Chapter 12
twelve
I’ve spent most of the day cooking up a feast.
I told Luke it was a thank-you for letting me crash at his place, but in reality, I needed something to keep me occupied.
Because something is shifting between us.
He’s still being the same kind and courteous man I know him to be, but when I walked out of the bathroom in the band T-shirt and cutoff shorts he bought me, I swear the look he gave me could light my new clothes on fire.
And if I’m being completely honest, I liked the thought far too much.
I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it as I finish chopping the veggies and toss them into the sancocho I settled on for tonight. Ever since I started hanging out with Luisa and Isabella’s families, I’ve become obsessed with our shared Dominican culture.
My mother was unable to teach me about my lineage, so I feel immensely grateful to my new friends and sister-in-law for letting me tag along and helping me embrace being a proud Latina.
I have no living family members on my mother’s side, therefore there was never anyone out there I could reach out to in an attempt to help me feel closer to my Mami or my culture.
And it kills me.
Because it makes me feel like I’m a fraud.
Like a fake Latina who’s trying too hard to assimilate to a culture she wasn’t raised in. Even after I’ve fielded questions about my “exotic” looks all my life. Like I’m a plant or an animal, especially since my last name is Stonehaven and my father lives in the UK.
It’s probably why I’ve always felt like I’m just something to look at—with thinly veiled confusion that brings up more questions than answers.
Which is why I’ve always tried my best to beat people to the punch before they have a chance to get curious.
It’s part of why I’m usually offering myself up for odd jobs and going the extra mile for strangers and friends and why I always have a solution handy.
If I can be useful, if I can make everyone around me happy, maybe they won’t look too closely and see the cracks under the surface.
If I’m helpful, they won’t notice all the missing pieces I came without.
Or how I hope I’m fooling them all by playing out a role.
The ones I’ve come to emulate from books and movies, hoping no one catches on that there is nothing original or special about me.
Maybe I can sell them on the fact that I’m naturally this way. That I know how to be cheerful twenty-four seven so that they won’t see my sadness or my fear of never being enough.
And maybe, just maybe, if I keep fussing and fluttering around the ones I care for, eventually something will stick. I’ll figure out who it is that I’m meant to be, and no one will ever have to know that I was faking it the whole time.
Nick tries his best to remind me of the bits and pieces that he remembers of his childhood with our mom, and I take every morsel of information and weave it into my being.
And I desperately try to keep a positive outlook. Knowing that I lucked out with an amazing brother and an extended family in his in-laws now that he had the good sense to lock down Luisa.
But if I’m honest with myself, it’s still not enough.
I put the lid on the sancocho as I lower the volume on the music on my phone. Maybe listening to my mom’s favorite artist, Juan Luisa Guerra, the day after I ran away from my wedding wasn’t the best idea after all.
I run my hands down my face. I need to stop being such a Debbie downer. It’s not like it was all bad. I had the most incredible nannies growing up. There were a couple who rotated in and out of my life. A few were even from the Dominican Republic.
Their presence in my life was immeasurable.
Some of my fondest memories include practicing speaking Spanish with them growing up.
Or learning little old-school Dominican tricks for taking proper care of my curls.
From using pure cinnamon in my conditioner to help with hair regrowth after learning the hard way the dangers of heating tools, to creating my own little concoctions with rosemary and other natural ingredients to use every few weeks to keep my hair healthy and shiny.
And while I did study Spanish in high school and college, nothing could compare to the speed and complexity of Dominican Spanish. I find myself laughing when I’m home alone, recollecting words that aren’t in the Spanish dictionary but are a staple in my friends’ vocabulary.
Speaking of my friends.
LUISA:
Proof of life check-in before your brother calls in the Navy SEALs.
ISABELLA:
Leave the girl alone. She’s probably having hot lumberjack sex.
LUISA:
Nick read that over my shoulder and now I think he’s going to fly his plane himself. Hold, please. I need to make sure I’m on the life insurance policy.
I blush fiercely as I answer, knowing my brother will probably sneak his way into reading my response.
DAISY:
I am alive. No need to send in the SEALs. And no lumberjacks have been defiled. Currently cooking up a storm.
I attach a picture of the boiling soup, and in seconds my phone starts lighting up.
LUISA:
Don’t give your brother another reason to want to crash your mountain getaway. Damn, that looks good.
LUISA:
Also, hi. Nice to hear from you. How are you feeling?
ISABELLA:
Tell Luke I’m ready to wife you up, because dayummm.
ISABELLA:
Oh wow, now I look like the asshole for not asking how she’s doing first. Thanks, Luisa.
ISABELLA:
Just kidding!! How are you, Daisy? Any word from your ex?
