17
“Luna Aldridge Seen Leaving Heathrow, Shortly After Kieran Alexander”
—Pop Culture Crush
EVERYONE BUT AMIR, who was prepping meals for the flight beside me, went home to get their own luggage since we’d all be leaving straight from Scarsdale for JFK. They’d be back at six for dinner. So I was cooking. For them and for Kieran.
Every time that brief fact reentered my focus, the knife in my hand slipped.
“Luna,” Amir tsked. “Let me do it.” He tried to intervene.
I scooted farther down the island, taking my thyme with me. “I’m fine. Everyone’s going to be here in an hour, and you have your own meals to make.”
“I can easily finish them later—”
“You will not be cooking while we eat.” I pointed at him. “No working.”
“If that knife slips one more time, I’m taking over.”
I ignored him, continuing my chopping.
A knock at the front door ran through the house. Cecilia.
“I’ll get that,” he said, brushing feta cheese from his palms before exiting through the swinging kitchen door.
The Home Is Where the Kitchen Is sign bounced against the wood like a knocker.
It was in an extravagant cursive made of metal, surrounded by spatulas and whisks, something my mother picked up at the housewares store in town a decade ago.
Dad let me take it when I moved here after the divorce.
It was an unspoken token that they were both here, even if one of them wasn’t a call away.
The sign had been passed down, but none of her cooking skills were.
I continued to chop at an excruciatingly slow pace.
By the time I finished with the thyme, the door was opening, and the sign was swinging again.
“Amir, what’s the best way to cut celery? Do you move the celery under the knife or the knife over the celery?” I asked.
“I’d start by curling your nails before moving that knife anymore.”
My gaze snapped to the door, and I put the knife down. “Why are you here so early?”
Kieran checked the leather watch on his wrist. “I’m twenty minutes late.”
“We don’t start for another forty-five minutes.”
He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling.
A silent groan was hidden in the bob of his Adam’s apple.
His hat tried to tame the blond waves on his head.
Jeans covered the length of his legs, and a hoodie covered his arms. I was always surprised to see him like this, without the Hollywood air.
He only ever lived in my mind as someone behind a screen and an actor who wore expensive suits at lavish events.
“I think we were set up,” he thought aloud.
I returned to the celery, chopping. “Well, no one is here to hold us accountable for bonding, so why don’t you go… sit in the living room or find some married woman to flirt with. There’s quite a few in this neighborhood.”
“While you use a knife like that? I don’t think so.”
“I’m perfectly fine—”
“You’re going to cut yourself—”
“No I won’t—”
“Luna—”
The knife slipped, and the blade clipped the pad of my finger.
“Shit,” I hissed, dropping the knife and clutching my thumb.
“Let me see—” He stepped forward.
Instinctively, I backed up. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Luna, give me your hand.” His voice was firm and solid like a mahogany bookcase.
Luna. There it was again. No hint of that witty tone or edge of humor.
“It really is fine.”
“Do you have to argue with me about everything?”
“You do the same.”
“Only when it comes to you, it seems. Now give me your hand.”
Reluctantly, I handed him my palm, scared to see it myself. I steered my gaze in the opposite direction, which was undeniably a terrible, terrible idea. Because without looking, I couldn’t anticipate the moment his hand took hold of mine.
In front of cameras was one thing. That was planned. A pushed aside feeling with the flashes and shouting crowding my focus.
Now, it was just us.
The tips of his fingers tracing my palm paused my concern. Then he rotated my thumb, resting it in the center of his hand, as if he were inspecting a seashell for sand or hidden critters.
“Scared of blood?” he guessed, his voice cutting through the silence.
I cleared my throat. “Moderately.”
A huff of laughter. “That’s surprising for an athlete.”
“I don’t have much of a history with injuries.”
“Of course you don’t.” Another beat. “It’s nothing that’ll need a hospital visit. Come to the sink.” Still holding my hand, he turned on the tap, letting the cold water hit the cut. “This may sting,” he warned.
I kept my mouth shut as he added a drop of soap. I wasn’t sure which hurt more: the suds hitting the wound, or his complete and utter focus on me. I watched as he tore off a paper towel, folding it a few times horizontally before carefully wrapping it around my thumb.
