Marshall
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I wanted our date to be perfect. I had spent two days thinking about it and was putting so much pressure on myself you'd of thought I'd never taken a woman anywhere before.
Dinner was an obvious choice, but that felt a little lazy to me.
I wanted something to impress her, something she'd notice.
After talking to her over the past few weeks, I knew what made her light up; she loved creative things.
She liked to work with her hands and loved building things from raw materials.
So, with the help of Jeremy and Aiden, I booked us a cooking class.
It was a small place in the south end of Boston, tucked between a bookstore and an upscale wine bar.
The chef who ran it, Paulo had worked in restaurants all across Mexico before settling here in Boston.
I booked us a private session for the two of us, learning to make guacamole and tacos from scratch.
I knocked on her door at half past five on Friday night and shoved my hands in my pockets while I waited for her to answer. I was nervous, which was mind-blowing to me after the fact that we'd already slept together.
She opened the door and smiled when she saw me. She wore jeans and a fitted black top, her hair was down, falling past her shoulders in loose waves, and the makeup she wore was so light it was barely there. I caught the scent of vanilla as she stepped out onto the porch and locked the door.
"Where are we going?" She asked as she climbed up into my truck.
"You'll see. It's a surprise." I said, getting into the driver's seat.
"Marshall, I'm not a huge fan of surprises."
I looked over at her, and placed my hand on top of hers. "Please trust me, you will love this one."
She looked at me and settled back into her seat, her hand resting comfortably on top of mine.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" She said, as we started our drive through Boston.
"No, that would ruin it."
"Even if I ask nicely?"
"No, not even then." I said.
"Fine, but if it's one of those paint and sip things, I am walking home. Mila tried to get me to do one once, it was disastrous." She said, squeezing my hand.
I laughed. "Alright, I will ease your mind. It's not a paint and sip."
"Good, because I cannot paint. My picture of the sunset looked like a crime scene."
We both laughed as I continued driving through the city, pulling up in front of the cooking studio and parking the car.
When we walked in, surprise washed over her face.
She looked at the kitchen, taking in the countertops, the pots hanging from the rack above the island, the ingredients laid out in small bowls.
Paulo greeted us with a wave, and Lillah turned to me with an expression that had made planning this evening worth it.
"A cooking class?"
"Yep, Mexican food from scratch. Unless you'd rather have dinner in some restaurant." I said, placing my hand on the small of her back.
"Are you kidding?" She asked, looking around the kitchen again, taking in everything. "This is perfect."
It was perfect for about ten minutes, which is when both of us started showing our competitive sides.
Paulo had us working side by side, each making our own batch of tortilla dough.
It was simple, all we needed to do was mix corn flour with water.
Mix it and then break it up and roll it into balls and let them rest until we were ready to press them.
First, he showed, and then he stepped back, waiting for both of us to try.
I glanced over at her dough and noticed hers had come together much better than mine. Hers was smooth while mine was dry and crumbling.
"How is yours so smooth and together already?" I asked, looking down at the dry, crumbling mess in my bowl.
She glanced over at my dough and then up at me, and smirked. "Are you threatened by my tortilla dough?"
"No. I'm noticing how yours looks better than mine and I want to know how." I said. "I did what I was supposed to do."
"Well, I used the recommended amounts of water and flour. I see that you still have water left. Give the flour a drink, puck boy."
"Puck boy?"
Marco laughed. "Listen to the lady. The flour needs a drink."
"See?" Lillah said, bumping her hip against mine. "Give the flour a drink."
When it came time to press our tortillas, Lillah's tortilla came out better than any of mine. None of hers got stuck or cracked, like mine.
"Say it," I said, glancing at her as I pressed the last one.
"What? I wasn't going to say anything." She said, covering her mouth as she laughed when my last tortilla got stuck.
"Maybe you weren't, but I know you're thinking it."
"I'm thinking your tortillas have character." She burst out laughing the moment she finished, her whole face lighting up. "So much character."
I picked up one of my tortillas and tossed it at her, which only made her laugh harder.
She threw it back at me, aiming it right for my chest. I ducked, but I wasn't fast enough, and it hit me right in the neck.
"Hey you two, please don't destroy my kitchen." Paulo laughed.
"Truce?" I said, holding up the now broken tortilla.
She placed her hand on mine and smiled. "Truce."
Once we'd made the guacamole and the tacos were done, Paulo went into the back to clean up the dishes, leaving the two of us at a table out front to enjoy the meal we'd made.
Lillah sat across from me and we both dove into the dishes.
As I watched her take a bite, I realized tonight had been the best date I'd ever been on.
The kind of date that would make a good story at a party, and best of all it was the two of us, being ourselves.
She was laughing and had let her guard down, and she was looking at me like I was the only person in the room.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't thinking about hockey.
"Tell me about your family." I asked.
She took a bite of her taco after adding more guacamole. "Well, I'm an only child and grew up in a small house on the east side of Texas. I lived with my mom, my father left when I was seven."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"No, don't be. My mom worked hard, two jobs, and she gave me everything I needed and more.
