After Emma died, the book club banded together to support her family and Clark. I brought Clark a pasta bake and tried to hug him, to offer some comfort. He jerked away so abruptly that he dropped the casserole. When we crouched on the floor, scrambling to retrieve it, we bumped heads.

He raised his reddened eyes to me. “Just go.”

I got out of there as fast as I could, because there are some moments you can’t come back from.

I didn’t hold his gruffness against him. I knew it was grief. But a year and a half after that, I ran into him again, at a literacy fundraiser. We were side by side at the food table, him in his dark brown three-piece suit, looking hotter than any man had a right to. “Hi,” I said, all ready to give him another chance.

He barely made eye contact. “Hi.”

“I’m Jessa Olsen—I was in the book—”

“Yeah. I know.”

And then he took his plate and strode away, and a moment later, I saw him chatting with two of his siblings. And laughing.

Ouch.

So, yeah, Clark Wilder doesn’t like me a whole lot. Maybe the casserole dropping and head smashing left a sour taste.

I approach him slowly, like you’d sidle up to a dog that might or might not be friendly (leaning toward not). “Hey,” I say.

He grunts. Swear to God. I mean, maybe if you stretch things, it was an “Mmm-hmm,” but you’d have to be super generous.

I get a little mad. Well, not mad, exactly, but kind of dug-in. Like, okay, dude, fine, be that way, but you’re not going to intimidate me.

I’ve faced way scarier brides and mothers-of-brides. And admittedly, they’re not grunters, but I don’t just melt into the woodwork because someone wishes I would.

“My friend’s a no-go,” I say. “Her daughter’s in the ER. Probable broken arm.”

He gives me a look that roughly translates to, Why are you telling me this?

Really, dude? Seriously?

“I can’t get a refund now, can I?”

His eyes sharpen on my face. I have to resist the urge to look away. I stare back at him.

“No refunds.”

So now that’s three sentences Clark has ever uttered in my presence, maybe four depending on how you count. Well, look at that! He talks!

Then I register what he said.

“Right. Okay.”

I weigh my options for a second. Go, and spend two nights on my own without a buddy, in the presence of Mr. Two Words. Or bail, and know I chickened out.

Nope.

Sigh.

“Then I might as well get something out of it, right?”

He shrugs. “Up to you.”

Three words! But also, thanks a lot, dude. Way to make me feel welcome.