Chapter Six #3
I head back home for the evening, thinking too many big thoughts.
When I get home, the box of things I’d ordered the other day is sitting on my front step.
At least there’s something to look forward to.
The internet search I’d done had said I’d need all new cookware, and I’d also need to clean my oven just in case I want to bake something.
I’d also bought a cookbook of gluten-free recipes because I hate looking up recipes online.
I mean, I want the recipe, not a story about how your cousin tore your family apart by deciding to take up astrology on her downtime.
So, a cookbook is the way to go.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll cook a gluten-free meal. That seems simple enough actually. Mind made up, I decide that tomorrow morning I’ll run to the mainland to get all the supplies I’ll need for a gluten-free pizza.
Clouds blot the sky as Friday evening approaches. I have Tucker’s number taped on the fridge and think about calling as I finish the pizza, but a crack of thunder rends the air just as a fist raps against my front door.
“Shit,” I swear, hastily wiping my hands on a towel as I scurry toward the door. Cupcake beats me there with a bark, so I shush her and pat her head.
Tucker stands at the front door, soaking wet, and every protective instinct in me lights up.
“It’s raining,” Tucker says plainly, like I can’t see for myself.
I grab the edge of his soaked shirt and tug him inside the safety of the warm house.
He shivers slightly at the change in temperature. Jesus, what the hell was he thinking?
“Sorry,” Tucker apologizes, looking anywhere but at me. “It was fine until halfway, then the heavens let loose on me.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
Tucker looks down at his feet, drips of water surrounding him. “I’m getting your floor wet.”
“That doesn’t matter.” The timer in the kitchen goes off, and I swear for the second time in moments. Tucker’s eyes are big and round, bright like the sky after a storm. “Just stand right there for a second. Okay?”
“Sure.”
I sigh at his easy reply, then wander into the kitchen to take the pizza out of the oven. Once that’s done, I return to Tucker and nod toward the other side of the house. “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.”
“I can stay in this.”
“Absolutely not. Come.”
Tucker at least listens to me. Unsurprisingly, Cupcake stays with Tucker.
She’s a very nurturing dog, which is why she’s always worked well with me.
The game could get into my head sometimes, but Cupcake always brought me down to earth and made me feel very loved.
Tucker seems to need some of that right now.
I flip the bedroom light on, feeling the weight of Tucker’s stare as I search through my drawers for clothes that won’t slip right off of him.
Although I’m only a few inches taller than him, my shoulders are broader, so all my shirts will surely swallow him.
I try to contain my reaction at the idea of Tucker in my clothes. A shiver rolls through me at the idea.
Tucker stands staring down at Cupcake when I return to him with an old pair of sweats and a San Diego T-shirt, because it seems that I only have branded clothing for hanging out around the house.
“Here.” I gently wrap my fingers around his forearm and tug, pulling him toward the master bathroom. Grabbing a towel from under the sink, I stand back up to find Tucker looking around like he’s in a museum. “Dry off and get changed, then we can eat dinner.”
“I told you already, I can’t eat what you cook,” Tucker says with an air of grumpiness, but he takes the clothes from me regardless.
“It’s gluten-free.”
Tucker blinks once, twice, then shakes his head. “What?”
“Gluten-free pizza.”
“Oh. Well, that was sweet, but I can’t have pizza from a shop because of cross contamination.”
“It’s homemade,” I say quickly, then flee back toward the living room.
I lean against the island, taking deep breaths, only realizing a few moments later that Cupcake stayed behind with Tucker.
Five minutes later a dry Tucker returns to the kitchen clad in my sweats and T-shirt that falls to his mid-thighs.
The orange-and-white shirt stands out against his fair complexion.
A pink flush colors his cheeks, either from the cold or embarrassment. I can’t really tell which one.
“Pizza,” I say like the stupid idiot I am.
Tucker sniffles slightly, as if maybe he’s fighting back tears. “Thanks.”
I put two slices on a plate for each of us and nod toward the table. Tucker takes a seat, his hand still on Cupcake’s head like he’s soaking up all the comfort she can provide.
“Want a drink? I have soda now after last time.”
“Juice?”
“Uhm… grape juice?”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thank you.”
I fill up a glass with juice and return to the table, taking a seat after handing Tucker the glass.
His long fingers wrap around it for a moment before he lifts it to his mouth.
He closes his eyes tight after drinking, then sets the glass down, gaze on the table.
