Luna and the Lie

by Zapata, Mariana

  I could do this. I could—

  “I don’t like the idea of you sitting next to some random asshole who wants to get in your pants.”

  And that wasn’t at all what I was expecting him to say.

  “What?” I didn’t mean to whisper.

  His finger came up, and the pad of his thumb dragged across my cheekbone. “Don’t like the idea of you going on a date with somebody.” The pad moved back the way it had come, and he said low, “Can’t fucking stand it. Just when I thought I couldn’t get more pissed…”

  He…

  He…

  Was… jealous?

  “I get that I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know about me being a Reaper. Wasn’t sure I ever wanted you to know about me being in a club like that. You said you grew up in San Antonio. The club had a bad rep there, but I got out of it. I’m sorry I didn’t fucking tell you that night in your bed when you said something, but like you said, that shit’s on me. But I want it back anyway.”

  Like an idiot, I asked, “What do you want back?”

  “I want my goddamn Luna back,” he breathed, stealing the air from my lungs. “I don’t want you to leave me alone. I want you bugging my ass for random shit again. I wanna see your fucking face first thing in the morning, even if you don’t bring me my coffee anymore. I wanna make you something to eat so you don’t end up with Salmonella from that shit you try to cook,” he said in this strangely calm voice that seemed like the opposite of what someone using a jackhammer on my entire existence would have been.

  And he told me carefully, too carefully, “Two fucking weeks and I want it back. You gave me these pieces of you I know you haven’t given to anybody else, and they’re mine. You can’t take ’em back. I need them more than you do, you hear me?”

  I took a breath in through my nose, ignoring that thing bubbling and living under and inside of me. But as I stood there, watching him, the distrust running so fiercely through me as my brain called out liar, liar, freaking liar, something big and hard formed in my chest. This knot. This… prediction. I wasn’t sure what it was going to be of, but it was going to be something… something I wasn’t positive I was ready to handle after all.

  The hands on my throat slid down to cup my shoulders, and it was his turn to let out a deep breath. “I know I fucked up, and I can tell you’re not gonna make this easy on me, and I get it. But I want you to eat a burger with me in the meantime, yeah? Get some ice cream with me. You promised the day of the wreck. Remember?”

  Of course I remembered. How could I forget?

  Rip took a step back, and I still didn’t say anything.

  He took another step and, still, nothing.

  Then another and another, until he stopped right before the door and gave me an intent look as he said, “Let’s go eat a fucking burger and some ice cream, baby girl. There’s nothing for you to be scared of. You can trust me.”

  I wasn’t sure about all of that. I wasn’t even sure about part of it, especially the part of my head that needed to make rational decisions.

  But I had never been one to hold grudges. That wasn’t what this had been about in the first place.

  And… I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe him so bad it burned my throat and everything else south of the border. I wanted to trust myself even though I wasn’t sure I could.

  But this need in me to try, to believe, burned the brightest flame in my chest. In all of me, really.

  Trust him?

  “I got you,” he said with so much conviction there was no way to ignore it.

  When we went to go eat a burger and two ice cream cones a few minutes later, I wasn’t sure how I felt.

  What I did know was him telling me to trust him was on repeat in my head the rest of the night.

  Chapter 29

  The following morning, I didn’t drop my stuff on the floor when I went into my room and found another flower sitting on my desk. This time, it was a purple rose—a pale lavender that was almost white but just barely not—with a lacy white ribbon tied around it. It was beautiful. Honestly, just freaking beautiful.

  But was it there because of guilt?

  Or was it because of the things he’d said last night? The things I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since we’d sat across from each other eating burgers and splitting an order of fries. The things he’d said that lit up a part of me that was scary. That gave me too much hope.

  He wanted his Luna back.

  His.

  In what way though?

  And why did I want that more than anything even though I’d told myself before I had fallen asleep all alone in my bed last night that it was dangerous and stupid and way too risky… because it was. It really was all of those things.

  Don’t be dumb, I tried to tell myself as I put my bag into the right drawer, still looking at the rose. It was perfect. There wasn’t a single blemish on any petal. The tips had a slightly darker shade of purple on them.

  It was just as beautiful as the one from yesterday, sitting there alone in its jar.

  My hand felt unsteady as I picked it up, took a whiff of it, tried my best to ignore the way my heart started speeding up, and then set it in the jar beside the orange one.

  It was just a flower. The second of my life. Bought out of guilt or just because Rip had lost his mind and gone delusional, imagining things that he had no business sharing with me.

  But…

  You know what? If he wanted to keep buying me flowers, fine. I was still going to tell him he didn’t need to, because he didn’t.

  With my lunch bag in hand, I knew exactly what I needed to do as I headed toward the main floor to have a conversation before starting the coffee so I could move on with my day.

  Rip was looking through a manual beside an old Corvette I hadn’t seen before. He glanced over the second my footsteps started to get louder. He had the same face he’d had on the day before when I’d asked him about the orange flower. Calm, patient, serious.

  “Mr. Ripley—”

  He smiled.

  He full-out, outright smiled. Dimple and everything.

  At me.

  “You mean Rip.”

