Page 42 of What Broke First
“Doesn’t have to,” Jordan said. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s moving on. Sarah isn’t. Not really. And I’m not the kind of guy who tries to win a race that’s already over.”
Matt was quiet for a moment, the implications twisting in his gut like a roller coaster operated by a drunk intern.
“Then why are you still around?” he asked.
“Because I like her. And I respect her. And I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d mess it up again.” Jordan gave him a small shrug. “But you didn’t... and I recognize a man trying to fix his mistakes and make amends.”
Matt almost laughed. “You’re giving me a pep talk. That’s... bizarre.”
Jordan clapped him on the shoulder. “Nah. Just giving the guy who wrecked it all a fair shot at rebuilding it.”
Matt watched him walk away, as casual as ever. Somehow more confident and less smug than he wanted him to be.
He stood there another five minutes, clutching the useless wrench.
Then he dropped it and walked straight to the checkout line, with a basil starter and a bag of potting mix.
If Sarah wanted to cook, he’d learn to garden. Or at least fake it until the plant dies, trying.
Later that week, Matt did something unthinkable. He cooked.
Matt had never really cooked before. Sure, he could toast a bagel. He could boil pasta and sort of time it correctly if he stared at the pot long enough. But tonight, he was going all in: homemade chicken piccata with roasted vegetables. It was either a romantic gesture or a full-blown fire hazard. Possibly both.
He had Googled three recipes, cross-referenced them as if he were defusing a bomb, and printed the one with the fewest steps but the highest number of positive comments from people with names like “MidwestMom96” and “GaryLovesFood.” He was optimistic. That was mistake number one.
He questioned his decision to buy a basil plant. It sat in the corner of the kitchen like a taunting green reminder of his conversation with Jordan.
“Don’t die yet,” Matt muttered to it. “She hasn’t seen you.”
He sliced lemons, over-squeezing one directly into his own eye, then proceeded to coat the chicken breasts in flour like a man tenderizing his own soul. He only dropped one on the floor. Five-second rule. Maybe ten.
The kitchen smelled... promising. Like something edible might eventually appear. He plated the food with shaky hands, added a sprig of basil like a professional fraud, and poured two glasses of wine.
He had texted Sarah earlier to ask her over for dinner at 7 pm. When she learned he was cooking, she knew she wouldn't miss it.
He texted her as he was adding the final touches:
Matt: If I burn down the building, feel free to take the kids and sue me.
She replied two minutes later:
Sarah: Do I need to bring a fire extinguisher or just my skepticism?
He grinned.
At 6:57, she arrived. No makeup. Jeans. That faded blue sweater she always wore when she needed comfort or had PMS. He couldn’t tell which this was.
The apartment had been cleaned to the point of obsession. The counter sparkled.
The lighting was dim and just dramatic enough to imply competence. Sarah stood in the doorway, one brow raised.
“You really did cook.”
“I attempted,” Matt said. “There’s a fine line.”
She stepped inside, sniffed the air. “Smells like lemon and desperation.”
He pulled out her chair. “Accurate.”
