9. Carb Laden Confessions
Chapter nine
Carb Laden Confessions
Albany
“ H oney, I’m home!” I shout through the screen door. A rich and tomato-y aroma is seeping outside, and I am stoked. I had mentioned to Sal I was hungry for good homemade spaghetti sauce two days ago, and he had winked and said maybe he could do something about that.
A brat might have made an offhand comment, lamenting there were no exceptionally good Italian restaurants or chefs in the vicinity. If there had been a flirty Italian chef within earshot, he might have heard her comment and fallen to the ground, hand over his wounded heart before leaping up and tickling her while swearing that the God of El Dente Pasta would curse her to a fate of never slurping down a firm noodle again.
If those two idiots were living together and becoming fast best friends, they might have fallen over each other, laughing hysterically, not caring about a single one of the looks they were getting in the very public park they were picnicking in.
I push the door open, closing my eyes and lifting my chin as I breathe deeply through my nose, willing my heart to stop pounding and my sniffer to stop searching for a bit of Sal in the layers of garlic, tomato, and fresh oregano.
He’s standing beside the stove in an apron I bought him that says, ‘It’s not sauce, it’s gravy.’ I snicker as I walk toward him. “It’s extra funny because I’m Italian, and I make chocolate,” he teases, quoting me as he lightly dabs the end of my nose with his wooden spoon.
I wipe off the sauce and stick my finger in my mouth. Flavor explodes on my tongue. My eyes roll back into my head. “Mm, Sal. That is delicious. Is it done? I’m starving. Are there meatballs? What did you make today? Was it the ballet piece or the dragon? Can I come with you when you deliver that one? I always wanted to try LARPing.”
“Whoa,” he laughs, stirring the pasta and tapping the spoon on the side of the pot. “Move. This is hot.” He picks up some pads and heads for the sink, pouring out the boiling water. “Did you take down a case of Red Bull on the way home?”
“Just one. I’m allowed one a week. I want to stay up half the night playing video games.” I reach for the cupboard to grab a couple of plates.
“How was work?” The oven beeps. He jams his hands into a set of mitts and pulls out a loaf of garlic bread. He sets the pan on a trivet and scrapes a knife down the layer of broiled cheese with a flourish. “Show off,” I tease, wiping an imaginary string of drool off my chin. “Work was,” I pause, considering, wondering if I should be honest. Nope. Sal has enough going on in his life. I’m not going to add to his list of things to worry about. “Work.” I almost said fine, but I know Sal well enough to know it wouldn’t take much for him to figure things out.
He begins plating, focusing hard on the tower of noodles he’s crafting. “We could eat this at the table and pretend we are having a traditional family dinner,” he offers, carefully avoiding looking at me, “or we could eat this in the living room and not even take care of our plates before I kick your ass in the game of your choice.”
I watch him walk over to the loaf of bread he left to rest and jump a little at the hiss of the knife he pulls out of the block. He whips around to look at me, raising the knife as his face morphs into a maniacal expression. I can’t help it. I fight it, but a stupidly huge grin spreads across mine. I squeal and run. He chases me around the island twice before I fake left and dart out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. I pass my bedroom door and head down the hall, slipping into my guest room. I don’t kick the door shut. Instead, I slide into the narrow closet and draw the bifold doors shut, wincing as they brush over the cream-colored carpet.
My heart is thundering, banging against my rib cage like a cracked-out canary. Carefully, I peer out of the slats, praying Sal doesn’t hear my breathing. I can’t see a darn thing, so I turn my head, tilting it so my ear is almost pressed against the wood.
The anticipation is killing me. Nothing but the lub-dub thump of my heart and the whoosh of my blood. No door sweeping open nor press of man feet into plush carpet. No heavy breathing or the scrape of a knife against denim.
Minutes pass by like hours. Did he give up on the game? Did he stop halfway up the stairs and go back to our meal? Crap sticks. What do I do? Carefully, I step back, deeper into my clothes. My heel catches the corner of a small box. The impact of cardboard against trim sounds like a gong. Did I leave shoes in here?
