That shocks me out of my stupor. “With whom?”

She smirks at me meaningfully.

“No.”

“Yes,” she says, pulling me in by the arm. “In fact, I think this is their third or fourth date.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Seriously. He’s being very coy about it, but he was whistling on his way out tonight, and he had flowers! So cute.”

“Flowers?” I’ve never brought flowers for Meg. Or anyone, for that matter. Should I be bringing Meg flowers?

“Gerber daisies in weird colors, but still. It’s the thought.”

“Do you like flowers?”

Meg moves to the stove, holding up two packs of shredded cheese for me to choose from. I pick Monterey jack, and she sprinkles it all over a sizzling flour tortilla. She tops it off with some precooked chicken and plops another tortilla on top before turning back to me, her lips crushed to one side. “I do, and I don’t. I mean, I don’t have a ton of experience in these things.”

“Right.”

“Right,” she repeats with a bob of her head. Her hair is pulled up off her neck in a high pony, with strands falling all over the place. “I don’t think I really care for showy signs of affection. They feel pretentious. Not like James is pretentious. He’s older. It fits the whole charming older bachelor thing he has going on. But I’d rather have something spontaneous.”

“Stolen flowers?”

She snorts lightly. “Definitely. Picked right out of someone else’s garden, if possible.”

“Noted.”

She returns to the quesadilla, flipping the entire thing and leaning her hip against the counter. She crosses her arms while still holding the spatula, nailing me with a look.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Thanks.”

“But if you want to, I’m here.”

“Not tonight, but thanks. I know.”

She studies my face before turning back to the pan, flipping off the heat and grabbing a plate from the cabinet. She slides the quesadilla on it and holds it out to me. Then she grabs her own and we make our way to the small breakfast nook. Meg cracks open a package of premade guacamole and salsa and passes it to me.

“Special quesadillas, huh?”

“Very secret recipe. You tell anyone about this, I’ll have to kill you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Meg takes a bite, her cheese stringing out. She’s wearing a chunky blue knit sweater that brings out her eyes, and it slips off her shoulder as she tilts her head to the side, trying to catch all the melty goodness. Which leaves her ear, lined with piercings, neck, collarbone, and shoulder all bare. It’s not sexy. It’s not. It’s totally innocent. I should eat. I’m hungry.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks, noticing my staring.