Jack was holding a bag of groceries like it was some kind of peace offering from the gods of awkward timing and emotionally unavailable men. He stood there in his usual subtly-ironed shirt and that blank expression that looked like peace but felt like war. His shoulders looked broader than usual, and I hated that I noticed that before I even said hi. Maybe I was concussed. Or maybe the universe was just determined to make sure I lost my grip on the last shred of dignity I had left, one well-diced zucchini at a time.
“I brought mushrooms,” he said.
I blinked. “Is that a metaphor?”
“No. You said you were craving mushroom pasta. A few weeks ago.”
Of course I did. Because my mouth had a habit of leaking secrets to the wrong men at the wrong time under the wrong star sign. I stepped aside a
