Chapter 9
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Respect tastes funny. I like it.
Clara
A thousand things tumble through my mind, interrupting my pounding heart and eager perusal of the romance shelves at Sunny Pages. I want everything. But I don’t really. Some of these books I actually, deeply, do not want.
Many of these books, rather.
Because many of these books…are hockey.
Hockey. A scourge on the land, a trend that refuses to perish, the bane of my existence, probably.
My nose scrunches when the hockey, which was not apparent on the cover, becomes apparent in the blurb, and I return the brightly-colored romcom to its place. How dare they be sneaking such things into my literature without clearly labeling it? It’s like smut in YA!
The outrage.
The humanity.
Okay, maybe those aren’t perfectly comparable things, but it’s still wrong.
And I’m probably taking too long picking my books. Lukas is probably fed up with me. I’ve yet to decide on anything. Wincing, I bite my cheek and turn toward…a stack of books…in Lukas’s arms.
“Are you grabbing everything I look at?” I breathe.
Peering over the stack at me, Lukas tilts his head. “No?”
I look between him, and the mountain of books. “Are you…sure?”
“Positive. I’m grabbing everything that doesn’t make your nose scrunch in disgust.” He chuckles. “While we’re on the topic of cute nose scrunchies, what in the world did hockey ever do to you?”
Gave me unrealistic expectations for a found family of teammates who actually play like they’re on the same team—and also gave me way too many nasty stick and puck innuendos.
“Nothing.” I lock my hands behind my back and tilt to look at the titles on the book spines.
Lukas’s probably holding no less than three hundred dollars worth of romcom paperbacks.
The bright rainbow is glorious. I’ve been starved for fluff these past weeks.
My poor, whimsical heart has suffered beneath the cruel rule of fantasy far too long.
I cannot stomach another “main character” dying in the first five chapters, only to have them open as a “reborn guardian entity” in the sequel.
I should make a little reading schedule and keep track.
I might need more stickers for that, though.
My yay not molested calendar has been eating my bunnies.
Twenty days, one confusing may I kiss you that ended notably without a kiss, two friendly hugs, and not a single assault. Many, many happy hoppy little bunnies.
Warmth spreads inside me, and I peer toward the section of the store selling book-adjacent products. Finding stationary and accompanying decorations on those shelves, I look up at Lukas. “May I get some stickers, please?”
He whispers a curse. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.” Please is such a secret weapon.
I wish it were this easy to satiate my family’s “attention cravings.” It would be so simple to be respectful and polite if the rules were kindergarten effortless.
Say please and thank you and, also, you’re allowed to ask questions, because that’s how we learn.
After crying in the car just minutes ago, I would have expected to feel heavier and more exhausted right now, but instead I’m lighter than I’ve ever been.
I have a friend.
A friend who communicates—the good, the bad, the ugly—with me.
A friend who listens when I talk about books, and who helps me in the kitchen, and who doesn’t make me feel useless.
Everything is so bright here.
I’m happy. I’m excited. I feel like maybe I’m allowed to be.
For the first time in my life, I’m smiling without fear that someone is going to get mad at me for looking too joyful.
“They have the bunnies,” I say, showing Lukas the little fuzzy rabbit stickers he got at the other store for me before. I’m so glad I don’t have to start with different ones for my calendar.
Shouldering the load of my books in one hand, he lifts the sticker page. “You like the bunnies?”
“They’re cute.”
“You should get them all.”
I look back at the sticker sheets hanging on the rotating display in front of us.
“I’m not sure I need that many bunnies.” One day, I hope soonish, I won’t need to keep track of my days without incident at all.
I’ll just know that there won’t be any incidents, and it’ll be peaceful.
“Ooh. Frogs.” There’s a sticker of a frog in a little soup pot.
October is upon us, winter will be coming eventually, bringing with it some chill.
I should start looking up soup and stew recipes, so I can use this little frog in a pot sticker.
Pot sticker.
I should absolutely make pot stickers for dinner sometime this week, too. “Do we have pork?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. We probably need to go shopping again.” A mischievous glint shines in his eyes as he scoots closer to me. “Whatcha thinking of making me, cupcake?”
