Charlie kept most of her attention on the boys because that was the responsible thing to do, but she saved enough to watch Jack shuffle toward the fridge, eyes half closed, one leg of his worn sweat pants torn and trailing on the floor, the other halfway up his calf. The sleeves had been ripped off his Calgary Stampede T-shirt—given his effect on livestock, he never actually got to go to the Stampede—and his golden-blond hair appeared to be sticking up in seven or eight different directions. Fridge open, he tipped back the milk carton, swallowed half a dozen times, put the carton back in the fridge, pulled out a piece of bread, tucked a jar of peanut butter under his arm, and finally closed the fridge.

There were times when he made it easy for her to remember the relationship they were supposed to have, when he made it easy for her to show him the Charlie he thought he knew. It was, she had to admit, the best performance she’d ever given. Okay, maybe second best. She’d once done such a kickass cover of the Cowboy Junkies’ “I Did It All For You” that when they finished the gig the drummer’d walked off stage and become a Trappist monk in New Brunswick. It might’ve been a coincidence, but Charlie didn’t think so.

She waited until he’d started to toast the bread before saying, “Morning, Jack.”

His huff of surprise fed the flame. “I knew you were there,” he muttered as ash and a few black bits of bread still holding their structural integrity fell to the floor. He rubbed the smudge of soot off his thumb and forefinger and swept his hand over the scorch mark on the upper cabinet door, paint smoothing out behind the motion.

“That’s new. When did you become so comfortable with interior decorating?”

“When you weren’t here.”

That might’ve been fraught, except for the petulance. “Jack . . .”

He sighed. “Allie doesn’t like the burn marks so, if I’m alone, I get rid of them before she sees them. If anyone’s there when it happens, I just take the shit.”

“Not so much comfortable as sneaky.” Charlie nodded and grinned. “I like that I’m not anyone.”

He blinked at her, confused. “Yeah, sure.”

He had known she was there. In that he’d known she was home and that made there limited and he’d scented her in her room over in the other side of the apartment and her scent permeated this part of the apartment so it was like he’d known she was sitting on the floor by one of the sofas. Right? Why was she watching him like she’d never seen him burn the toast before? And what did she mean, she liked not being anyone? She was the most someone he knew.