Hope on the Rocks (Rainbow Cove)

“There wasn’t a custody dispute here.” My voice was weary because this was territory I’d gone over and over with others in my life. “We weren’t married. And like I said, it’s practically ancient history at this point.”

“History can still suck,” he said, shaking his head before cracking an alarming number of eggs into a bowl. “What changed yesterday?”

“Who says something happened?” His ability to read my mind was getting a little freaky now.

“Something happened to make you drink. My money’s on social media stalking gone bad because that crap is always a mistake. Broken hearts can be good business for the bar, but still, it’s always a damn bad idea to look an ex up.”

“I didn’t look them up. A mutual…” I trailed off, realizing I was on the verge of spilling this whole messy drama instead of being quietly grateful for him making me food. “You don’t need all the gory details. Why am I telling you all this?”

“Because I’m a professional listener.” He glanced at me and made a “go on” gesture. “Continue. I’m almost done here. You can pay me back for breakfast by telling me your tale of woe.”

“Woe is right.” I rubbed my aching head. “Anyway, a mutual contact posted pictures. I wasn’t stalking. I don’t do that.”

I couldn’t do that. For one thing, it hurt too much. Maybe, at first, I’d done some Internet sleuthing, but I’d quickly come to see that way led to pain. Better to treat the heartache the way I’d been doing: moving away, closing that chapter of my life, and not taking it out for re-examination.

“It’s okay, even if you did look your ex up. Might be a bad idea, but you’re allowed to be human. Here you go.” He slid me a cup of coffee and a plate with an enormous piece of something made out of eggs.

“What is it?” Wait. That was rude. I sucked in a breath. “Sorry. Thank you. This looks…different.”

“Ha. It’s a frittata with eggs, bacon, and pasta. Spaghetti is my secret ingredient. Carby enough to soak up your hangover, but bland enough to not send you running back to the john.”

“I see.” I poked experimentally at it, not at all sure how my stomach would react.

“Usually, I’ve got leftover noodles, but for once, I didn’t, so I had to boil some up. That’s what took longer.” He grabbed another plate from the cabinet.

“You made pasta for me?” The thought of him going to extra trouble made me strangely emotional. I’d already been so much of a bother for him. Hijacking his night. Being sick. God knew what else.

“Well, and me.” He gave me a lopsided grin as he sat down opposite me. That grin did things to my insides. I’d be grateful to any stranger for such kindness, but him practically striding straight out of my fantasies added another layer of complexity to my churning feelings. The easy way he took care of me, everything from my glasses to special-made pasta, spoke to the sort of deep cravings I usually managed to ignore.

“Thank you.” I took a small bite, mainly to be polite, and discovered he was right. “This is good. Like a pasta carbonara in omelet form.”

“Yup. Told you. I might not have a hangover, but it’s still tasty. So, tell me about these pictures. I swear breaking up had to have been easier before people went around sharing every little detail of their lives online.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, then sighed. Might as well tell him what he wanted to know. “This would have hurt even without pictures. A mutual acquaintance from my time in Eugene had recently returned from attending a wedding. My ex’s. Some big, fancy affair. No one told me. Not one person thought to tell me.”

“Damn. That’s cold, man.” Looking up from his food, he shook his head. He had eyes a startling shade of blue, that crisp true blue of Crater Lake or another natural wonder. But it was the sympathy there that kept me talking.

“What really hurt was seeing Paloma. She’s so big now. Such an adorable flower girl. No way does she remember me. She’ll never know…” I had to stop and swallow again. I took a long drink of coffee, trying to calm myself.

“She might. Kids are funny that way. I can’t remember what shirt I wore three days ago, but I can still tell you all about this one boyfriend of my mom’s who smelled like a particular cigarillo brand and taught me to hunt. They dated less than two years, but I remember him.”

“Thanks.” I liked how easily Adam talked about his life and his past. He was a good listener, no doubt, but I appreciated his own willingness to open up as well. “But no, it’s not like that. She was a baby. I was newly out of residency and working at an ER in Eugene, near the university. Finally had enough breathing room post-school to think about dating. I met this great guy—”