She taught during the day and served three nights a week in a small diner close to our house.
I learned a lot from her about strength and what it takes to get what you want and need.
With her working so much, I spent a lot of time with my grandmother. "
"Is your mom still there?"
"She is. She teaches elementary school full-time now. Sixth grade. She loves it. I keep telling her she needs to retire, but it keeps her busy and, as I say, she loves what she does. She was the one who told me I could do anything I put my mind to. Even when everything was telling me I couldn't."
"She sounds amazing." I said.
"She is."
"Do you see her often?"
"Unfortunately no. Once I left, I vowed not to go back. So, I am hoping my mom may come up for Christmas or maybe next summer."
"How come you won't go back?" I questioned.
She looked at me, uncertainty in her eyes, but I set my fork down and waited for her to answer.
"You were right. I came to Boston because I was running from something. I dated a baseball player for three years." She said. "Brett, he played for the Rangers."
His name landed between us like a stone. I watched as her shoulders pulled back slightly and her eyes focused on one spot on the table, bracing herself.
"He wasn't a good guy."
Her voice was steady and controlled, like she'd rehearsed this enough times that the words came out stripped of emotion. She sat with her hands on the table, completely still.
"Lillah, you don't need to say anymore." I said, but she shook her head.
"It's okay. It started small. Little comments about what I wore.
He'd mention how short my dress was, or ask why I needed to wear so much makeup.
He always wanted to know who I was trying to impress.
Then he would wonder who I'd spend time with and where I went when he wasn't around.
He wanted to know every little thing. At first, I thought it was because he cared, and it took me over a year to understand that caring and control aren't the same.
My jaw tightened. I could feel anger building in my chest at where this was going.
"He often told me that interior design wasn't an actual job and that I'd never amount to anything on my own. He told me I was only good for looking pretty at events and keeping my mouth shut when his teammates and their wives talked about things that I wasn't smart enough to understand."
I watched as she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her chest rising and falling quickly before continuing.
"Soon, I believed him. I think that is the part that makes me angry. Not what he said or the things he did, but that I believed him. For three years, I allowed a man who couldn't hang a picture frame tell me I wasn't talented enough to design homes and businesses."
I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. Her fingers were cold and I was glad she didn't pull away.
"The night he put his hands around my throat was the night I left."
The room went still. Even the noise from the back kitchen where Paulo was cleaning up went quiet. She looked at me, her eyes clear, not teary like I'd imagined they should be. She had told this story before, and she'd told it enough times that she no longer shed tears.
"Lillah." I gripped her hand in mine. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
"It's in the past. I'm mostly past it. Some days are better than others. Most days I wake up feeling strong and ready to take on the world. Other days I flinch when someone raises a hand too quickly. It's probably the one thing I hate about myself."
"Don't hate yourself for that. These things take time to get over."
"I am working on it, one day at a time."
We were both quiet for a moment.
"That will never happen with me." I said.
I wanted her to know that. I wanted her to know she was safe with me.
"I would never, not in a million years, ever raise my hand to you. Nor would I ever try to control you. I want you to know that."
She laced her fingers with mine.
"I know. I think I knew the morning you made me coffee and didn't ask for something in return.
You are nothing like him. But the fear is still there, and I need you to understand and be patient with that.
I need you to know that when I pull away or get quiet, or react to something that doesn't seem like a big deal, it's probably not even about you. It is about what came before you."
"I can do that." I said.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I want you to know that your safety isn't something you need to fight for with me."
As we sat there looking at one another, she squeezed my hand and smiled.
That was when things between us stopped being new and started being real.
We finished dinner, talked about lighter things like her project and my upcoming road trips.
Soon we'd emptied the bottle of wine, and the heaviness from our earlier conversation had lifted.
I hoped she knew it was something she could always share with me because I never wanted her to feel like she was dealing with these things alone.
The streets were quiet as we drove home. She sat in the passenger seat with her head tilted against the headrest, looking at me, a softness on her face that I wanted to hold in my memory.
When we got to her front door, I leaned in and kissed her, slow and soft, my hands resting on her hips as hers rested on my chest.
"Thank you for tonight. For listening and not running away."
"Why would I run?" I asked, brushing her hair off her face.
"Because of the baggage I carry and because dating me comes with an entire set of complications most twenty-three-year-old guys would run screaming from."
"I'm not most guys, Lillah."
"No," she said, her thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "You're not."
She pressed her lips against mine.
"Goodnight," she whispered and headed inside, closing the door behind her.
I stood there, letting what she'd told me settle inside me. A man had hurt her, controlled her, broke her, then wrapped his hands around her throat. She'd left and rebuilt herself.
I made my way home, unlocked my door and went into the kitchen.
I placed my hands down on the marble counter of the island and stood there thinking about what she'd told me.
I promised myself that I'd never give her a reason to be afraid of me.
Not once, not ever. And I promised myself if I ever laid my eyes on him I wouldn't act on the anger I felt inside me.