Chapter 15
Food to Die For
It’s been three days since the garden dinner at Isabel’s. Three days since we shared a table strung with fairy lights, overflowing with muhammara, shish kebabs, and laughter that felt easy. Three days since Gavin started eating dinner at his office.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence that he’s busy. That it has nothing to do with the way his eyes met mine in the garden, or how we both had to look away.
But something has shifted. And apparently, we’ve both decided to pretend it hasn’t.
In response, I decided to cook something delicious tonight. Not because I want anyone to join me, but because I need to make something that takes my mind off Jared and now Gavin, too.
Food is memory for me, and most of my recipes are knotted up with Jared—dishes I perfected because he loved them. But this one isn’t his.
Jambalaya. From a GQ article I clipped before I even met him, titled “The Impressive Bachelor Dinner.” Back when I thought I’d be the kind of woman who lived alone by choice, maybe with a rescue mutt named Jane or Elizabeth or Bennet, and a record player that actually worked.
I pull the worn recipe card from my binder—grease-stained, smudged with time—and get to work.
When it’s comfort you want, I’ve found you can never go wrong with jambalaya, cold beer, and masa cornbread made with real butter, maple syrup, and my secret ingredient. Still, I’m not planning to serve it to anyone. Especially not to Gavin.
But around six-thirty, just as I’m pulling the cornbread from the oven, I hear the front door open.
Gavin steps into the kitchen and pauses.
The room is a war zone: dishes in the sink, tomato paste smeared on the counter, me wearing half of what I chopped. It’s chaos. Jared used to tease me about this. He was the kind of person who could make a five-course meal and leave the kitchen looking like it had been staged for Architectural Digest. If we were painters, I was Basquiat to his Mondrian.
Gavin raises one eyebrow. “What happened in here?”
“I’m cooking.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks like something exploded.”
“Art is messy.”
He takes a long look around, then—without another word—grabs a beer from the fridge. He doesn’t leave, though. He leans against the counter like he’s considering something.
I take a breath and casually slide a steaming bowl of jambalaya toward him.
“I need feedback.”
He eyes it like I just handed him a baby opossum.
“I’m not looking for company,” I add quickly. “Just notes.”
He sits.
I try not to show how relieved I am.
I slide a thick piece of warm, crusty cornbread beside his bowl and pour his beer into a glass.
“I’m surprised,” he says.
“What were you expecting?”
“A plate of raw kale and a single almond.”
“I’m impressed you know what kale is.”
He smirks. Takes a bite of the jambalaya. Then the cornbread.
I wipe down the counter, but I’m observing him, pretending not to. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his posture shifts. He’s wearing a suit, but I can still see his shoulders drop, like something unspools a little.
“How’s Olivia?” I ask, more casually than I feel.
“She and Quinn get in next week,” he says.
There’s something tight around his mouth when he says it. I get the sense he has mixed feelings about Olivia’s arrival, and before I can stop myself, I wonder what could possibly be wrong with their perfect, curated life.
Then he coughs. Once. Then again.
His eyes go wide. He grips his throat.
“Gavin?”
He’s not coughing anymore. He’s choking.
I leap up and run behind him, my hands shaking as I wrap them around his middle and thrust upward—hard. I’m not even sure I’m doing it right, but I can’t think. My heart is sprinting. He grabs my arms, shoving them away, reaching for a pen on the counter.
He scrawls one word across my hand:
Peanuts?
My stomach drops.
The secret cornbread ingredient. One-eighth cup of peanut oil.
I fumble for my phone to call 911 as he yanks at his briefcase. He’s digging, pulling out what looks like an EpiPen, but it slips from his grip.
I stare at it. My breath catches.
He points to his thigh.
I drop to my knees, pull down the fabric of his pants, and stab. The pen clicks, and I flinch.
“Hold … ten seconds…” he murmurs.
I whisper to myself. “One … two …”
He’s still gasping. His skin is waxy, pale. My stomach twists.
Then the room tilts.
I feel it coming—the way the edges blur, the ground drops, the air thins. My hands are still on his leg, but everything else feels far away.
And then—
Black.