Conspiratory friendships are my favorites in books, so I meet him in the middle. “Pot stickers.”
“Kaleb will love that. He adores Asian cuisine,” he whispers, reminding me that this is a man who cares a whole lot about other people in his life, even though he’s addicted to attention and struggles with an inflated sense of self.
He still pays attention to other people, too. And it’s painfully sweet.
I say, “I’ll have to make sure he’s going to be home when I make them.”
Lukas nods. “Can I help?”
“Of course.”
Beaming, he kisses my nose, then straightens up to the grand tall height of him. “It’s settled, then. We’ll go grocery shopping after this.”
I look at the stack of books in his arms, grateful that he works out, because—yikes—I think it’s half my height. “So we’ll go now?”
“I don’t think we’ve been in the bookstore long enough yet.”
“Is there something you want to look at?”
He lifts the book stack. “No, but this barely fills one shelf. You’ll have nothing to read in a week. You might not survive.”
This will take me a month. I’ll most assuredly…survive…
My attention catches on a book that is not hockey sitting prettily on the other side of the store. I chew my lip. “Okay… Fine. You’ve convinced me. Five more minutes.”
Two hours later, Lukas and I are meandering through the grocery store while I look up recipes on my phone and bumble about, still riding a high I can’t seem to shake. I feel positively manic.
“Do you think we should have a charcuterie night?” I ask.
Lukas, resting against the cart, plays with strands of my hair. “That’s not how I like you to say things.”
“Please can we have a charcuterie night?” I amend.
He kisses my hair. “I love meat and cheese. Are you going to make little roses?”
“If you’d like, I can make your plate very, very special. A personal charcuterie board. Just for you.”
He swears, “—yes, I would love that.” A feral glint streaks through his eyes as he lets my hair slip from his fingers.
I think I’ve figured him out. And it’s easy. So painfully easy. Because it is so, painfully, returned. In equal strides. With open kindness. He’s so considerate and aware and gentle.
“Can I make your plate special, too?” he asks, thrill in his voice as he immediately proves the equality of our odd relationship. “I’ll learn the pretty things. Give you a selection of flowers.”
Excitement rises in me like a tide. “We can learn each other’s favorite cheeses.”
“And fruits.”
“Can we add chocolate?”
Beastly, he growls, “I love chocolate.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bursts free, and I can’t temper the way the resulting craze that grips him affects me. I’m abuzz, aflutter, alive.
Sweeping me into his arms, he kisses the top of my head. “I love your laugh. Your voice is so pretty, Clara. It’s perfect.”
It’s been called annoying more times than I care to remember. Flushed, I say, “Thank you, King.”
He kisses the top of my head again. “You’re spoiling me. Keep it up.”
This is nice.
It is striking how little Lukas has made me uncomfortable since those first few nights, when I had no idea what was going on. There’s no question that he’s insane, but I’m beginning to think he’s still safe regardless.
When he asked me to identify anything he’d done that had made me uncomfortable so he could stop, the only things I remembered were him looking at my recipe book and the rest of that second night together.
I was not going to mention the rest of that night, since nothing happened, and I felt stupid for even thinking it was a problem since nothing happened, but the way he responded to the recipe book? When it was also stupid? And didn’t matter either?
That was wonderful. Peaceful. Warm.
I said, This thing bothers me, and he accepted that.
He didn’t say, Well, you look through the books in the library as though there’s anything comparable in such a statement.
He just said, Yes, valid, I’ll fix that.
I do not want to hurt you.
You’re important to me.
He doesn’t want to hurt me; he wants to make me special charcuterie plates and kiss my head and take me to bookstores. And all I have to do in return is give him a little attention. Which is so simple it’s stupid.
This is effortless. So…so…effortless.
He makes being kind to me seem effortless. As natural as breathing.
I know when the sun sets and I’m alone with my thoughts, today will feel darker. I’ll mull over everything that’s happened. I’ll have regrets and fears. And I’ll probably even cry myself to sleep.
But for now? In this moment? I have a friend. And everything is fine.