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                  “Morning,” Randy boomed as he came into the kitchen and Tam let go of her like a busted teenager, whirling around to put his back to the counter beside her, hands going through his hair out of nervous reflex.
                  Jo rolled her eyes. “Morning, Dad.”
                  “Morning,” Tam said, staring at his shoes.
                  “He’s so jumpy,” Randy said as he came up behind Jo and patted the top of her head. “You’ve turned him nervous, Jo.”
                  “That’d be you, Dad, not me.” She folded down the top of her paper bag lunch and lined it up with the others she’d already made – well, prepared, since she still couldn’t cook to save her life.
                  “Me?” He leaned between them to pick up the lunch with his name on it. “Tammy, that hurts.”
                  Tam fiddled with his tie.
                  “Dad.” Jo shooed her father away. “Leave him alone.”
                  “Yes, ma’am.” Another pat to the top of her head. “Getting to be just like your mother these days.”
                  She frowned for two reasons. One of which involved the use of the word “mother” in correlation to her, what with…
                  “Here, baby.” She shoved Tam’s lunch across the counter toward him rather than think about possibilities.
                  “You made it?” he asked innocently, but she caught the amused gleam in his eye.
                  “Mom’s leftover spaghetti,” she assured, “I’m not that much like my mother yet.” And she hoped that wasn’t the only dissimilarity.
                  Dad lingered after Tam pressed a very respectable kiss to her forehead and left for work. Randy pretended to inspect the contents of his lunch beside her a long moment until she finally glanced up and asked, “What?”
                  He was frowning at her, the picture of paternal concern. “Are you feeling alright, sweetheart? You look a little pale.”
                  “Fine,” she lied.
    **
                  Jo’s friend Sasha was a total snoozefest. She was perky and she was cute, her little pixie cut sticking up at odd angles. She smiled and gasped and laughed and was demonstrative…but that’s all she was.
                  “So…coaching, huh? What’s that like?”
                  They were at Angelo’s, a pizza place slightly more expensive than your average chain, the walls all dark wood paneling and the tablecloths real linen in place of waterproof plastic. The lights were low, hurricane lamps with flickering candles set at each table. An endless loop of soft violin music made him feel like he’d stepped onto the set of The Godfather .
                  Jordan had regretted calling in a favor with Jo the moment Sasha had spotted him across the parking lot. She’d looked hopeful. Excited. Like maybe he wasn’t what she’d been expecting, but she was willing to give it a go. And none of that hope or excitement was doing a thing for him.
                  His track record – well, his actual track record and that of his love life – had gone to shit post-high school. Post-Kelsey. Dating had devolved into this pattern of hit-and-run two dates and a couple hookups before he never spoke to the poor girls again. It wasn’t their fault, some of them tried, some of them were crazy clingy and there had even been a couple who he’d actually almost liked. But he had no expectations anymore. No hopes. No excitement. And it always left him feeling hollow and dirty.
                  “I’m an assistant coach,” he corrected and noticed their waitress approaching from the corner of his eye. “So it’s pretty glamorous.”
                  Her slow, uncertain