When I come to, I partially lift my lids, still drowsy, and take in my environment through my lashes. My vision is soft, the edges of everything smudged. The beeping of machines is gentle and distant. A white curtain ripples faintly from someone walking past. A familiar, unwelcome scent hits me: disinfectant and plastic and lemon-scented sterility. It takes only a second for my body to recognize my surroundings, even before my mind catches up.
Hospital.
A slow unease curls in my stomach.
A memory flashes: me, age twelve, nestled against my father in a hospital bed. His skin too pale, his hand warm but unmoving in mine. There were wires and monitors and a nurse who spoke in a voice meant for grown-ups. Mom wasn’t there. Because she never made it to the hospital. They said the crash had taken her instantly.
I close my eyes and shake the memory loose, as best I can.
When I open them, I spot a figure slumped in the chair by the window, and my pulse calms.
Jared.
The last time I woke up in a hospital, he and Patricia were there, flanking my bed like slightly overbearing angels, after I broke my wrist falling down a slick subway staircase, late to meet the family for dinner.
But something’s off.
The man in the chair is wearing a suit. Jared never wears suits unless there’s a seating chart or a eulogy involved.
I squint harder.
It’s not Jared.
It’s Gavin.
Sleeping, his limbs folded awkwardly, in a molded plastic chair, chin tucked to his chest. His tie is askew, and his hair looks like it’s been through something traumatic. There’s stubble on his jaw and tension in his shoulders, even in sleep.
He stirs, rubs his eyes with a closed fist like a boy waking from a too-short nap, and straightens in the chair. When his eyes meet mine, something softens.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low and rough.
“Apparently.” I try to sit up but give up halfway. “I feel like I drank a bottle of tequila and fell off a roller coaster.”
“You hit your head when you fainted. Mild concussion. They wanted to keep you under observation.”
“Fainted ...” I wince. “Right. The cornbread. Oh my God, Gavin—I could’ve killed you.”
“You got the EpiPen in me before you passed out.”
I exhale slowly. “I’m so sorry. I totally understand if you want to fire me.”
“I don’t.” He leans back a little, watching me. “That meal was worth it.”
“Worth dying for?”
“Almost dying for,” he shrugs.
I roll my eyes, but my mouth quirks. His presence is strangely calming—steadfast and unshiny, the kind of comfort that sneaks up on you.
A male nurse enters the room with a clipboard in hand, wearing an unfazed expression.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jones? We’re all set to discharge you.”
I sit up straighter. “Oh—no, we’re not—”
But Gavin stands and takes the clipboard from the nurse’s hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thank you,” he says, signing without hesitation. The nurse beams and exits.
I blink at him.
“Gavin. Why do they think we’re married?”
He shrugs. “Technicality.”
“You forged a legal relationship so you could spend the night?”
He gives me a not-quite-smile. “You didn’t look like you should wake up alone.”
I stare at him. And my heart does something annoying.
Before I can say anything else, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks the screen and silently passes it to me.
“It’s Jared.”
My throat tightens.
I take the phone.
“Ava?” Jared’s voice is gentle, concerned. “Are you okay? Gavin called and told us what happened.”
“I’m fine,” I say softly. “They’re discharging me now. Gavin’s been here.”
“I wish I could’ve been.” He exhales, voice tight. “I hate the thought of you being hurt and me not knowing. I know it’s not my place anymore, but caring about you doesn’t just... stop.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I spoke to Gavin. He told me it was him. That he was the one who told the family about me being gay. Not you.”
I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry I blamed you. I should’ve trusted you. And I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. You deserve better.”
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat.
“I can’t believe you left New York without telling me,” he adds.
“I left because I didn’t know how to stay,” I tell him.
That familiar ache surfaces again.
“I don’t think seeing each other or talking is a good idea. It makes it so hard to let go, to move on,” I confess.
“I understand,” he says quietly. “I just … couldn’t not call when I heard.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say. “But I should go now.”
There’s a long pause. I know what we would’ve said once, in this little pocket of silence. But that language doesn’t belong to us anymore.
So instead, I say, “Take care.”
Then I hang up.
I sit still for a long moment, staring at the screen.
One tear escapes, and I swipe it away quickly. I hand the phone back to Gavin, who’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite name—concern, maybe, but something gentler underneath it.
“Would you like me to call the nurse?”
“It’s not that kind of pain.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He just sits beside me, silent, steady, and fully there.
And somehow, that’s enough.