Meg looked up, a jar of chunky peanut butter on the table in front of her, and a spoon, mounded high, halfway to her mouth. Her mouth was hanging open, actually, and in that moment she looked so much like the little girl he had fallen in love with that he could cry.

“Don’t judge,” she muttered, and shoved the spoon between her full lips.

“Never.” He went to the silverware drawer, took out his own spoon, and sat. “Share?”

Her mouth was thick with peanut butter as she mumbled, “’Course.”

They both chewed. It was awkward and yet so familiar.

“Can’t sleep?” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“No,” she sighed, “not tonight. I keep thinking, and it’s keeping me up.”

“What’s that?” Jack pointed to a pad of paper with scratched out sentences and jumbled words in her curvy handwriting. “Working on a new story?”

He moved to pull the pad toward him, and she quickly pulled it back.

“No.” She closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and then dropped her shoulders, pushing the pad back. “Go on and look.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes. It’s fine.”

He picked up the pad. It was a list, and at the top it said, Things to Do Without Jack Fucking Gardner.

“Oh, wow.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked pained and a bit angry.

“No, it’s...” He didn’t quite know what to say. “It makes sense. It’s very you.”

“Oh yeah?” She laughed, just a little.

“Yeah.” He smiled, a quirk of his lips, and he dug his spoon back into the peanut butter jar. “Determined. Defiant. Anal-retentive.”

Her mouth dropped open again. “Thanks. I think.”

“Is this list in order of importance or anything? Just so I know what I’m looking at.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, give it back now.”

“No, maybe this is stuff I need to know. Stuff I can help you—”

She was laughing, and he realized with some surprise that he was, too.

“Give it back, you jerk.” She pulled the list out of his hands. “Honestly.”

A pause, then. And the shattering feeling of loss, the brutal nature of his dishonesty, crowded the silence of the kitchen.

“You’re my best friend, you know?”

His eyes burned at the smallness of her voice.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, still thick with peanut butter. “Me, too. I mean, you’re mine.”

“I’m not really sure what to do now. So I thought...”

“A list.”

“Yeah.” She shook her head, thick braid rustling against her bathrobe. “And all I’ve got to show for it is stupid stuff like, watch my favorite movies, and take hour-long baths without interruption, and eat caviar.”

“Ugh.” He pulled a face. “Fish eggs.”

“Delicious fish eggs.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Those words echoed and mocked them both.

“Hand it over.”