I reach out, pressing a hand against the wall to stop myself from losing my balance as I ease myself into a squat. Bracing my bum against the wall, I reach forward, my fingers stealing over the corner of the box. Pressing against the lip of the lid, I pull up, holding my breath until the lid pops off with the tortuously loud rub of cardboard against cardboard.
I freeze, listening intently. There is complete silence. Neither I nor anything in the house breathes. I reach down, my attention now on the contents of the box.
My brain doesn’t register the screech of the door on the tracks until a hand is firmly gripping my arm and yanking me out of the closet like a ragdoll. My body is spun around, then tossed across the bed like I’m not one hundred and seventy-five pounds of solid flesh. The bed lowers again. Two hard legs encase mine while my arms are pressed into the bed by warm, strong hands. My next breath is drawn through my nose, and my body sinks into the bedding, not panicking but completely comfortable, as if my animal brain is familiar with the body hovering over mine. The box is forgotten as my brain is filled with a plethora of scents. Tomato sauce, garlic, spicy body wash, and the one thing that always remains constant. Cocoa. My skin shudders as the thrill of being captured by someone I know I’m safe with makes my heart race. My mouth waters, and it isn’t because of tomato sauce. My bra feels tight, and the urge to press my thighs together is strong.
No, Albany, no. This is wrong. Sal needs a friend. Sal needs to heal. Sal doesn’t need complications. And neither do you. You’ve already rolled your thighs together once tonight. Get your shit together.
I struggle, testing the waters. His grip tightens, both on my arms and around my hips and thighs. “You win, Sal. Let me up,” I chuckle, keeping my tone light. “Dinner’s gotta be getting cold.”
“I don’t care about dinner.” His voice is thick, lower than normal. He must have discarded his knife on the way up.
I struggle again, but his hold just tightens. “What do you care about, Sal?” I pant as I writhe underneath him. If I can’t escape, maybe I can buck him off.
“Why won’t you tell me where you work?” he whispers. His warm breath ghosts along my cheek, curling into the shell of my ear; his question and the way he asks it causes my heart to beat with both adrenaline and lust.
“Why won’t you talk to me about your breakup? Or tell me who broke your heart?” I fire back, pausing my pathetic struggling.
“Albany.” Starlight shines in through the slates of the window shade. He leans in, so close I can see the eyes of the universe reflected in his. “I’m working hard to move forward. To live each day to the fullest. I’m focusing on finding the joy in the things I love, like teaching and sculpting and…”
“And?” I ask, too enthralled with what he’s about to say to notice how shallow my breaths are or that my lips are parted.
He releases one of my hands and presses his fingers against my cheek, dragging his thumb over my lower lip. He lifts my other hand off the bed, holding it to his chest as he sits back, dropping his delectable rump right into my lap. The eye contact is so intense I feel like I’m falling when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks on it. His cheeks hollow a bit as he sucks, his fingers curling as he draws his hand back.
The soft pop his mouth makes is like the click of an on-switch. The wild, restless thing I keep tamped down under layers of cheerful normalcy swipes the paper bars of her cage away and howls. My skin becomes a live wire. My lashes brush my cheeks as I turn away, desperate to hide my now blazing secrets. Like my longing for greedy hands and a strong, thick cock that could fuck me senseless.
I can feel him staring, studying, as I lie beneath him, my chest jerking with ineffective pants. “And?” I breathe.
I can barely hear myself speak the word. The few decibels my breathy repeat makes are nothing compared to the bass drum of my pulse and the sharp cut of his verdant gaze. A few strands of dark hair hang, framing his shadowed jaw. Slats of light fall across his chest, highlighting the dips and valleys of his chest and abdomen under his thin T-shirt.
He reaches for my face again, drawing the back of his fingers down my cheek, under my jaw, along my neck, and over the slight swell of my breast.
Cheese and rice, he’s gorgeous. I swallow hard, doing my damnedest not to writhe beneath him.
“…and spending every spare moment I have finding a reason to be in the same room as the bewitching creature I captured in my kitchen.”
