Chapter 5 #2
“I may never smile again.” But I feel it tugging on the edges of my lips.
He sees it. Of course he does. I don’t think anything escapes August. His eyes narrow, his own lips quirking. “You so want to, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” God, that voice, all deep, teasing, coaxing. “Come on, Penelope. Smile for me.”
I bite my lip, try to hold it in. It’s nearly impossible. What with August grinning at me that way.
“I see it trying to break free,” he says, laughing now. “Give in, Penelope. For me? Just one little smile.”
It’s a struggle. I give my head a quick shake.
He holds up his fingers in a small pinching motion. “One itty-bitty smile? Just for me?”
Then he waggles his brows.
I’m lost.
A smile breaks free, wide and uncontrollable.
“There it is.” Satisfaction warms his tone as his gaze moves over me. “Like sunlight on water.”
If I hadn’t already been sitting down, I might have stumbled. As it is, my breath hitches in a little hiccup of pleasured surprise, and the wide smile pulling at my mouth gives way to parted lips unable to draw a breath.
August’s answering smile fades as well, a slow setting sun as his brows draw together.
I have seen his eyes countless times, but until this moment, I’ve never truly looked into them.
Striations of the palest frost mix and swirl with summer blue.
It’s like staring at the cross section of a blue lace agate stone.
Against his dark lashes and slashing brows, the effect is startling.
And though I’ve often thought of August having icy eyes, they aren’t cold now.
No, not cold at all. Not when they send heat washing over me. Not when I feel myself softening, going pliable as warm wax. It dawns on me how close we are to each other—him half crouched on the floor, me half sprawled on the pillows and leaning his way.
Awareness has me pulling back, breaking the moment. His easy manner becomes stiff as he retreats into himself as well. Silence follows, heavy and awkward. I look around, searching for something to say.
“Where is everyone else?”
August rises to his feet. “They left when the movie ended. I said I’d wake you up.”
Why him? Why not June or May?
My questions must show.
“I volunteered,” he says. “After all, you promised me you wouldn’t fall asleep. How could I not be here for the ‘I told you so’?”
Wrinkling my nose, I haul myself up with all the grace I can muster, which is to say none. My shirt is twisted around my torso like a green snake. I pull it into place as August stands back to give me room.
“I think your mother drugged the potatoes.”
He nods like it’s an entirely reasonable accusation. “Only one problem with that, Sweets. We all ate the potatoes.”
“That’s true— ‘Sweets’? I am not sweet.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that.” He bites his bottom lip. “But you look it.”
“Listen—” I’m cut off by a loud, insistent stomach gurgle. The kind that demands: Feed me!
August and I blink at each other, then he grimaces. “Sorry. I need constant refueling.”
I can only thank the gods that it wasn’t my stomach yelling at the room. “You didn’t eat much at dinner,” I say, and realize it’s the truth. August had picked at his food when he usually packs it in like his stomach is going on vacation.
His easy expression blanks. “Better make up for that now. You want to join me for a sandwich?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to decline, but it hits me that I’m hungry too. Because I hadn’t eaten much at dinner either. “Okay.”
He hides his surprise quickly, but I still see it.
August inclines his head toward the kitchen and then leads the way.
The house feels bigger in the quiet of the night, the old wood floors creaking underfoot.
The kitchen, however, is warm and cozy, with its creamy Shaker cabinets and brushed steel appliances.
Someone left the under-cabinet lights on and they glow upon the walnut wood countertops.
“All right, then,” he says, all business now. “How hungry are you?”
“I could eat an average-size sandwich, but nothing like the massive ones you guys tackle.”
“Okay. One regular sandwich and one tiny sandwich coming up.” He rubs his hands together, then pauses. “You trust me to make you something good?”
“Sure. Do you want help?”
“Nah. Relax, and I’ll get you fed.”
I take a seat at the wide island counter and watch August pull supplies out of the fridge before heading to the bread box.
He moves with the grace and confidence of the professional athlete that he is, deftly cutting two soft onion rolls in half and slathering them with Thousand Island dressing.
Next comes thinly shaved roast beef—piled like a mountain on one and hill on the other—and then slices of white cheddar. I rest my chin on my hand and watch.
“I had no idea you could cook,” I tell him.
“Making a sandwich is more an exercise in architecture and creativity.” He grabs a large carrot and begins to grate it onto a plate.
“But Mom made sure we could all do the basics.” August looks up at me from under the mop of hair that has fallen over his brow.
