Chapter Fourteen
Lily
T he storm rages as we rush into the shelter of my apartment. Water seeps through my clothes and causes a shiver to run up and down my spine. I’m soaked from this late-April rainfall. I feel the chill seeping into my bones and question whether I’ll ever know what it is to be warm again.
The tiny entryway is crowded as the two of us stand just inside the door, our breathing heavy from the effort to get here. I kick off my soaked tennis shoes and click on a small lamp. When I dare to peek at Graham, the glow reflects off his skin. In the dimness, his hair appears a few shades darker. Tiny drops fall from the perfectly trimmed, arched ends that graze his forehead.
He removes his loafers and a pair of discreet socks, both of which are probably ruined, either by my espresso river or the torrential downpour we just ran through. He places them on the mat by the door, sucking in a breath when he steps on the cold floor. He tries to shake out the chill too, his nose reddened while his hands look frigid. I have the urge to wrap my own cold hands around them to see if I can restore their warmth.
I can’t explain why I offered him shelter in my home, except the idea of being alone while knowing he could have been with me wasn’t acceptable tonight.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his shoulders hunching as water drips to the hardwood floor below him. “I’m not trying to ruin your place.”
The vulnerability in his eyes sets me on edge. I could cry from the emotion of it all. Even after he rescued me tonight, staying with me at the bakery, scrubbing the tile on his hands and knees, and cleaning coffee grounds from the crevices of the espresso bar, he’s still unsure around me. He doesn’t realize that I couldn’t care less about the floor.
This moment feels like a picture of our relationship. I invite him in from the cold, and he does the same for me, only for our disappointing history to give him pause, questioning himself and us and whether he has the right to love me completely.
I step closer to him, my body shaking like a new leaf flipping in a storm. “Don’t apologize.” That’s all I can get out.
He nods. I realize I need to clean up the puddle of water we’re creating near the front door. A sudden uptick in the intensity of the howling wind causes both of us to look toward the windows. The rain pelts the windowpanes, echoing off the tin grooves on the awning of my building. I usually find the sound of rain comforting, but tonight, every single drop resounds like a drumbeat throughout my apartment.
My apartment!
I freeze, realizing this is the first time Graham has ever seen my space. Rapidly, I look around, taking in what he must be seeing with fresh eyes. There are Bohemian touches here and there—a mismatch of things I’ve found over the years at thrift stores and crafts I’ve handmade. Featured on a side table is a glass candy jar filled with chocolates. A treasure chest sits in the corner near my well-loved couch, blankets cascading out of it. Technically, I live in a studio, but it has a weird layout that separates the living spaces and makes them seem like rooms. There’s even a tiny hallway in the unit.
In short, it’s charming. In long, my home could be an acquired taste.
Slowly, I turn to Graham, squinting a bit in case I catch a disapproving look from him. Instead, I find him taking everything in with a soft smile on his face. Only when his eyebrow quirks up at the sight of the fireplace do I realize we’re still standing here, freezing. We need to dry off and warm up before we catch a cold.
“Whatever you see, no judgment, please,” I say quickly, tiptoeing to the hall closet. I don’t know why I think moving gingerly will ensure I don’t get more water than necessary on my floors, but I do it anyway. It’s like running faster in the rain . . . don’t we still get soaked because we catch more raindrops?
Grabbing the biggest towels I can find (the ones without any embarrassing makeup stains or cartoon characters), I am returning to the spot I left Graham when I stop in my tracks. My doorway is empty. He’s gone. I start to inhale sharply just as I catch movement to my left. Graham is kneeling in front of the fireplace and is starting a fire.
He looks up hesitantly, and I nod at him in approval. I watch as he adds a few more pieces of old newspaper I collect for this purpose. He peeks at the headlines along the way.
“I like the news,” Graham states simply, as if I didn’t remember. He rises and stops in front of me. A few drops of water from his hair are trailing down the side of his neck. I’m shocked by my sudden urge to wipe them away and ensure he’s wrapped in a blanket with a steaming cup of tea immediately.
Instead, I extend a folded towel. “You should go get warm—change—I don’t have any clothes that would fit you, of course.”
He nods. I’m delighted to see a piece of his hair starting to curl at the end. My mind conjures up Mr. Darcy (the Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice, please) when he walks up from swimming in the lake at Pemberley. That scene marked me for life. Oh, what it could mean to see a man’s clothes soaked through by the elements.
