Jim leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the empty casserole dish in the sink. Rory’s sticky note—Heat at 375°F for 20 minutes. You’ll love it.—was still crumpled on the counter where he’d left it. He’d eaten the casserole for lunch, savoring the cheesy, perfectly spiced dish in a way that annoyed him more than he cared to admit. Rory always had a way of making things feel personal, thoughtful. Even when she wasn’t around, she managed to make him feel like he wasn’t completely untethered.
But last night had been a different story.
The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence as he replayed the events of the quinceañera at Hector’s sister’s house. He’d gone reluctantly, thinking the noise and crowd would do little to ease the restlessness that had settled over him. Bu……
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