A few moments of awkward silence fill the room, until Tucker lifts his gaze to mine.
“Thank you. I should’ve called.”
“It’s all right. It’s just clothes.”
Tucker smiles slightly. “Homemade gluten-free pizza though. Did you… Did you use new cutlery?”
I realize that he’s trying to see if the food is safe for him before digging in.
Probably not used to trusting people, or he’s used to having people fuck up.
And I worry for a moment that maybe I did fuck up, maybe I didn’t do it all right.
What if he accidentally ingests gluten and I make him sick? God, I’d feel like a total asshole.
“I bought all-new kitchenware, a new pizza pan, new everything. I even cleaned my oven.”
“You cleaned your oven?” Tucker asks, something close to worry coloring his voice. “You went to too much trouble. You didn’t have to do this at all.”
“I wanted to. It’s not a big deal. I had a teammate go vegan and I tried it for a while. We’d trade recipes. I like trying new things.”
“Okay.”
Instead of saying anything else, I grab a slice of pizza and take a big bite.
Tucker relaxes a little, his shoulders lowering from around his ears, and takes a decent bite himself.
His eyes close on the first bite. I want to kiss him, but Tucker reminds me of a wary wild animal, one that could strike at the first sign of attack.
I think I have to play the slow game with him, so being his friend first will have to do.
I can wait, and if we’re only ever friends, that’ll be okay too, because I think he could use more friends.
“So?”
Tucker smiles sheepishly. “You can’t tell Pop, but it’s better than Dad’s pizza.”
“I will definitely not tell your pop that. Brent is Pop?”
Tucker laughs lightly, clearly delighted. “Yes. Brent is Pop and Mark is Dad. Brent tried to go for the father angle, but as a child, I wasn’t having it. The six-foot-three giant of a man was destined to be a pop.”
“I can see that.” I take a bite of my own pizza, and it’s not bad. The dough has a slightly different consistency than I’m used to, but it tastes like pizza, which is what matters most. Probably the copious amounts of cheese I added. “You’re adopted?”
Tucker nods around a mouthful of pizza. “Yeah.” Tucker covers his mouth with his hand, which is cute in an odd sort of way. “They fostered me at first, then adopted me. My mother was a drug addict.”
“Oh.”
Tucker shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s part of my story. Brent and Mark are my dads. They raised me, clothed me, loved me. They’re my parents.”
“They’re good dudes. Mark makes great brownies.”
“They’re all gluten-free, just for your information,” Tucker says with a teasing glint in his eyes.
“No shit?”
“Yeah shit.”
I can’t help but laugh. Perhaps River was right. Once Tucker settles down and feels comfortable, he’s funny and likes to talk. Maybe I intimidated him a little, but the more I can make him feel comfortable with me, the more he’ll open up.
“So, your knee?” Tucker asks with a sympathetic smile.
“My knee.” I smile at Tucker’s eye roll. “I’d torn my ACL in college, so it was already in tender territory. Just bad luck in the final run during my final Super Bowl. My team won, but I kind of lost.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, why?”
Tucker winks. “You’re here with me.”
Again, I can’t help but laugh. What a one-eighty he seems to have done. Maybe the walk in the rain helped, maybe it was a wish on the sunrise earlier in the week, or maybe it was just the comfort of someone going through the trouble to make a meal that won’t make you ill.
Tucker clears his throat after he finishes his pizza. I watch as he delicately wipes his fingers off on a napkin, seemingly forming a very complicated thought, if the upturn of the corner of his mouth is any indication.
“Sometimes there’s a bonfire on the other side of the island, near the Roberts’ house. Those are River’s parents. A bunch of our friends from high school are coming. It’s tomorrow night if you’d like to join.”
“Let me check my calendar,” I reply sarcastically.
Tucker chuckles, but a blush forms on the apples of his cheeks still. “They’ll probably make me play guitar. Gilbert usually asks me to play old-school grunge or something new like Nolan Hastings.”
“Oh, I love Nolan! His new album post hiatus was amazing. I saw him at a dive bar last year and the place was fucking packed. Got to meet him too.”
“I toured with him a few years ago,” Tucker says nonchalantly, like he’s not dropping the most epic bomb of all time.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, the Notorious Eclipse tour. He… wasn’t really okay during that one. It was the one prior to his relapse and stint in rehab.”
“He seems better now though.”