I have to say, Graham looks even better than Colin when he and Elizabeth run into each other unexpectedly on the lawn. A few buttons of his dress shirt are open, a hint of his chest hair nestled within the makeshift V-neck. Those blue eyes are soft and tentative. Graham’s expression is taking me back to the night he told me he loved me. There are so many moments to remember that I had tucked away for a rainy day. Today feels like that day.
As I rapidly descend into fight-or-flight mode, I remember I do have something my guest might be able to wear.
“Wait!” I rush toward my washing machine and pull out a few random items from the laundry cupboard. It’s makeshift at best, but it might work.
I hold out the items as if they’re the answer to all the problems between us.
“A sweatshirt Rafe left here at Thanksgiving. I’ve never given it back, but don’t worry, Rory said I could keep it. Boston Celtics sweatpants that will be way too short in the legs and too wide in the waist, but they’re my dad's. And a t-shirt that is mine but way oversized.”
And then I hold up the prize. “And socks. They’re somewhat . . . fuzzy.”
I’m still shaking a little, the fire reminding my body how much of a chill we still need to work through.
“Are these supposed to be croissants?” Graham says incredulously.
“Oui,” I affirm, trying to hold back a laugh.
His eyes are intense. They darken before moving to my lips and just as quickly flash up again.
“You change first,” he says. The sound of the rain just outside of the walls punctuates his words. “I should probably get home, anyway.”
“You can’t!” The words fall out before I think them through.
His eyes squint like he’s gotten a new clue in a case and is ready to follow it until the end. The weather seems ready to support my protest as the lights flicker ominously. I live in an old apartment, and while we’re usually pretty safe from the fury of severe thunderstorms and snowstorms, every once in a while, the wind will be strong enough to knock out the power for a few hours.
“I don’t like storms,” I say.
“Then I’ll stay,” he replies softly.
Nodding, I rush to the bathroom. I close the door behind me and lock it, not because I’m afraid of Graham, but because my mind isn’t ready to admit how his words eased an ache in my chest.
∞∞∞
Less than an hour later, Graham and I are sitting on the couch with steaming cups of tea warming our hands. The sound of the dryer heating Graham’s freshly washed clothes is now mixing with the beat of the rain, which hasn’t lessened. As expected, the sweatpants that were still in my cupboard from the last time my father happened to be at my apartment are way too short and rest several inches above Graham’s ankles. I’m distracted by the space between the hem of the pants and the top of his foot, but I can’t seem to figure out why.
It’s weird seeing him in my shirt. Thankfully, I found one that represented my deep love for putting my frame into a t-shirt it can absolutely swim in. Oversized clothes are paying off. His light hair is almost see-through in the light of the fire. If I had a choice, I don’t know if I would reach out to touch his hair or the cozy, fuzzy socks he is wearing first. The scene is all so domestic I almost don’t recognize myself or the fact that I’m enjoying it.
I’m wrapped up in fleece-lined leggings (you don’t get through New England winters without them) and an oversized sweatshirt that says BU for Boston University. Graham’s eyes widened when I walked back into the room wearing his alma mater. I didn’t attend BU, but after I met Graham and found out he had gone there, I didn’t question my sanity for adding it to my online cart and wearing it as much as possible. My excuse is that it’s cozy. It has nothing to do with the fact that it reminds me of him. It’s unfortunate that tonight, of all nights, my other sweatshirts just happen to be in the wash. (At least, that’s what I tell him. To make it true, I threw the rest of them in the hamper so I could wear my favorite one).
My phone battery is getting low, but I pull up Liam’s social media account. Earlier, he messaged me to check out a new guest on his latest reel. Despite staring at the screen, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Graham is in an apron, his dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his hair and beard meticulously styled. He is glazing carrots in a skillet while simultaneously flipping parmesan-crusted potatoes on a sheet pan. The cat, A-cat-pella, sits on a stool next to him with a tiny chef’s hat, eyes tracking his every movement. He lets out a meow of approval, and Graham smiles in the video. He smiles .
I’m feeling warmer than I did during the heat wave last summer. I clear my throat. Graham looks over my shoulder, nerves radiating off him.
I need to do something to clear the attraction growing by the second, and I find I don’t want to.
“Well, there you have it, A-cat-pella. Dinner and a movie,” on-screen Graham says. Liam appears beside him as he tentatively sets a plate of food in front of him. The video has been edited, and Graham’s apron is now stained.
“Wait. What is on your apron?” I’m so close to laughing, but I know I can’t.
