Page 21 of On Thin Ice

There weren’t any labels or logos, so I did some research on the best mom-and-pop Italian restaurant nearby and scrolled until I found a place that looked like it fit the bill. It had vinyl, red-checkered tablecloths, paper placemats kids could color on, and meatballs described as ‘life-changing’ in the reviews.

* * *

I pulledinto the driveway with two heavy takeout bags warming the passenger seat of my car, the sharp, glorious scent of garlic filling the cabin. My stomach growled loudly.

My diet wasn’t as strict as Ethan’s—since moving to Austin, I’d eaten my body weight in barbecue—but I tried to stay away from complex carbohydrates since they made me feel bloated and sluggish. I’d probably regret this meal tomorrow, but if it got Ethan to stop treating me like an interloper?Totallyworth it.

Stepping inside, the house was quiet, and he was nowhere to be seen. Not that that was a surprise. I didn’t know where he disappeared to when we didn’t have practice or a game, but disappear he did—always slipping back in around this time like a teenager who’d snuck out and didn’t want to be caught sneaking back in.

I set the bags on the counter and glanced toward the dining room. It wasn’t a formal space by any means, but somehow, eating in there felt too intimate.

Catching sight of the sun sinking low in the sky, painting it in cotton candy colors, I wandered to the patio doors and slid them open. For once, the heat didn’t feel too oppressive. A breeze rustled the trees, carrying the scent of jasmine from Marjorie’s yard as the cicadas started their evening concert.

Dinner outside, then. Too lovely to waste, really.

Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a big bottle of sparkling water, two plates from the cabinet, and real forks—not the plastic ones the restaurant put in their to-go bags. If I was doing this, I was doing it right.

Never mind that I’d just decided the dining room was too formal. Apparently, that was only a problem inside.

I set the food on the patio table, opened the containers, and started plating things up like I was Martha Fucking Stewart. Halfway through dishing out the pesto lasagna, I paused. What the hell was I doing? Setting a table. For Ethan Harrison. In his backyard. Like this was a date.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was hoping to accomplish here. Maybe I just wanted to see if he’d open up a little. Or at least acknowledge that I wasn’t the worst possible person in the world to be sharing his space with.

I shook my head and focused on the food, ignoring the weird little flutter in my chest that whispered maybe, deep down, I wished thiswasa date.

That he didn’t hate me.

When everything was finally arranged to my liking, I sat down and checked the time on my phone.

Still no Ethan.

I debated texting him to say I’d picked up food, but that felt weirdly domestic. Too familiar. So I just waited instead. Told myself I wasn’t anxious. That I didn’t care if he brushed me off.

Finally, the door creaked open, and he stepped outside, his gaze immediately landing on the table. He froze for a split second before arching a brow. “What’s all this?”

I stood up, brushing my sweating hands on my shorts. Ugh. Why were they sweating? Probably because he was staring at the meal like I was a needy boyfriend who’d ambushed him.

“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “Got dinner. Figured we could eat out here. You know, as a thank you. For letting me stay here. Even though you didn’t really have a choice.” When I quit babbling, I chuckled, awkward and way too loud. “Sorry for, you know, ruining your life.”

A beat of silence. Then, to my complete shock, the corner of his mouth twitched.

I grinned. “Did you just … was that almost a smile?”

He rolled his eyes and stared at the table for what felt like a lifetime, then glanced back at me.

More time passed before he nodded and stepped forward.

We ate in near silence for the first few minutes, the occasional clink of our forks against our plates the only sound between us. I snuck glances at him, watching the way his jaw flexed as he chewed, the subtle way his eyes darted toward mine and quickly away again.

The silence was killing me.

I didn’t think I’d ever gone this long sharing a meal with someone without speaking.

“For fuck’s sake, Ethan,” I said, sawing a meatball in half with the side of my fork. “You’ve been yapping nonstop for, like, ten minutes straight. Do you ever stop talking?”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smirk he didn’t want to give me. “That’s me,” he said dryly, reaching for his water. “A veritable chatterbox.” He took a sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care, like he was buying himself a moment to formulate his thoughts. “What can I say? I like the quiet.”

“You must really hate me then.”

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