, at least, and I navigate the whole “So Jo, what do you do?” question about as awkwardly as usual, because who actually thinks a professional researcher is a thing? I can’t talk about Not Forgotten, and Ricky at least seems to know why because he doesn’t even pretend not to steer us away from that, and the thing I’m on right now is in the early enough stages that I can’t even explain it properly in a sound bite, but then they fall into what I have to assume are their more regular conversation patterns so I just have to roll when it’s my turn and try to remember if I ever learned an actual strategy for this game.

Trevor updates the group on how various plants are doing, which seems to be the cue for Ricky to make pot jokes and Jamie to insist that his sandwiches are actually better without the interference of vegetables. Chase starts discussing the upcoming specials, which makes Mitch roll his eyes and tell them not to discuss work at the Monopoly table. Ricky regales us all with dramatic synopses of student-written ten-minute plays he had to grade recently, barely pausing long enough to take his turn when it comes. I don’t have to talk, and that’s fine, because I can’t keep track of what I’d want to say and what I really don’t want anyone else to know, thanks.

We get up for more drinks and snacks whenever we want, and it’s maybe an hour into the game when Ricky lands on Pennsylvania Avenue, looks at his measly stack of bills, and then turns absolute puppy dog eyes on Chase.

I look around the table, but apparently this is normal. Jamie’s supposed to be getting paid, but he’s just waiting, and when he looks at me, I blush and look away. I don’t think I’m the only one doing either of those things, but I can’t deny it. It’s another good reason for me to stick to the nonalcoholic punch tonight.

Chase starts counting bills, pauses, and adds another before passing them across the table. “Wait, what’s that for?” I blurt, which means I’m just blushing deeper, thanks, because I’m marking myself as the outsider.

“Sexual favors,” Trevor informs me.

Uh. Is he serious?

“They have a list,” Mitch explains as Ricky counts out rent and hands it over to Jamie. “They won’t tell us what’s on the list, but there’s a list.”

“Um.” I shake my head a little as Trevor takes the dice. “What’s the most you’ve ever seen one of them pay the other?”

“Five grand,” Trevor answers promptly.

That was only one grand. I’m pretty sure this is the kind of group that would respect me less if I didn’t ask a follow-up question: “So does it add up and you get the most expensive thing on the list,” I ask Chase, which is easier because he’s carefully straightening his money and not looking at me, “or does each transaction signal a specific favor in sequence?”

That breaks him even though he tries to hide his laughter behind his hand.

“Oh, I like her,” Ricky announces to the table in general before turning to Jamie in particular. “You have to keep her.”

“That’s not an answer,” I protest over more laughter, and yeah, okay, at some point this blush has to peak, right? I can’t even turn to Jamie for help here because I’m just going to broadcast how much I want him to agree with Ricky.

“Specific favor, not necessarily in sequence,” Chase answers with as much dignity as he can muster.

The problem is how this is just another research project tickling my brain. “What’s the least expensive thing on the list?”

It’s Jamie’s turn, and he tilts his head as he rolls the dice. “I’ve seen fifty. Well, shit.” He lands on Park Place, which I basically went broke buying.

I scoot my chair back a little and nod at Chase. “Maybe you can find out what that thousand’s for.”

Ricky absolutely cackles. “I would pay real money to see that.”

“How much real money?” Trevor asks through a gale of laughter.

Jamie drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, and at first I can’t tell if that was a step too far and I’ve lost any chance at getting to know him better, but then he breaks into a grin and shakes his head. “Trevor, I’m going to need some mortgages.”

---

Chapter Ten

Jamie

Oh dear God. Distracted for thirty seconds and Ricky answered the door. Jamie was too far away to stop it, but he crossed the kitchen and swept Ricky back with one arm before he could come up with anything worse. “I am so sorry,” he told Jo, even though he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes. “We don’t let Ricky out in public.”

“Hey!” Ricky protested from behind him, but he did at least allow Jamie to get out onto the stoop and shut the door without trying to escape the house.

“Seriously sorry,” Jamie repeated. It was an old joke, and one they all used as frequently as any group of middle schoolers, but somehow it was different when someone said it to Jo.

“Is he a restaurant owner or a theater major?” she wanted to know, and okay, at least she shifted and her voice wasn’t quite even, either, so thanks, Ricky.

And she was insightful. “Ricky’s actually a prof in the theater department at NMU. Chase is the restaurant guy.” He’d never been good at small talk.

Her mouth twitched, but then she said it: “So both of them eat your meat on a regular basis?”

God. He dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was going to say you don’t have to stay for game night, but you’d fit right in.” The observation was accurate, but the idea was a bad one. Wasn’t it?

“Um.” She cleared her throat. “I just brought you the copies.”

“Oh, we always make too much food.” He shrugged and crossed his arms. “And plenty of drinks, but Trevor and Mitch always make a nonalcoholic punch, so.”

So. He wanted to spend time with her, but maybe tonight wasn’t the best night.

The corner of her mouth twitched this time, maybe toward a smile, and why was he so obsessed with her lips? “Do we all get to eat your meat, or is that a paid experience only?”

Jamie groaned and gestured toward the street. “Okay, yeah, you’re not staying.”

