by Henry, Mia
“It’s for your own safety.”
“See you at six.”
After a quick shower, I tear through my closet, wondering if I own an outfit that says Sorry I jumped to conclusions, but you should have told me about your kid. And yes, thank you, I do look hot. I settle on a cobalt blue bandage skirt and a blousy black silk tee with barely-there sandals and a chunky gold bracelet.
It’s the right choice, judging from the look on Luke’s face when he opens the door.
“Woah. Wow.” He looks incredible himself, in his usual jeans and a crisp light blue shirt that makes his eyes glow. His hair looks soft and wet. I want to run my hands through it.
“Hey. Thanks. You, too.” I extend a chilled bottle of white. “Peace offering?”
His face darkens. “Oh, I…” He must see the panic on my face, because he takes the bottle and pulls me inside. “I mean, thank you. That’s really sweet.”
“But…”
“But I don’t drink.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. Sorry.” I can’t tell if my body is hot from the run or the embarrassment. “I can take it back, or—”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll pour you a glass. Come on in.” Haltingly, he leans toward me. His lips land somewhere between my jaw and my mouth.
I burst out laughing and lean into his chest. He smells amazing. Like grass after the rain.
“What?” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
“This is so awkward!” I groan into his shirt. I can’t help but run my hands over his strong, defined back. “Why are we so…awkward?”
“We’re fine,” he insists. He sets the bottle on the entrance table and wraps his arms around me. Squeezes me so tight, my ribs hurt. “We’re starting over, in a way. But we’re going to be fine. Trust me.”
“Okay.” I relax into him a little.
“Here. Let me get you some wine.” Luke nudges the door closed behind me. Inside, tribal music sounds over the speakers. It’s still light outside, so the chapel is awash in color from the stained glass windows. A few pillar candles flicker on the dining room table.
“It smells unbelievable in here.” I drop my bag and cell by the door and follow Luke to the kitchen. “What is that?”
“Salmon risotto.” Luke bends over a pot on the stove and stirs it with a wooden spoon. “I’ll let you sneak a taste when it’s ready.” He uncorks the wine and fumbles around the cabinet over the stove, finally producing a wine glass. “Here we go.”
“Are you sure this isn’t weird?” I settle onto a carved wooden bar stool on the other side of the island. “I don’t have to drink if it bothers you.”
“Not at all.” He pours the wine and slides the glass across the island, then grabs a sparkling water from the fridge and twists off the top. “I don’t mind if you drink. A few years ago, I just decided not to.”
“How come?” I tense. Should I not have asked? Am I getting too close, too fast?
But Luke doesn’t hesitate. “I never told you much about the accident that killed my folks, did I?”
I shake my head.
“We were hit by a drunk driver.”
“Oh, God, Luke…” I reach across the island and squeeze his hand.
He squeezes back. “Once I got into college, I found myself drinking more than I should have. Probably not a ton more than the average college kid, but still. I made some stupid decisions when I was drunk.”
Like sleeping with Ashley. I don’t say it because saying it would be cruel. And I can tell by the clouds in Luke’s eyes that he’s thinking it anyway.
“I love Lilah,” he says forcefully.
“I know you do.”
He clears his throat, staring down at the countertop. “So once I found out I was gonna be a dad, I knew I had to change something. I didn’t want to set a bad example for my little girl. And since Ashley’s struggled with drinking, I don’t keep anything in the house.”
“So you haven’t had anything to drink in, like, five years?”
“Not much. I’ll drink a glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve, or at a wedding. But that’s about it. Does that bother you?”
“Of course not! I love that you made that kind of decision for your daughter.” I take a small sip, feeling a little self-conscious. I like that having a child made him more responsible. His daughter is lucky that way. “My mom… had a drinking problem. She went into rehab a few times when I was younger.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Before she died? You said your parents had passed away, right?”
A chill runs through me, despite the heat in the kitchen and the wine. I don’t want to lie to him. And I can’t tell him the truth. “Not… exactly. I said I lost them.”