I don’t really want to get into it all but figure it’s easier to send a voice memo to bring them up to speed.
I mention my father’s text, how I blocked him, and how Damien and his camp have been radio silent.
I leave out anything that has to do with Luke, because I know they’d notice the change in my tone.
I’m a lie detector’s wet dream because I can’t lie for shit.
As expected, their support starts pouring through the group chat. I never had friends like this growing up, so it’s still taking some getting used to. It’s strange having people in my life who actually care about me instead of the last name I was born with.
I promise to keep them in the loop and to send more food and nature pictures while I’m here, then put my phone away.
I notice that it’s been a while since I last saw Luke. He headed outside in what looked like a bit of a hurry when I tried to playfully show off the outfit he got for me.
Or maybe he has better things to do than babysit me.
There’s nothing left for me to do but wait for the soup to simmer for a long while, so I decide to grab a beer and bring it out to him. I haven’t really heard much noise while he’s been out there, but I have been listening to music while cooking.
As I approach the fridge, I stare at the postcard and magnet of the Adirondack Mountains I cheekily put on his refrigerator. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to learn that I’d left his truck for a few minutes and ducked into a mom-and-pop shop to pick up these little souvenirs.
I told myself I wanted to start collecting things that bring me joy, and these old-school postcards and cheesy magnets did just the trick.
I’m clearly still on the journey of trying to decipher who I really am versus who I’ve been molded to be, and this small purchase made me feel like I was moving a step in the right direction.
But if I’m being honest, I probably hopped out of his truck and into the store because I needed to walk around and get some fresh air.
Especially after hearing a woman shamelessly flirt with Luke.
Followed by him saying that he was buying cereal for his wife.
A wife who apparently loves the same kind of cereal I do.
I must be getting altitude sickness. I have no idea what the elevation is here, but I’m sure that’s a thing. And it must be a reason my mind is suddenly all over the place when it comes to Luke. My friend.
Friend. Friend. Friend, I remind myself as I open the refrigerator.
I’m surprised to find that he bought ciders as well as everything on my list. I’m not exactly a huge drinker, and I’ve mentioned that ciders kind of feel like grown-up apple juice, so they’re easier for me to tolerate.
I smile as I grab two and make my way out back. I tuck a beer into the crook of my elbow as I open the sliding door before holding it steady in my hand again.
And thank God for that.
Because had I been looking at what was waiting for me beyond these windows, I might have shattered both beers on the ground.
Actually, I’m sure of it.
Because a few yards before me stands a shirtless Luke in low riding Wranglers, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm.
His chest glistens in the warm afternoon sun as my eyes trace over every divot and pronounced muscle on his body.
But I almost swallow my tongue when I realize there was one little fun fact I was kept completely in the dark about when it came to Luke.
He has tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos.
I’ve never questioned why he’s always worn those long-sleeved sweat-resistant, shirts under his uniform, even in the summer months. But I guess this is why.
My eyes eat up the small scatterings of cursive handwriting and artistic designs that trace up his biceps. They adorn his ribs and pecs too, curling around his shoulders and leading down his back. Tiny sparrows, roman numerals, and abstract art decorate his skin perfectly.
But the ill-fated death to my new panties comes when he picks up a small piece of wood and places it on a tree stump. He then bends and picks up an axe.
The fact that I’m at a secluded cabin in the woods with a white man wielding an axe should have me searching for my survival skills.
But damn if this view wouldn’t be a good way to go out if it’s my time.
There could be a pack of wolves running my way and I wouldn’t even notice at a time like this.
Luke expertly lifts the axe over his head and swings it down, perfectly cutting the piece of wood in two. I don’t know if there’s a certain form for chopping wood, but it seems like a ten out of ten from where I’m standing.
I shouldn’t be ogling him. The man is simply doing some manual labor, and there are about a million and one reasons why letting my mind go down this path is a bad idea, but I can’t help myself from staying rooted to the spot and living a little, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
Imagining what it would feel like to be pinned down by that body, worked over by those hands. To trace each of those abs with my tongue until I drift down and taste—
“Daisy girl, you thirsty over there?”
My eyes snap up from Luke’s abs to his face.
His very smug-looking face.
Oh God, how long has he known that I’ve been watching him? I must have lost track of time since I’m sure Ginuwine’s “Pony” song played on a loop multiple times as he worked log after log.
Stop thinking about his log, woman.
Yet my eyes take a quick detour down and back up again.
Enough time for Luke to quirk his brow, as if to say “gotcha.”
Enough time for me to turn on my heel and bolt back into the house like an idiot.
Enough time to decide that I am indeed thirsty, and that I’m going to be needing both of these ciders for myself.