“Too late.” She grinned at him, eyes sparkling. “Ricky already invited me.”

What was the proper response here? Did he caution her they were all coupled off and mostly gay? Should he let her know how much—or how little—they knew about her? Ricky’d already greeted her by name, so she had to know there was something going on there, but …

The front door opened and this time it was Chase, small and blonde and neat and serious. “I hear I’m supposed to apologize for my husband,” he offered, focused on Jo because Jamie of course knew exactly what kind of a person Ricky was.

“Is that something you have to do often?” Jo asked politely, like this was a normal cocktail party conversation.

Chase sighed. “Unfortunately. Chase Walker.”

“Jo Lewis.” She shook his hand.

He tilted his head back toward the house. “Are you staying, or did Ricky drive you away?”

Jo looked at Jamie first, like maybe he had the final say in this after all, but he just gestured for her to follow Chase.

She left her shoes and her backpack by the door without prompting. It might’ve been habit, or it might’ve been how even Chase, in his suit pants and vest if not the jacket, was in his sock feet. They went to the right, into the kitchen and dining room area, which was probably obvious considering both the light and the laughter. They were missing a few people, though, so Chase just introduced Jo to Trevor and Mitch and asked what he could get her to drink, like he was the host instead of Jamie. Ricky insisted on Chase coming to these things to get him away from the restaurant, but he couldn’t help his ingrained service tendencies.

“Okay, so.” Ricky suddenly appeared at Jamie’s elbow, cup topped off with something that was quite alcoholic. “Do I keep Cards Against Humanity on the table, or …?”

Jamie sighed heavily. Ricky had the talent of making everyone around him rise to his level of the dramatic. “You’re on thin ice.”

“We didn’t bring that one,” Ricky replied deadpan.

Right. Okay. There was Jo, who’d come here asking him about the Milwaukee Millennium Murderer, talking with Mitch about his computer startup and Trevor about his greenhouse. Jo, in his house, in her sock feet, wearing a different dress and a different hoodie today, just casually existing in his mundane space.

Right. Okay.

Jo was new, so he wasn’t the only one paying so much attention to her. She had her drink, but then there was also the food, and shuffling of plates as everyone got the food, and sitting around the dining room table so they could pick a game, which meant Jo ended up between Jamie and Chase. It could’ve been worse, Jamie supposed, but Ricky was across from Chase, and that seemed like a better position to grab her attention than here at her right shoulder. He hadn’t planned to sit next to Jo. He was just the last to go through the appetizers, and that was the open chair.

Mitch got out Monopoly and started setting everything up as Jamie caught some sort of laughter about how many mini quiches Jo had on her plate. “My mom’s all about the cold cereal!” she protested, also laughing, and her hoodie was draped on the back of her chair so Jamie could see exactly how low her sundress was cut in front.

Whoa, down boy. Was this how most people felt all the time?

“Not everyone thinks breakfast can be dinner food,” Ricky informed her, glaring at Chase in case anyone wondered who might disagree with him.

Chase just shrugged. “Eat breakfast at breakfast time. There are so many other options.”

“Is chicken and waffles breakfast?” Jo challenged him, accepting a stack of paper bills from Trevor.

Jamie snorted before he could stop himself and knew he was blushing when she turned to look at him. “There’s a reason the Rusty Barrel doesn’t serve it.”

“Because some people just don’t respect southern cooking,” Trevor clarified, rolling his eyes. “Jo, we’re all creatures of habit, so you’re limited in your token selection.”

Jamie was always the top hat, Mitch the race car, Ricky the horse and rider, Chase the shoe, and Trevor the dog. Those were already in position, so Jo considered the rest. “You’re missing people, right?” she asked. “So are the rest of these spoken for?”

“Nobody takes the wheelbarrow.” Trevor moved that to the board and put the battleship and canon back in the box.

“Trevor’s always the banker,” Mitch said sotto voce, “because he’s the one least likely to rob the place.”

Trevor shrugged. “Least likely still doesn’t mean never. Youngest goes first.” Okay, and that simple declaration made Jamie take a quick drink, because it was one thing to be utterly distracted by Jo and another entirely to have to confront the math.

“That’s usually me,” Ricky sighed.

Jo frowned. “I bet we’re close.”

He raised a challenging eyebrow. “I’m thirty-four.”

“When’s your birthday?” she shot right back.

Wait, Jo was thirty-four? Jamie realized he was sharing a surprised look with Mitch and quickly looked away.

Ricky squared his shoulders. “August.”

Jo held out her hand, palm up. “September first.”

“No way!” Ricky protested as laughter broke out. “That’s why you made me go first! You were always going to pick a date after!”

“My wallet’s out there in my backpack,” she pointed out as Trevor passed over the dice.

Ricky closed his hand over hers before she could roll. “Nuh-uh. I’m calling your bluff.”

Mitch’s sigh was far more weary than dramatic. “Ricky …”

Ricky still had her hand to make sure she didn’t drop the dice, so Jo smirked over her shoulder at Jamie. “Grab my bag?”

He was up before he could wonder if maybe he shouldn’t do it just because she asked him.

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Chapter Nine