“Okay. I’m officially confused.” Luke turns down the heat on the risotto and joins me on the other side of the counter. We sit facing each other, our knees barely touching. Everything about him tells me I can trust him: the way he’s looking at me with care and just the slightest bit of concern in his eyes. The way he waits patiently for me to speak; doesn’t push me to say what I’m not ready to say. Still… I have no idea how he’ll react if I tell him the truth.
“I know. It’s… confusing.” I reach for my glass. The wine inside ripples slightly. I’m shaking.
“Listen. Elle.” Luke takes my glass and places it gently on the counter. Then he takes my hand and rubs it between his. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper. I stare at the center button on his shirt. He must have dressed quickly; it’s only halfway through the buttonhole.
“I mean it. We haven’t known each other all that long, and it’s okay to hold back on some things if you need to.” He laughs. “I did! Have you forgotten already?”
“I know.” But it’s not the same. His having a child is a big deal. Life-changing, obviously. But not shameful. Finally, I glance up at him. His eyes, his face, are so caring and warm and open that I want to rest in them forever. “It’s just hard to explain. My parents aren’t dead, actually. They just… my dad did some things—some really awful things—and I don’t speak to them much anymore.”
I’m stunned into silence the moment the words leave my mouth. It’s the most honest I’ve been with anyone in a long time. And he’s not suddenly fascinated and dying to know details, or looking at me like I have three heads, or even awkwardly changing the subject to make me feel better. He just nods thoughtfully and we’re quiet for a while, until the lid on the risotto pot starts to jump. He gets up and takes the pot off the stove, then sits across from me again.
“You know, when I was a really little kid and we lived in Greece, there was this market we’d go to almost every day. To get fresh bread, and whatever we needed for dinner that night. And the lady who ran the place had these baskets of rock candy at the front of the store. And every time we’d go, I’d ask my mom if we could buy some, and every time, she said no.”
“You poor, deprived child,” I smile. “Rock candy? Is this an ‘uphill in the snow both ways’- kind of story?” I finish my wine and Luke pours me another glass.
“No.” He narrows his eyes at me before he hands me the glass. “Are you going to interrupt the whole time?”
“Sorry. Continue.”
“One day I decided that it wasn’t fair that she always said no, and on our way out, I stole some.”
I mock gasp. “You horrible, horrible excuse for a human being.”
“It was bad!” he insists sheepishly. “I ate it on the way home, and I’m sure my mother knew, because for one thing I wasn’t that slick. And for another thing, my father sat me down after dinner and asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell him.”
“And did you, Mr. Poulos?” I feign stern disappointment, swirling my wine in the glass. I can picture Little Kid Luke, with a mass of dark curls and sugar and guilt smeared all over his face.
“I did.” His chin drops to his chest, and he laughs, too. “I think I burst into tears, or thr
ew up the candy, or something like that. I felt so guilty.”
“Awwww. And the moral of the story is don’t steal grocery store candy.” I reach out and squeeze his forearm.
“No, we haven’t gotten to the moral of the story, because somebody I know keeps interrupting! Drink your wine.”
I obey.
“I just felt awful, and I was afraid that my dad hated me, and I remember sitting in his lap and begging him to forgive me. And he said something that I’ll never forget.”
“I’m listening.”
“He said, ‘Taking responsibility for your actions means they no longer hold you captive. You are more than the mistakes you have made.’”
His words slam into me.
“Probably one of the best lessons he taught me. And so here, Ms. Sloane, is the moral of the story. You—” he leans close, resting his palms on my knees and looking into my eyes. “—are definitely more than whatever it is your parents have done.”
He draws me to him and kisses me, hard. Hard enough to make me forget who I am and what I’ve done.
chapter nineteen
Elle,
It’s strange, the way things feel so normal. Yesterday, I just slipped back into my usual routine, class and homework and ducking upstairs before Mom could get too drunk and start calling me a bitch or yelling about how you betrayed the family. It’s almost like none of the last six months happened at all. That’s not exactly right, but you know what I mean. I just had the feeling like maybe things might be okay, eventually. I feel almost guilty about it… isn’t that strange?