“Do you have a first aid kit?” he asked.
I pursed my lips.
“Gauze?”
I shook my head.
“Band-Aids?”
I looked to the ceiling.
“For the love of God, woman, how have you survived this long? Do you at least have tape?”
“Top drawer to your left.”
He kept one hand on the paper towel around my finger, opening the drawer—
“No, not that one!” I yelped.
But I wasn’t quick enough. He was already opening the wrong drawer, a framed photo of Jeremiah and me sitting face up, ready to greet him, and taunt me.
I hated Jeremiah. But there were some things I hadn’t been ready to let go of.
Like holding on to the wedding ring given to you by your widow.
Pawning it off would mean accepting you’d never need it again.
I could sign all the divorce papers I wanted and ignore all of his pleas for forgiveness.
But that didn’t mean I wanted to completely scrub the last two years of my life away.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he apologized, shutting the drawer abruptly and opening the next (correct) one, pulling out the tape.
“It’s fine,” I said, hiding a cough.
With his other hand, he brought the roll to his mouth, ripping a piece off, adding it to the makeshift gauze to keep it in place.
“No more blood—you can look now. I’ll check that in an hour to make sure it’s fine.” He backed up, leaning against the countertop, realizing just how close we had been. I did the same, taking my position across from him.
“Thanks… Are you patching up cuts often, or is this something you do to impress all your fake girlfriends?”
He smiled, but only the floor got a full view of it. “I grew up working in the restaurant my dad owned. Kitchen injuries were expected.”
“Oh, that’s funny, my mom used to work in a restaurant too.”
His eyes flashed. Having something in common was as rare as finding a sand dollar during high tide. “Did she let you prep the ingredients?” he questioned.
He got me there. Mom tried numerous times to wave me over whenever she caught me watching her prepare dinner. I’d shake my head. I already had my thing. I didn’t need another to obsess over until I was perfect at it.
“God, no, I—That was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it? You ass. For your information, I do know how to cook.”
“I said nothing like that.” He raised his hands.
“Your body language did.”
“Did you just admit to looking at my body?” He tilted his head.
My chest felt warm. “Old habit.”
“Looking at my body?” His brows rose.
“Reading body language,” I corrected him. “Important when noting your enemy’s next move.” And when you’re trying to gauge whether a competitor is going to serve to your right or your left.
“You’re very scary.”
“My mother used to say it was my best quality.”
“I’d love to know your worst, then.”
“I’ll fill you in while I finish dinner.”
He pushed off the countertop. “No, you won’t. Sit down.”
I paused, and for once, said, “Fine,” happy to put him to work.
I moved out of the way, but not before he could take my elbow.
The feeling was swift, but it traveled all the way up my arm and burrowed in my chest. I wanted to plunge my hand beneath the bone and toss out of the sensation.
But it only continued to fester, growing warmer and spreading, until he let go.
“Wait,” he said, “I’m going to show you how to properly cut these. Then, you sit.”
“Is this really necessary?” I asked, hoping my voice sounded steady.
“Some of us prefer our food without blood in it, so yes. I also heard you require fingers to play tennis.”
Fair enough.
He took his hat off and proceeded to pull his sweatshirt over his head, a sliver of his shirt lifting with it.
The muscles in his torso moved, and the shape of each one was highlighted by the stove’s hood light.
It reminded me of the male tennis players I’d train beside in the gym when I was first starting out.
I’d turn away quickly, embarrassed, hoping they didn’t notice.
Now, I struggled to avert my gaze.
I had seen him entirely shirtless before. But that was in a movie I watched from the privacy of my home while wearing ratty Christmas pajamas covered in fallen popcorn. A trace of his hips should mean nothing. Should.
He threw the hoodie over a chair and shook out his disheveled hair. I never had the chance to look for this long, but it didn’t look very blond. Almost like a brown too hard to color-match because it shifted shades in the light.
With his hat taming his hair again, he picked up the knife I had dropped, looking as comfortable as I did with a racket. His thumb and index finger hugged the base of the blade, right above the handle.