At the town meeting, I challenged Graham to insert himself into a video with Liam’s social-media-star pet. How he managed to win over A-cat-pella, Liam’s beloved cat (his name is a nod to Liam’s love for music), is beyond me. That cat has more opinions than people who choose between Jess or Dean (I’m Team Jess, always).
“Well, there was roast chicken on the menu, so I hope it’s jus.”
At this, I do laugh. Because of course Graham would use the fanciest word for a type of sauce.
“You’re hanging out with Rafe too much,” I mutter.
I am rewarded with Graham’s chuckle. The sound is so low it’s almost smoky—like dancing embers, so close to flirting with the fire. If he would let himself laugh fully, I remember it to be a beautiful thing.
Except, as the video loops again, I’m mesmerized at Graham’s chuckle when A-cat-pella first hops up beside him. And, apparently, so are the other over one hundred thousand viewers who’ve seen it, no doubt mostly women—who must be swooning at the sight of Graham in the kitchen. Liam already gets so many DMs he has had to put a disclaimer that he doesn’t read them on his profile. I’m certain he’s gotten an influx of people who want to know who Graham is. Graham has never wanted to be famous, but based on the comments, there are plenty of women who would be happy to make him their world. My stomach clenches before a spark lights. Because they don’t know him. But I do— did. Actually, no. I still do.
I like the reel and let my thumbs have at it to leave a comment, reading it aloud as I type. “Looks like A-cat-pella just got a new sous chef.”
I don’t say it out loud when I add, If you think he’s good in your kitchen, you should see him in his own.
Let’s hope Liam doesn’t check the handle too closely. I close with, “Hashtag hot men cooking.”
“You think I’m hot?”
I sputter, realizing my blunder, and silently wish that he won’t check out my full comment later. “No—I mean, maybe you were before, but . . . you’ve aged. So, you know, hot man in past tense. But that wouldn’t make a good hashtag. Besides, this comment is specifically for Gladys to track since she follows all those accounts. Not that she hasn’t seen your guest appearance already. The other day, she sent me a post featuring a shirtless man, and the message said, ‘Long-haired men are my theme for the day. ’”
Graham does laugh at this. The sound feels like the pure joy of taking a sip of hot chocolate when the whipped cream hasn’t melted yet.
“You should laugh more often,” I tease.
“You were the one I laughed the most with.” His voice is quiet, but the effect is loud.
“Stop it,” I manage, taking the last sip of my now-lukewarm tea. It has steeped too long. Though the sweet honey offsets the bitterness in my mouth, it’s still an additional reminder of what I’ve ruined.
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like I’m the sun and the moon in your world.”
He pauses, his hand gripping his mug of tea a little more tightly. “But what if you are?”
“What?” My eyes flick up to his. I see determination written into his jaw and the set of his shoulders.
“What if you are?” he repeats slowly, his voice low and deep, enunciating each word without a hint of condescension. It’s a question posed with possibility, as if perhaps a new theory of the world exists that I’ve been missing entirely. “What if you are those things to me?”
Tears burn the back of my throat. I don’t know how he can see me in this way, even after all this time. The hope that springs up almost hurts.
“I don’t know how to act in ways that are untrue to who I am,” he says matter-of-factly, as if a truly authentic human is not one of the rarest sorts of humans to exist. “So, if that’s who you are to me, that’s how I must behave. I won’t embarrass you. I won’t push you. But don’t ask me to look at you or speak to you in ways that conflict with my character.”
I nod. The words are hard to pull out of my vocal cords, like melted sugar being forced into a shape when the air is cooling all around it. “I guess I owe you that much.” I hate the quiet tone of my voice.
“You owe me nothing.” Graham returns my nod with an incline of his head. He is already standing and walking toward the kitchen with long strides.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been confronted with a more truthful moment—a moment in which I’m not allowed to contradict someone’s feelings because they are entirely their own. Before I can dig deeper into the emotion stirring within me, he’s back with a napkin full of brownie cookies.
“I found them on the counter. May I have some?”
I nod, not willing to tell him I made them for him anyway. After all, I make everything for him.
“I’m going to brew some more tea.” I stand, stretching out my hand to grab his mug for a refill. He sets it gently in my palm, and a flare of heat warms my insides. Even though I’m burning up inside because of his proximity, my hands and feet haven’t gotten the memo yet.
I’ve made it to the doorway of the kitchen when the lights flicker, and I freeze. A few seconds later, they go completely out. Instantly, I’m surrounded by darkness. In an attempt to move toward the cabinet next to the sink with the candles, my foot catches on the edge of the kitchen mat. I release a yell, feeling myself falling before I fully realize what’s happening. I try to brace myself for impact, but my hands are holding the mugs. A sharp pain shoots through my right hand as my knees hit the floor. Thankfully, I don’t hit my head.