Love you for infinity,
A
When I wake up the next morning, I have no idea where I am. I sit up and rub my eyes, my lashes brittle with mascara. The room is cast in a colorful veil of weak light. I’m wrapped in a rich chocolate throw, stretched out on a yellow couch. Luke’s yellow couch. There is a wine glass and an empty bottle on the table.
“Oh, my God.” I toss off the throw. I’m still wearing my clothes from last night. Good, I think. Did I finish an entire bottle of wine? I definitely don’t remember finishing the bottle all by myself. I remember eating, and kissing, and talking, maybe having a glass or two more, but a bottle? There’s a dull hum at the base of my skull. “What time is it?” My cell is face down on the coffee table, next to my glasses. I lunge for the phone.
“Relax, you’re fine.” Luke’s voice comes from the kitchen. “We’re not that late.”
I whirl around to see him carrying two coffee mugs to the dining room table. He’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt. Did he sleep next to me on the couch? Upstairs? “But what time—” I check my cell. 6:30. “Not that late? Are you serious?” I scramble off the couch, searching for my shoes. “Have you seen my sandals?”
“They’re by the door. Have some coffee first.”
“No time for coffee.” On the way to the door, I almost trip over a small wooden newspaper rack next to the couch. “OW. Shit. Oh my God, I’m so late.”
“Hey.” Luke intercepts me before I reach my shoes. “Chill out about the footwear for a second, okay?” He grips me by the shoulders. “Have breakfast with me for fifteen minutes. You’ll be home in enough time to change and get to school before first period.”
“But I won’t have time to shower,” I protest half-heartedly, leaning against him. He smells like flour and honey.
“So you’ll be a little dirty today,” he murmurs into my ear. “I like the idea of you getting a little dirty.” He bites the lobe gently.
I shudder and wrap my arms tight around him. We fit perfectly. “You say that now. But by this afternoon, it won’t be pretty.”
“You’re always pretty. And besides, I made my Yiayia’s tiganites. You don’t want to insult my Yiayia, do you?”
“Okay,” I pull back slightly. “I have no idea what half of the words in that sentence mean. Speak English, man.”
“I made my grandmother’s pancakes. And you have to try them. They’re awesome.”
The place does smell incredible. For a second, I let myself fantasize that it’s a Saturday morning. That we have nowhere to be. I wonder what it would be like to wake up next to him. To go back to bed with him. To taste him.
“Hey.” He snaps, just inches from my nose. “Wake up, pretty girl.”
“Sorry.” I can feel my face getting warm. “Well, I wouldn’t want to insult Yiayia.”
“Good.” He kisses my cheekbone, my earlobe, and my jaw. Stirring me. “Now go sit down. Breakfast is ready.”
Reluctantly, I tear myself away and take my place at the dining room table while Luke busies himself in the kitchen. I watch him flipping pancakes and spooning yogurt and honey into ceramic containers. He’s humming something under his breath as he works. A tune I don’t recognize.
“So, hypothetically, if I wanted to know what happened last night…” I reach for my coffee mug, which is clearly homemade. Probably by one of Luke’s students, judging from the sagging handle that’s not quite wide enough to fit two fingers.
“What do you think happened last night?”
“Um…” I sip my coffee. It’s rich and dark, with a hint of flavor. Hazelnut, I think. It spreads through me quickly, tugging the last bits of sleep away. “I had a perfectly appropriate amount to drink, and then I went to sleep on your couch like the lady I am?”
His laugh bounces from the ceiling. “Try again.”
“Okay, okay. I’ve got it. I had a perfectly appropriate amount to drink, you threw yourself shamelessly at me, I let you down gently, and then I went to sleep on your couch. Like the lady I am.”
“Well, that scenario makes me want to curl into a ball and weep.” He carries two plates to the table, piled high with pancakes.
