Page 51 of The Fix-Up

“I did not.”

His face scrunched up in a frown. “But you made him breakfast for today. It’s Balentine’s Day.”

Biting back a groan, I dropped my head forward. I had made Gil breakfast, but I hadn’t even put two and two together. Leave it to Oliver to connect the dots. Even if they did not form a picture.

“I made you overnight oats.” I waved a hand at the crockpot. “That’s all.”

“What?” Gil said, clearly confused.

“I, um, made overnight oats.”

“Okay.” He still looked confused.

“My therapist—her name’s Sunny—she suggested I try to get to know you better…since we’re in this together. But then I wasn’t too sure how to do that because I get along with most people, and those I don’t, I win them over with baked goods. But you don’t like my baked goods. Not even my muffins.” I frowned. “Are you allergic to sugar, or something?”

He stared at the crockpot for such a long moment, I thought the conversation might be over. “I try to avoid a lot of sugar. And chocolate. It’s a trigger for the migraines.”

“No sugar? Nochocolate?” I stared at him in horror. “How do you live like that?”

“It’s my cross to bear,” he said solemnly. “But somehow I manage.”

I sat down across from him at the table, my eyes touching on the oddly shaped red heart with “Hapy Valentine Day, Mr. Dalton” sprawled across it.

Oliver looked back and forth between us with interest. “Mr. Dalton doesn’t have a girlfriend. I asked him.”

“Oliver! Why don’t you go find your shoes and backpack, bud?” Surprisingly, he didn’t argue. “They’ve been talking about love at school. His teacher’s a newlywed. I didn’t even think about it being Valentine’s Day. Do not want you to get the wrong idea.”

One dark eyebrow raised. “Wow. I’m that bad, huh?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I sighed and tried to organize my thoughts. “Look, can we start over here? We have a lot of decisions to make together, and we didn’t seem to get off on the best foot. I know you might not like me exactly, but we are living in this house together and I was hoping we could be friendly.”

“So, you made me oatmeal?”

“Yes.”

He stood slowly and tightened the belt of the red flannel robe he was wearing.

“Thanks.” He avoided eye contact, looking uncomfortable. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Maybe this plan would work.

Step One: Get him to like me.

Step Two: Get him to like the house.

Step Three: Get him to agree to not selling.

Step Four (only used in case the other three don’t work): Refer to those notes from the true crime docs.

I hopped up from the table. “If you decide to get wild, there’s some fruit in the fridge.”

He hesitated. Cleared his throat. Raked his fingers through his hair. He seemed rattled. “I’m going to lay back down and sleep off the rest of this headache.”

“Hope you feel better.”

He shuffled past me, leaving behind that warm, laundry soap smell in his wake.

“Hey,” Gil said, his voice soft. I turned and found him leaning on the door jamb, one foot draped over the other.

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