“Lily!” Graham yells. I hear him shuffle toward me and recognize the sound of a hand brushing along the wall for guidance.
I’m moaning lightly, trying to feel where I am. There’s at least one piece of ceramic in the pad of my palm. Graham moves cautiously. He pauses, the sound of his breathing heightened in the darkness.
“I’m okay,” I moan. There’s a sharp pain in my right hand, but I don’t sense anything broken.
“Are you hurt?”
I know that I am. “A little.”
“Okay, let me help you,” he says. “I’m reaching my hand toward you. Grab it if you can so I don’t hurt you more in trying to find you.”
I hold out my left hand. The lights should power on just from the electricity that sparks between us as soon as our hands connect. I pull him a little closer as he helps me to my feet. One of his arms wraps protectively around my waist.
“Watch your feet.” My voice is breathy from the shock of his touch and the darkness all around us. “Something is broken.”
“I think the socks will protect me,” he replies dryly, a hint of humor at the edges.
The sound of the rain is a symphony. It lulls me toward him. I inhale sharply when I feel the ridge of his hip as it bumps against my own.
“Lily?”
“Yes?” I reply, not daring to move an inch until we figure out where we are in the space.
“We need to wrap your hand.” His tone is scratchy, the words caught in his throat on the way out.
“Yes, of course.” My heart races, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. I’m praying that he can’t feel my pulse jumping with the sensation of his warm fingers wrapped around my wrist.
“Stay close,” I say. I feel something inside breaking at how much I wish I could say those words to him and have them be true.
I extend my good hand—the one not wrapped up in Graham’s—and feel for the drawer near the fridge that holds my lighter. Pulling it open, I rummage around to find it. I keep shuffling along to the cabinet near the sink, reaching under to pull out the candles I’ve stored there.
The clatter of the glass on the counter and the sound of our breathing mix with the storm outside. Even though I’m now bleeding, I’m relieved not to be alone. I’m painfully aware of all the times I’ve cringed in my bed and waited for storms to pass, wishing I had someone to distract me. It’s probably the last thing people would expect of me. I’m confident in so much but terrified of storms. I think I remember mentioning my fear to Graham once.
“I can’t . . . Will you . . .?” It’s shallow, but it feels like such a small thing to ask for his help when I know all that has been shattered between us. But I feel the slick smear of blood on my palm and know we need to act quickly.
“I’ll help you,” he finishes for me. He releases me for a moment. I instantly miss his touch. I hear the click of the lighter, and then the spark of fire casts a glow across his features. He works quickly to light the candles I’ve haphazardly set on the counter. With each new light, a fresh part of his face is illuminated more clearly, and another grows darker in the shadows, accentuating the features that have been carved into my dreams.
My eyes start to burn, and I wish I could take the wasted years back. Every moment without him. The pain I’ve put him through. The pain I’ve put myself through. There’s so much regret, and I’m drowning in it. And here he is, still willing to help me see in the dark.
“I’ll need some bandages.”
“Hall closet,” I direct as he takes a candle and walks off, a tiny circle of light surrounding his every step.
He is back in a flash. Gently, Graham pulls me toward the living room, guiding me to the couch. His hands, so generous and kind, trace my palm, busily cleaning my wound. A much smaller piece of ceramic than I imagined is sticking out of my hand. Graham does his best to distract me.
Concern is etched into his furrowed brow. I really can’t focus on my hand, as afraid of blood as I am. (I have several phobias, clearly.) I do my best to direct my attention to the man in front of me. Shamelessly, I take him in, mesmerized by the boldness of his features, the grace in his movements, and the riveted way he gives me his attention, masterfully taking care of me in the process.
My eyes fill up against my will. It is only when I feel the pads of his fingers tracing the edge of my hand to tuck in the end of the bandage he’s applied that I allow a tear to fall. I hope he doesn’t catch sight of my emotion this time.
“I don’t think it needs stitches,” Graham says softly. The richness of his voice creates a canopy of safety and want between my ribs. “It’s wider than it is deep.”
“That’s . . . good.” I work to keep my voice steady.
He nods, not breaking our connection yet. Before I can process what’s happening, Graham’s hand gently cups my face. He wipes the one tear that escaped. A few moments later, the edge of his thumb leaves a trail of heat as he stands and moves toward the fireplace, preparing to stoke the fire for us both.