So the photo of the two of them together hadn’t been the trick of some camera angle. “That’s . . . amazing. She called you?”

“Amy messaged me. It was on Twitter. So, that’s one thing going right,” Meg said.

I frowned. “How was the farmers’ market yesterday?”

“Well, I sold a lot of cheese. I’m making a deposit at the bank tomorrow.”

“Great. So everything will be back to normal.”

“Not everything,” Meg said.

I kicked myself. “I just meant you’ll be able to hire some help at the farm.”

“Yes.” Something banged. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Okay,” I said, smothering my disappointment. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Meg said. “Take care.”

Deflated, I ended the call. My sister was already dealing with Mom and the farm, I reminded myself. Not to mention getting my adorable, wiggly niece and nephew ready for church. I couldn’t expect her to drop everything to share in my feelings. Especially when I wasn’t prepared to give those feelings a name.

If Ashmeeta were here . . . No. My former roomie routinely rejected her loving parents’ attempts to fix her up with well-educated, professional Indian men. “Forget love,” she would say. “Work will give you everything a man can. And it doesn’t expect you to cook dinner.” I could call Rachel. But along with enthusiasm, Rachel would bubble over with recommendations for lube and butt plugs.

Meg knew me better than anyone. If anyone could help me make sense of these new, big, confusing emotions, it would be Meg.

Or Beth. I called, but it went straight to voice mail.

“Yo, Jo. Break’s over.”

On Sundays, Gusto opened for brunch from ten until three o’clock. The dining room was full of churchgoers and Christmas shoppers, families coming early, friends lingering over drinks, tourists in town to see the ice-skaters at Rockefeller Center or the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. We squeezed two and a half turns into five hours, every table demanding refills on pastries and coffee. Under Ray’s critical eye, I broke and beat hundreds of eggs; peeled and chopped garlic, potatoes, and apples; segmented oranges and grapefruit until my fingers stung. I was dead on my feet, making it through on adrenaline and coffee, determined not to fail. Too tired to focus on more than one task at a time. Too busy to think about Eric at all.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Finally, the brutal pace slowed. I scrubbed my station, staggered out with the trash, swept and mopped the floor. Untied my apron. “I’m out of here,” I announced.

Lucas winked. “Have fun.”

Ray gave me a funny look. “See you Tuesday.”

Right. Tomorrow was my day off. Good thing. I wanted to fall in bed and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Catch up on my blog. Check up on my mom. Enjoy a long, cozy phone call with Beth. Read the new Kristan Higgins novel I’d downloaded on my Kindle.

Except . . .