Chapter 11
?
I’ve gotta be better for this perfect woman.
Lukas
Every time I catch a glimpse of my name on Clara’s skin, I want to convince her to be more than friends. But I’ve already decided that a request like that is not my move to make. If she ever wants me in that way, I’m here. On my knees. Pleading.
And, if she doesn’t, I’m still here, on my knees, pleading.
Even if I’m actually standing beside her, arranging her special charcuterie plate, and only subtly filling it with tiny hearts to convey my blazing desire for her.
Okay, fine.
I’m not being subtle at all. But it’s not my fault she brought out the little cutters I picked for her when we were at the homegoods store and they’re all tiny hearts and flowers. I am innocently using the tools provided. I am practicing restraint and inhibiting my selfish whims. I am…
Oh, who am I kidding?
I’m hopeless.
“Clara.”
My angelic friend stops her merry humming to look up at me, pretty blue eyes all a-sparkle with joy.
I lift a freshly-cut little cheddar heart. “Open up. I want to make sure you like this before I fill your plate with it.”
Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t even hesitate before torturing me. “Please.”
As I press the morsel to her lips—literally feeding her my love—I know this is disastrous. Impossible. I am ruined. Done for. When she kisses my fingertip before she starts chewing, I know I could be smote right now yet perish gleefully.
This is bliss.
And, I guess, it’s also terror.
Because who knows whether or not anyone—least of all her—can love me as much as my demented brain needs with how utterly demented I am?
Falling for her has become physical. I’m stuck in the rush as I plummet.
And while I hate myself for the initial motivations behind my interest in her, I find relief every single time she does something with confidence that strikes me deeper than mere submission ever could.
Every time she proves that she feels safe enough to be herself instead of the shadow she was raised to be, I fall somehow harder.
I just…really like her.
And I do mean her. Not the ghost.
And that’s reassuring in a lot of ways.
Smiling down at the plate I’m making, I design a little heart garden broken by bites of chocolate and homemade bread.
She made three loaves today, just for tonight, on top of a small selection of crackers.
And when one of those cracker batches turned up less-than-edible?
She found me in my room working on a song, sniffled, and plunged herself into my arms, begging me to tell her it was okay, I wasn’t mad, and mistakes happen.
Mercy, I cooed reassurances for ten straight minutes and pretended that I wasn’t losing my mind with ecstasy.
I am not well.
I am very, very not well.
It’s fine, though. Because, again, I could die right now, life fulfilled.
“King.”
I turn, like a summoned dog, toward my darling Clara. She’s holding up a little cheese flower, and, “Please,” slips out of my mouth before I compute what’s happening.
After she feeds me, I’m too stunned to kiss her finger, but that’s understandable, because I am also too stunned to breathe, or chew, or…anything. When I’ve finally collected myself, she’s finished the main charcuterie platters and is bringing them to the table.
Standing there, overlooking her work, she wipes her hands off on her apron as though the action isn’t devastatingly beautiful, then she pulls her hair together, leaving her hands clasped around the locks at the base of her neck, elbows jutting forward, resting atop her breasts.
Casually stunning, she shifts her attention to me.
“I think it’s time to call everyone.” She releases her hair, and it flutters around the nape of her neck. “Are you ready to eat?”
I look down at my masterpiece—all Clara’s favorites of what we bought, collected in patches of as many hearts as would fit on the plate. “Yes. I am done.” For. Done for. I am done for. Completely and utterly.
“’Kay,” she chirps, heading toward the dinner bell that rings to the main corners of the house.
Just weeks ago, she didn’t feel comfortable summoning everyone to meals. Now, she’s humming while she does it.
Confidence looks so beautiful on her.
I wish she’d give my heart a break and look less beautiful, perhaps for just five minutes.
Ten seconds?
At least long enough to fill my lungs once…
Alas.
There she is.
Her.
“Tiny sandwiches,” Kyran murmurs as he comes, yawning, to the table. “Score.”
Clara giggles, and I want to assault my brother for making her laugh.
That’s an honor for me only, thanks. It’s bad enough she makes him personal sandwiches basically every day.
Frowning, I seat myself in my usual spot at the table, remember that my plate is special, and find a majestic array of meat roses amid cheese flowers.
It’s lovely. Delicate. Carefully assembled. And also…floral. Not a single heart.
The sound of my heart breaking accompanies other chairs scooting in, compliments about how lovely it all looks, Clara’s giggles and soft thank you’s to people who are not me.
Lifting my attention, I find hearts on the main platters. Hearts on Kaleb’s plate as he fills it. A heart at Viktor’s lips.
My eye twitches.
Okay, I’ll admit it.
It’s a disease at this point. I cannot be this jealous for no good reason.
My plate is glorious, and her precious hands put it together just for me.
Yet I have the audacity to want more? I know wanting more is an affliction that has plagued me for decades, but let’s exercise some gratitude, maybe, hm?
Just a little bit of gratitude for my beautiful girl.
Who is, must I remind myself, not actually mine.
If Clara ever wants more of me, I need to train myself not to destroy either of us by demanding more than is ever going to be possible.
My flowers need to be enough, because everything Clara is must be enough.
She needs to be enough for me. Because I want her to be.
So badly. I want her to be enough for me.
I just suppose I didn’t realize how desperately I wanted all of her down to the marrow of her bones.
Lifting a tiny flower, I fight for zen—then I freeze and stare at the little heart in my plate, beneath the flowers, tucked away, secretly.
The pathetic heart in my chest soars as I uncover more little cheese hearts hidden beneath my flower field. There’s a tiny ocean of them amid crackers and pieces of bread and meat arrangements, stowed away like gems.
Leaning into my shoulder, Clara whispers, “Do you like it?”
I tilt down to kiss her head. “Yes. I love it.”
Palpable joy surges off her, and she remains nestled against my side as she eats.
Around us, my family does their own thing, existing in this warmth that we’ve all reclaimed after our childhood of horrors.
While Kyran builds tiny sandwiches out of the arrangements, Morana mutters, “You are a disgrace.”
He mutters back, “Let me live,” before murmuring, “Do you want one?”
Inconspicuously, she nudges her plate an inch toward his.
Across from Clara and me, Crimson is discussing business with Viktor. Per usual, Maelin and Zakery remain in their own little honeymoon world further down that side of the table. Crisis is Crisis. Kaleb is Kaleb.
And Clara and I are almost, but not quite, us.
Smiling, I find another little heart and wonder if it’s possible for all this love in the air to somehow fix the absence of it I feel inside.