“You won’t starve when you’re with me, Sweets. ”
“Keep calling me that, and I’m going to come up with an equally ridiculous nickname for you.”
“You say that like it’s a threat.”
“It was.”
“Not to me.” With flourish, August piles the grated carrot onto the sandwich and adds a dab of chili crisp oil. He grabs another jar but stops. “Pickles?”
“No thank you.” My nose wrinkles. “I’ve tried multiple times to like pickles because they look delicious, you know with that snap crunch sound they make when you eat them? But they’ve never grown on me. They’re too overpoweringly sour.”
“Maybe you haven’t found the right one.”
“At this point, I don’t think I ever will.”
“I get it.” He adds a couple of slices of pickle on his, and then puts the tops on the sandwiches before deftly cutting each one in half. “I’m the same with olives. People pop them in their mouths like candy but, blech. No. Horrible.” He shudders.
Laughing, I hop off the stool and head for the fridge. “What do you want to drink?”
“I think there’s some lemonade.”
I pour us each a glass, and we meet in the middle, setting our late-night meal on the counter. Sitting side by side, we’re silent as we take our first bites. I close my eyes and enjoy before looking over at him. He’s turned my way, clearly waiting on a verdict.
“You make a mean sandwich, Pickle.”
He huffs a breath. “Pickle? Harsh, Sweets. Harsh.”
“Why’s that?”
“You just told me you didn’t like pickles.” He takes a huge bite and chews while giving me the stink eye.
“But it sounds cute, doesn’t it? And it’s not as though I’m going to be eating you—” I cringe, blushing hot. “Oh, stop. No, that was too easy.”
August’s chuckle is warm and smooth. “Amateur hour. Don’t worry, Sweets, I’m not gonna tease you for being easy.”
I pick up my sandwich half again. “I see what you did there.”
“I always knew you were a quick learner.”
“Did you?”
He pauses midway from taking another bite. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I dab at a little crumb that’s fallen on the counter. “Like what?”
“Like I have two heads.”
“Well . . .”
August chokes on his bite, then thumps his chest as he laughs. Cheeks ruddy, he looks over at me in shock. “They have no idea what a little devil you are, do they?”
I’m not sure who “they” are but it doesn’t matter. Few people see that side of me. I suspect that’s my fault; I hide away as much as I can. It’s a reflex now, something I mentally have to fight against. But the fact that August knows it is unsettling.
I take a sip of lemonade. “You’re different tonight. That’s why I was looking at you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know . . . teasing, funny. More like March—” As soon as the words leave me, I know they’re a mistake. The problem with words spoken is that they can’t be taken back.
“Like March.” August studies his sandwich. “I guess that’s true.”
“I only meant that you’re usually stiff and reserved with me.”
“And March isn’t,” he adds with an absent nod.
I feel terrible. Because it clearly insulted him to be compared to his brother this way. I don’t know how to fix my flub.
The cozy air of the kitchen chills and thickens with awkwardness. I miss how it was before, eating and joking in the dark of night. I miss it so much I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“You usually make me nervous is all I meant.”
August bolts straight on his stool. “I’m sorry? I make you nervous?” Brows high, he rubs a hand over his mouth.
“What are you muttering about?”
“I’m working through a moment of irony is all.”
“Okay . . .”
A long finger points at me as his brows lower. “You haven’t had a nervous moment since you got here.”
“I’m having an off night.”
“Welcome to the club.” He lifts his glass in cheers.
I want to reciprocate, but my shoulders slump. I’m needling him because I’m edgy and it isn’t his fault. “I’m sorry.”
August waves a hand as if to bat the apology away. “It is what it is—I can’t believe I make you nervous!”
Oh, the irony. His outrage is cute, though.
I sip my drink before continuing. “You can get . . . broody.”
His broody expression appears as if on cue. “I’m thoughtful, not broody.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
My smile threatens to break free. We sit in silence for a moment, August brooding and eating his sandwich as I toy with a piece of mine. I like it here with him in this kitchen I’ve known forever.
In the far corner on the counter sits Mr. Cocky, an old, chipped, ceramic rooster that often holds cookies. School pictures of the Luck kids cover the double wide stainless steel fridge in a checkerboard pattern of gap-toothed smiles, bad haircuts, and questionable fashion choices.
Someday, August will bring his kids into this room and they’ll see his growing years. Or maybe space will be cleared for their pictures. Whatever the case, his story will continue here.