I shouldn’t let him. I should push both of my hands against his chest and stop his forward advance. He’s lowering himself, inch by agonizing inch, into the space between us. Into the moon and starlight, into the chasm of things we’ve left unsaid. The last two weeks of easy laughs and warm nights sharing snacks in front of the TV, of cheery mornings in my kitchen, of shoving curls of chocolate in each other’s mouths at Sweet Alchemy, stay my hands. Instead, the thunderous need pounding through me joins forces with the soft cocoon of trust we’ve fostered, and when he slants his face over mine, all of those good things lift my arms, drape them over his shoulders, and wind my fingers through his loosening knot of hair.
None of the logic that demands I stay single or the memories I use to rationalize life as a singleton make a peep. The devil of self-doubt that whispers in my ear a hundred times a day disappears, and the life plan I’ve so carefully cultivated tosses itself on a pyre.
I want Sal. Like oxygen and cheese, like summer breezes and the lilacs in the spring, the attraction between us is not just chemical. His easy nature, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and the way he delights in feeding me are heavenly bait crafted by the universe just for me.
I can’t stop myself. I’m clicking. I’m biting. I’m hooked either way.
His lips move slowly, tenderly, tentatively against mine at first. One arm slides under my shoulders, the other bends, his elbow dimpling the mattress as he cradles my head. As the kiss deepens, he lifts one leg at a time over my thighs and nudges them open, lying down in the space between them.
I gasp into his mouth as Sal settles against my center, the hard evidence that he wants me as much as I want him nestled against the place that throbs for his touch.
Every sensation is Sal: the taste of his mouth, our body heat mingling, the weight of him, his fingers in my hair, the scrape of his whiskers against the soft skin of my face. I kiss him back, needing only the oxygen that has passed into his lungs, swallowing the soft grunt he makes as I shift my hips and twine one leg around his.
We fit together like we were made for one another. Our kiss is both raw and spontaneous, yet so in sync, it’s as if our mouths have danced in a thousand other lifetimes. I haven’t been kissed like this since… “Jake.”
Sal stills. “No, no, I’m Sal.” He draws back, his quickly clearing eyes still slightly foggy with lust.
My face burns scarlet. “I know. It’s just…never mind.” I strain to reach him, angling to match him as I close my eyes.
“Albany.” The air above me cools. As does the comforter under my head as he withdraws his arms and sits back on his knees, taking his body heat with him. “Who is Jake?”
Fuuuucccckkkk. Did I really say that out loud? “Nobody important. Come back here and kiss me again.” The corners of my mouth angle down in a pout that I know is cute. I’ve done it on camera a hundred times. I widen my eyes just the right amount as his face falls flat, and my gut twists. He knows I’m putting on an act to avoid answering his question.
He’s disappointed. The electricity storming through my body fades to a few painful zaps and then disappears.
“Who are you?” he breathes, hopping over my legs and twisting to get off the bed. “Come on, whether you’ll admit it or not, you’re starving. I’ll heat up dinner and we can eat.” He reaches out, and I grab his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.
He doesn’t drop it as he leads me to the door, but his skin isn’t warm. It’s clammy with the aftereffects of my deceit. “Wait.” I tug on his hand at the top of the stairs. “Are you mad at me? This feels weird. Why does anything between us feel weird?” I ask, my voice rising in panic.
He shrugs. “It’s not weird to me. I’m used to living with someone who doesn’t talk. Who guards his secrets and memories and keeps his feelings close to the vest.” He drops my hand and jogs down the stairs. “It’s no big deal,” he mutters.
“But it is a big deal. That kiss was one of the biggest and best dang deals of my life!” I splutter, following him, crowding him as he makes his way back to my kitchen. Instead of taking my usual place on the other side of the island, I come to a stop less than a step behind him.
“I can’t reheat your dinner if I’m tripping over you.” There’s an edge to his voice, as if he’s suddenly too tired to be nice about what happened.
“I don’t want you to reheat my dinner.” I grab his shoulder and tug, willing him to turn around and face me. When he gives in, the look on his face makes me feel even more sick to my stomach. He looks defeated, as if capitulating is normal because not arguing is the easiest path to take. “Sal, please sit down and let me reheat our dinner. I’d like to tell you about Jake. And about why it’s hard for me to talk about him.” I pause, and he waits, instinctively knowing I’m not finished speaking. “And,” I sigh, “about why I blurted his name out when I was completely consumed with you.”