“You’re going to pinch the top of the handle—this will give you the most control of the blade.
With your nondominant hand, you’re going to do a bear claw motion on the celery.
This way, if your blade slips, it will hit your nail rather than skin—this goes for cutting all types of food, not just vegetables.
Then instead of picking the knife off the cutting board as you cut, you’ll do a rocking motion, so you’re not losing your knuckles either.
To answer your question from earlier, usually you move the food under the blade, but just starting out, let’s focus on the knife. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Now you try,” he said, offering me the knife, scooting over.
I accepted the hilt, copying his previous movements.
Left hand clawed over the celery, right gripping the start of the blade.
Before I could begin cutting, he repositioned my index finger on the knife.
It was as casual as adjusting a player’s grip before they could serve.
But really, it felt as casual as knowing the number of lines that ran across your worst enemy’s palm. It didn’t feel casual at all.
“Just like that,” he affirmed.
After a few slices, he gestured for me to sit, finishing the job. He knew better than to try and give me a hands-on tutorial.
“So… you worked in a restaurant?”
“Mhm,” he hummed. He continued chopping, simply moving onto the next herb or vegetable within hand’s reach. “Nothing fancy. More like a tavern.”
“What was that like?”
“I’m not sure I had a very realistic experience.
My dad had me in his kitchen the moment I could walk.
Learning to identify salt from sugar, a tablespoon versus a teaspoon.
By the time the other kids in school were old enough to take on part-time jobs, I had already been working as a cook for years.
The smell of rosemary lived in my hair. Sometimes I think it would’ve been more enjoyable if it wasn’t all run by my father. ”
“Headstrong?”
“More than you can imagine. Without him, though, I wouldn’t be able to prepare this lovely dinner.”
I rolled my eyes. “I already prepared the chicken, so this hardly counts.”
“I’m going to assume you haven’t had the same cooking experience with your mom?”
“No,” and I kept it at that. Talking about her for the first time in months with someone like Kieran felt unfair. It should be with Cecilia or Dad. Not a man who found tennis pompous.
An awkward silence swam between us for a moment before he picked up a new set of words. “The picture…”
I flipped my gaze up. “An ex,” I said plainly.
He nodded but said nothing.
“I don’t miss him or anything. It was just a nice photo,” I explained.
“Of course.” He focused on chopping, making it impossible to gauge his judgment.
“I promise I’m not some pining weirdo—”
“Luna.” He looked up, unwavering blue eyes holding me steady. “I believe you.”
He was being honest. I stared at the closed drawer behind him, feeling overtaken by mortification nonetheless.
“Have you been dating?” he asked casually.
I laughed. “Not for love, that’s for sure.”
“You sound like me.”
You could never love someone like that.
“We are nothing alike.”
The knife paused. “And what’s so wrong with being like me?”
Your heart is too big. Always was. It’s making you weak, as Jeremiah had told me.
Images of Jeremiah jumping out of the hotel bed flashed in my mind. I could still feel the fiery nagging at the back of my throat as I screamed, I thought you loved me.
Months of wet tears staining my cheeks and stomach aches when I left the house and empty breaths when I saw someone in a movie confessing their love or across the street holding hands, walking toward me.
I pictured the countless headlines that portrayed Kieran as the same type of man.
I was so tired of men saying they were above love.
“Because I have a heart that’s too big to be an uncommitted man who’d rather taste-test women than actually dedicate his life to someone,” I argued.
His jaw clenched. “Says the woman who doesn’t date for love.”
“I’m allowed to not date for love because it was the one thing that ripped me apart when I poured everything into it.” My voice cracked.
He looked taken aback; his bite whisked away. By the time I finished, my throat burned with the urge to yell—or cry, I couldn’t tell.
“Well, that makes two of us,” he said.
My lips parted.
Fortunately, I was saved by a knock at the front door.
It was six o’clock.
Everyone funneled into the kitchen, and Kieran and I separated, like two fallen leaves drifting apart in a rough tide.
I spent the majority of dinner catching glimpses of him, wondering what anomaly I had just experienced in the kitchen—the man who tended to a childish cut, and the one who reminded me of everything I’ve been trying to bury.