  I was going to ignore it. I held my head up, took a breath through my nose, and said as professionally as possible, “I told you, you don’t have to buy me anything if you feel bad—”

  His eyebrows went up just slightly as he beamed that beautiful closed-mouth smile at me. “Told you I’m not doing it because I feel bad.”

  Then why, Rip? Why are you doing it?

  “You said nobody’s ever given you flowers before,” he went on, still too calm, still smiling.

  I shut my freaking mouth.

  “You like it?”

  Say no. Say no. Be a bish and say no.

  The problem was, I wasn’t used to being one. At least not a real one.

  So I told him the freaking truth. “It’s beautiful.”

  His smile wavered. “Good.”

  And before I could open my mouth to remind him again he didn’t need to do the flowers or the donuts or going to bars where I had dates, he jerked his chin to the side, toward the wall of tool chests and said, “Made your coffee. Not sure if I got it right, but I think I did.”

  He’d made my coffee?

  What in the hell was happening? It genuinely felt like I’d gotten hit on the back of the head and was having delusions or something. It felt like… I didn’t know what it felt like. But not real.

  Not even like a freaking fantasy. Not even close.

  All I could do was stand there. Stand there feeling like this man had punched me as hard as he could in the solar plexus. Then as if that wasn’t enough, he’d kicked my legs out from under me.

  Before he could say anything else, before I could remember how to speak or think about what I could or should say, his cell phone started to ring. His hand was pulling it out of his pocket when he said, his smile melting into a smaller, gentler one, “Used some of the
decaf you have hidden too, in case you’re worried about your hands.”

  And then he answered his call. Like I wasn’t there standing like a dum-dum as I figured out why he was taking this so far that he made me my coffee. I’d watched him. When he was lazy, he didn’t even make his own coffee the way he liked it.

  But he’d made mine.

  On the same day he’d brought me a purple flower that reminded me of my house.

  The night after he’d kicked my date to the curb and taken me to eat burgers, fries, and an ice cream cone, while I’d mostly stared at him the whole time, thinking.

  Sure enough, when I picked up my coffee mug as he spoke to what I figured was one of the companies CCC ordered parts from, I took a sip and… it tasted exactly how I made mine.

  Exactly.

  And like the chicken I was now, I headed back to my room before he got off the phone.

  I needed to think. Well, I needed to do more than think, but….

  I hadn’t told Lenny about the rose the day before because I hadn’t seen a point, but when I made it back to my room with my coffee burning a hole straight into my heart, I had to pull my phone out and type a message.

  Me: He brought me a purple rose and made me coffee.

  There was possibly a thirty-second delay before she responded.

  Lenny: Who?

  Me: Rip

  Lenny: O.O

  Lenny: Why?

  I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell her about anything that happened yesterday, and I sure hadn’t told her about him knowing about my family. All she knew was that he’d been a jerk at the hospital and we hadn’t been on speaking terms since.

  Me: He bought me an orange rose yesterday and left it in my office too. So I went to tell him he didn’t have to make it up to me or anything… and he said that he wasn’t trying to make it up to me.

  Lenny: And???

  Me: You know how I had that date yesterday? He showed up at the bar and ran the guy off. Then he said he wanted his Luna and how he wanted to see my face first thing every morning, and then we went to eat burgers.

  Me: I thought he was full of crap and just stringing me along so I wouldn’t get pissed off and quit, but now he’s making me coffee and bringing me roses and asking me if I like them, and telling me he listens to everything I say… and I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Me: No one’s ever bought me flowers before, and he remembered that.

  Me: What do I do?

  Lenny: And why are you asking me what you should do? I don’t know.

  Lenny: He kind of deserves for you to tell him to fuck off, but I’m on my period and want to kill half the guys at the gym.

  Lenny: I do have to say that’s pretty sweet though.

  Lenny: The only men that have ever made me coffee are Grandpa Gus and Peter. Food for thought.

  Me: You’re useless.

  Me: I’ll think about it.

  Lenny: Sorry

  Me: I didn’t tell you he’s been coming by my room every day for no reason.

  Lenny: Now you’re just rubbing it in.

  Lenny: Tell me what happens. I need to live through you since it’s the only romance in my life.

  Me: I don’t think it’s romance. I think he just feels bad.

  Lenny: Bish, I’ve grown up with guys. Even if they feel bad about something, most of the time, they won’t even say they’re sorry. They’ll just act normal and hope you forget. They’re not going to get you flowers and make you coffee and say things like that to you. Not even if they want to get in your pants. Just saying.

  Me: You just said you don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  Lenny: I don’t, but I know men and I know assholes, and neither one is going to be buying you flowers for no reason. Or telling you shit like they want you back.

  Lenny: Want me to ask Grandpa Gus and see what he thinks? He’s been a man for seventy-two years now. Even if he doesn’t know, he’ll make something up.

  I wasn’t crazy about her asking Grandpa Gus what I should do, but who else did I have to give me advice? Mr. Cooper? Miguel?

  I rubbed my palm over my forehead and sighed as I replied.

  Me: Okay. Ask him.

  Lenny: You’re welcome.