Sal studies my face a moment longer, the corners of his lips tipping into a small smile. The kind a cat makes when the mouse’s capture is imminent. “I can practically see your tail waving in the air behind you,” I mutter as I grab one of the plates and yank open the microwave door.
“What was that?” Sal asks as he walks around the island and pulls out a stool.
“Nothing,” I grumble, turning on the microwave. When the food is heated up, I deposit the plate and a fork in front of Sal and then put the second one in the microwave. Sal digs into his food, contented enough by my promise that he feels no urge to push me to speak.
I really like that about him. As much as I adore Piper, she’d be all over me, pushing me to spill the deets so hard that when I finally did talk, I’d stumble through the story. I bring my plate around the island and sit down next to him.
“Jake was my high school boyfriend,” I blurt, stuffing a forkful of noodles in my mouth and chewing frantically.
Sal chokes. “Your high school boyfriend? Damn. I must really be off my game.”
I swallow. “Hey now, be nice. This isn’t a skills conversation.”
“You’re right. That was my first thought, and it wasn’t very nice. I apologize.” Sal spins his fork and takes a bite. “Go on,” he mumbles through a mouthful of pasta.
“Jake was everything. He was handsome and the star of the basketball team. He was smart and extremely clever. He had this quiet confidence that radiated. So much that it affected the other boys on the team. Jake didn’t tolerate any bad behavior from his friends or teammates. No mocking, no picking on other kids, no bullying. He was innately kind, and that was what I loved most about him.” Sal reaches across and grabs my hand, the one that’s rubbing my chest. A weird, nostalgic type of sadness has bloomed there.
“He sounds like he was a great guy. What happened? Did things fall apart after you graduated? One of you go away to school?” He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. The gesture is soothing. Something I could get used to.
I give Sal a small, sad smile. His face falls. “Oh. I see. Did something happen to Jake?”
“He died in a car wreck. With his mother and his little sister.” My mind travels back, remembering the awful weeks and months after the accident, and some of the terrible numbness I felt then steals out of my memories, creeping back into the familiar corners it once resided in.
Sal’s thumb has stopped moving. I notice the lack of movement and then the way his expression freezes. “What’s wrong?”
Sal swallows, hard. “What was Jake’s last name?”
I freeze, premonitory ice slicking over my skin like sticky frost. “Harmon. Did you know him?”
“I can’t finish this conversation.” The stool slides against the tile as he abruptly gets up, the squeal cutting harshly through the miasma of unspoken history hovering over my kitchen. “I’m going to bed; I’ll clean up in the morning.” His tone is harsh, his face a mix of so many things I can’t begin to guess what he’s thinking.
“No,” I say faintly, still processing his reaction. “I’ve got it.”
He hurries to the door, not able to get out of my house fast enough. His shoulders are stiff, his spine straight, as if the round bones of his vertebrae were the thing holding his head above the water in a sea of terrible memories. He flings the door open and slips through. I run to the door and hang out of the frame, unsure if I have the right to chase him. “Sal! I’m so sorry.” I call. “I just… I’m not quite sure for what,” I mutter, my voice trailing off.
I watch him stalk around the pool, his posture a clear indication he wants to be anywhere but here. Squinting, I peer into the darkness, anxiously waiting for him to turn, just once, to care enough to take a second look. The lights around my pool twinkle happily, oblivious to the human strife circling them. Sal doesn’t look back. He disappears into the guest house.
Slowly, I shut the door. My body slips into automatic mode as I clean up dinner. I take my plate into the living room and load up The Sims. It’s my go-to game when I’m experiencing emotions and events that feel out of my control. I play for ten minutes, then throw the remote down. Clattering on the coffee table, it comes to rest next to the sad plate of cold spaghetti I pushed aside with my foot.
I don’t know why I brought that in here.
But I do know I’m not hungry for spaghetti anymore.
Tomato sauce, or any kind of chocolate for that matter, is too bitter and not enough sweet for me to swallow right now.