Page 72 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“Unfortunately, she would have loved you. But don’t get too excited. She loved everyone.”

“That is unfortunate,” I say to her, stifling an ear-to-ear smile. “I’d like to think she’d love me more than the average person she knew.”

“I’m sure you would,” she says, but there’s a warmth in her tone where the bite used to be.

I chop the pancetta into small pieces. Then I pour oil into the skillet. I mince garlic and plop the bits into the oil. Pulling an onion out of my fridge, I turn back to the cutting board on my kitchen island.

“Do you want me to cut that?” Olivia asks.

“Sure,” I hand her the knife and the onion.

“Don’t judge me if I cry,” she says.

I pull a box of crackers out of my pantry.

“Here.” I hold one out to her. “You won’t cry if you have a cracker in your mouth.”

She looks at me quizzically, but she puts the cracker in her mouth and cuts the onion without shedding a tear.

We work together making the sauce. Olivia tells me more stories about her gran. I share some memories of my grandmother too. I sauté the pancetta with the garlic and onions, boil the noodles, and add the tomatoes, crushed red pepper, and black pepper to the meat and aromatics. Olivia watches intently.

I plate the pasta and grab some fresh parmesan to garnish each serving.

“Are you a couch person or table person?” I ask her.

“It depends, but mostly I eat on my couch. I guess it’s a habit from being single for so long.” She shrugs. “How about you?” she asks. “I bet you’re a table person, complete with cloth napkins and mood music.”

“Oh, I can be.” I look over at her with a promise in my gaze. “But I’ll confess, I eat most of my meals on the couch too.”

I carry our plates to the coffee table and take a spot on one corner of the sofa. Olivia takes the opposite corner and picks up her plate. Rhett takes his spot on the floor, alternating his gaze between Olivia and me.

This night feels shrouded in some sort of magic. How else can I explain Olivia sitting here sharing a meal with me?

I wait for Olivia to take a bite, watching for her reaction.

She twirls the angel hair on her fork.

Olivia lifts the bite to her mouth, opens and slips the noodles past her lips.

I hold my breath in anticipation of her reaction.

“Oh, man that’s good,” she says around the bite. “So good.”

“Good? Or the best?” I tease her.

“You’re going to make me say it?” she asks.

I don’t. And she doesn’t. But I’m secretly hoping this is one of the best plates of pasta she’s eaten in a while. I smile and take my first bite.

We eat in silence, both enjoying the food and settling into an odd sort of comfort with one another. Olivia’s relaxed, so I tell her something I’ve been wanting to say for almost two weeks.

“Thank you for how you handled that night with Jacob. He’s not a malicious or bad person. He’s just …”

“Unambitious?” she supplies. “Self-focused?”

“He’s a dreamer. And he doesn’t often take action on his dreams. He’s never had to fully experience the consequences to any of his less than awesome decisions. I probably overstepped in my approach to him. He’s taking advantage of my parents’ kindness. But they’re three grown adults. I don’t need to supervise them or their relationship.”

She studies me. “You two couldn’t be more opposite.”

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