  Me: Thanks. Gotta get to work now.

  Lenny: Some of us have already been at work…

  Lenny: Kisses

  I sighed again and set my phone into my back pocket as my eyes went back to the two flowers sitting in the jar, just… taunting me.

  * * *

  Lenny had texted me last night and said that Grandpa Gus had told her that she was right: Rip wouldn’t have said that kind of thing unless he meant it, and that Len was right again. He wouldn’t be buying me flowers if he felt guilty either.

  But…

  What if that wasn’t the case?

  What if he changed his mind?

  * * *

  A week went by and the flowers kept showing up on my desk every morning. Different shades of pink, red, orange, yellow, lilac, purple… All of them short-stemmed and without thorns, waiting for me.

  And if that wasn’t enough, my cup of coffee was there every morning too. Sitting beside the coffee maker one day, beside the little jar of flowers on another day, and on three other occasions on whatever tool chest was right beside him. And when I’d go to get it, he would shoot me a smile and ask if I liked the flower he’d left.

  I wasn’t even going to think about how every afternoon there was a container in the refrigerator with my name on it.

  Much less how I ate it instead of the lunch I brought myself, which wasn’t a tenth as good as what he made.

  If none of that was enough, when I got to work one random morning, I found that my Ball jar had been replaced. In its place was a pretty globe-shaped vase with an icy blue and white lace ribbon wrapped around the fluted end. Pretty, it was so freaking pretty, I had almost been scared to touch it.

  Rip didn’t go easy. It was like he set a bar he needed to go above and beyond.

  He started coming over to my room for no reason. He came in every morning around ten without fault, and in the afternoon too, and would look at me through the window if I was in the booth, or just fart around looking at things he’d seen a dozen times in my room.

  But he watched me, even when I purposely avoided looking at him.

  He watched me, and he was patient.

  He kept that warm smile, or pretty close to it, on his face every time I looked at him, like he was purposely giving me time and space to… I wasn’t sure what.

  I really wasn’t sure.

  Every time I called him “Mr. Ripley,” he corrected me and then moved on with our conversation, even if it was mostly me responding in one-word answers and trying to be professional.

  One week turned into two, and the next thing I knew, there were two vases on my desk, filled with the most beautiful, perfect roses. When one started to wilt, he took it out before I’d even gotten to work, but a new one was always sitting on my desk like he wanted me to see it and appreciate it.

  Lenny: He’s trying. You’ve gotta give it to him.

  Me: He doesn’t need to be trying. I don’t want him to try.

  Lenny: Liar.

  Lenny: You love it, and that’s okay.

  Me: That’s what scares me. I’m tired of loving people who decide they’re done with me.

  Lenny: You only miss all the shots you don’t take in life, Lu, you know that.

  He was trying.

  And Lenny did have a point.

  But…

  But.

  * * *

  I was going to blame sleeping like shit the night before on why I finally lost it the next morning.

  I could blame the letter I’d found in the mail the night before on why I hadn’t been able to sleep. The letter I had read and reread a dozen times. Knowing I would end up reading it a dozen more. I had slept with it on the nightstand.

  Dear Luna,

  I want to tell you that I’m sorry,
but that feels like a cop-out now. But I am sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything. I’ve wanted to call you, but I don’t think I can handle hearing you being all decent after what a bitch I’ve been lately.

  I didn’t mean for you to find out about Dad the way you did, okay? He called me right after he got out of jail and kept calling me every once in a while for years after that, and I never answered, until one day I finally did. I was having a bad day, and I answered intending to tell him off… I yelled at him, I asked him why he’d been such an asshole my entire life. I spent at least ten minutes screaming at him, and he took it all. He apologized, Luna. He told me how sorry he was, how unhappy he’d been and how much he regretted how things had worked out. He said he was sober and was trying to make amends for the things he’d done.

  If it makes you feel better, I hung up on him that first day after all that. He called again a few days later, and I was a bitch then too. But he kept on calling, and I kept answering.

  I know that’s not an excuse or really even an explanation, but that’s how it happened. Please don’t get more mad than you already are, but he isn’t so bad. He’s changed a lot. He asks about everyone. (Yes, including you.) (But mostly me, Kyra, and Lily, but I’m sure you already know that. I just don’t want to lie to you anymore.)

  I’ve asked him not to call you again so you know. I know you won’t ever forgive him, and I get it, but I guess I was just worried you would make me choose between you or him. Kyra and I both thought the same thing. If it makes you feel any better, my boyfriend thinks I’m an idiot and says I deserve you shutting me out of your life now. But I hope you don’t. I hope one day you can forgive me.

  If you’re still reading this, you should know how bad I still feel about the night you came over. I’m sorry doesn’t cut it, but I am. I’m sorry for so many things I don’t know where to start.

  The other thing is… look… I haven’t known how to tell you this, and I still don’t, but… I’m not selling drugs or anything like that. Don’t freak out. I started stripping, okay? I didn’t tell anyone. I barely told Kyra a year ago. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. I make enough money to pay for most of my school expenses, and I only have to work a few hours a day. My roommate is a stripper too. I’m just doing it until I graduate.