“Weep?” I snort. “Ooh. Yum. What’s on top of the pancakes?”
“Yes, weep. And greek yogurt, honey, and crushed walnuts.” Luke rests the plates on the table, then sits down next to me.
“Sounds great. Thanks for breakfast. And for…”
“For making sure you were comfortable after we talked for a while, kissed for a while, and fell asleep early? And for then going upstairs to my own bed, like the gentleman I am?”
“Ohhh, right. Now I remember how lame we are.”
“Not lame!” Luke protests. “I had a really good time last night, actually. A great time. I just… I know the last couple of days have been kind of rough. I wanted to give you your space.”
I smile at him and take my first bite. The pancakes are fluffy and sweet. “These are amazing. Seriously, really good.”
“Cool.” He looks proud. “Yiayia taught me how to make pretty much everything she makes. Which means I’ve got a lot of good meals up here.” He taps his temple with his index finger. “So maybe you’ll let me cook for you again?”
Looking at him blurs my doubts, and I know that’s dangerous. But I let myself take him in—his wide, open eyes; the way they seem brighter when he looks at me. The man wants to take care of me. And everything in me wants to let him. For once, I don’t want to be the responsible one. The one who’s tending to Aria or trying to protect everyone from my mother. For once, I want someone to tend to me. Is that so selfish?
“Yeah. Sure, I think.” I wrap my hands around my coffee mug and breathe in the earthy, sweet steam rising from the cup. “Listen, Luke, I—”
“It’s okay. I’m not saying anything, except that I like cooking for you. And I’m just hoping you’ll let me do it again. No pressure.”
I nod.
“Good.” His gaze slides to a spot just over my head. “Okay. A little pressure, actually. Because I’ve been talking too much and we’re now officially late.”
I check the clock in the kitchen. “LUKE!”
“I know, I know. Go on. I’ll clean this stuff up.” He shoves back his chair and hurries to the door, scooping up my sandals. “No time for these. Here.”
“I hate you for this, by the way. Some of us teach first period, you know.�
� I toss back the rest of my coffee like a freshman girl downing a shot at her first dive bar. “Have you seen my bag? Wait. Got it.”
“Hate me? How could you hate a man who cooks for you?” He dumps my shoes into my arms and gives me a quick kiss on the mouth. “See you at school.”
“Yeah. See you there.” I stash my shoes in my bag and hurry outside to my car, clawing through the depths of my purse to find my keys. Once I find them, it’s a matter of milliseconds before I’m peeling out of Luke’s driveway so fast, I smell smoke and rubber. Oops.
I glance into my rearview as I turn onto the street. He’s still standing in the doorway in his pajamas. His hair is messy and wild from sleep, like he’s a little kid who’s just awakened from a nap. He lifts his hand in an easy wave.
The cottage is silent when I burst through the front door, slinging my sandals under the table in the entryway and making a mad dash for my bathroom. I turn the brushed silver handles inside the shower and jump in before the water has time to warm, dunking my head beneath the frigid spray. I wash my hair but have no time to shave. Pants. I need pants.
Once I’m out of the shower, I throw on the first pair of non-jeans I can find: Yellow, wide-legged linen trousers. My black silk tee from last night is wrinkled, so I hang it in the shower and turn on the hot water while I apply tinted moisturizer and a little blush. Spritz my damp hair with sea salt spray and even manage a little mascara. By the time I’ve finished brushing my teeth, the tee is still wrinkled. I toss it on, grab the sandals by the door, and am back in the car in less than 12 minutes, according to my cell phone. For the first time this morning, I notice a barrage of texts from Gwen and Waverly. I ignore them. I can explain at lunch.
The halls are bustling when I get to school, my chest burning from the parking lot-to-classroom sprint.
“Woah, Ms. Sloane! You okay?” Josh Marville asks when I barely avoid slamming into him outside my classroom.
“Yeah. Yes. Of course, Josh. Just… running a little late.” A bead of water slips down the back of my neck. I give my hair a shake.