Chapter Thirty-Five
Parker
I wake to cool sheets next to me and the delicious scent of bacon wafting in from the kitchen.
Getting up feels…rude. He planned breakfast in bed, and I don’t want to take that away from him. So, I stretch, arms overhead, toes pointed, then flexed, reveling in the delicious soreness of the rather enthusiastic sex we had—twice—last night.
A cabinet door opens and closes. A pan slides against the burner. A single, muttered word I can’t quite make out, but with the distinct tenor of a curse.
Only a few minutes later, he nudges the cracked bedroom door open, a tray balanced against his hip. Two steaming mugs of coffee, two plates, silverware, napkins—
Wait…
I sit up, scooting back against the headboard. “Eliot, I don’t own a tray.”
His cheeks flush red. “I stopped at the Dollar Mart on the way here. Figured if you had one, I wasn’t out much. And if you didn’t… I went down to my truck to grab it before I started cookin’.”
“You bought…a tray.”
“No one wants bacon grease on their sheets. Or worse. Coffee spillin’ onto the mattress.
One of the rookies dumped a whole mug in one of the bunks at the firehouse his first week.
We blasted the damn thing with the hose five times before our captain told us to throw the mattress in the trash and buy a new one.
” Eliot smiles, a low, relaxed huff escaping his lips.
“The rookie had to use a sleeping bag on the floor for a month.”
He sets the tray next to me, then reaches for the collar of his shirt. It’s the same one he wore last night, half buttoned and off center, sleeves shoved past his elbows. After he works it open, he stops and stares somewhere just above my shoulder. “I…you mind me takin’ this off?”
“No. Why would I?” Cupping the mug in both hands, I inhale the rich scent of coffee, and it hits me.
“Eliot, your scars don’t bother me. If you want a t-shirt, I have a couple extra-large ones I wore at Recruit school.
I went through trainin’ in the middle of winter, and I layered them over thermals. ”
“Anything against the grafts is…irritating.” He tosses the shirt onto my cedar chest, slides into bed—careful not to jostle the tray—and props a pillow behind his back.
Oh.
“I like you mostly naked.” To prove my point, I lean over and press a kiss to his shoulder, then focus on the plates. Bacon, poached eggs over slices of last night’s bread, and… “You made hollandaise sauce? Without a double boiler. Before I woke up.”
“It ain’t that hard. You just can’t let it get too hot or it breaks. People think it’s magic or some sort of miracle. It’s eggs and butter and payin’ attention.”
I cut into the egg, the yolk running the second the knife hits it.
The first bite is heaven. Bright and rich and buttery.
And if I keep eating like this, I’m going to have to start getting up a hell of a lot earlier for longer runs.
“God. This is amazing,” I manage around one perfect forkful.
“I love cooking, but breakfast never felt worth the effort. I was wrong. So wrong.”
We clean our plates in relative silence broken only by the scrape of a fork or a slurp of coffee. I note—with more than a little relief—that Eliot found the hemp milk in my fridge.
“So, what do you usually do on Sundays?” he asks, setting his dish back on the tray next to mine.
“There’s a farmers market a few blocks from here, down at the park.
If we’re not workin’ overtime, I’ll get as much as I can there, then hit up the grocery store for the rest. I spend the afternoon cookin’ for the week.
” I watch him over the rim of my mug, gauging whether this was a “get to know you” question or if he wants to extend our date a little longer.
I know which one I want, and it doesn’t involve him leaving any time soon.
“Sounds nice.” There’s a hint of longing in his tone, and I have my answer.
Leaning close enough to nudge his shoulder with mine, I ask, “You want to join me?”
“Wandering produce stalls and buying tomatoes?”
“Yup. You might get roped into carryin’ a bag too. Fair warning.” I grin. “Hope that’s not a deal breaker.”
“I’d love to.” He cups my cheek, the briefest of kisses warming my lips before he carries the tray back out to the kitchen.
No one’s ever asked to be a part of my life like this before. The few times my relationships have lasted long enough to matter, the guys all expected me to work myself into their lives. Not the other way around.
But Eliot bought a tray so he could cook me breakfast in bed. He planned for me instead of around me. And I’m not entirely sure what to do with that.
The breakfast dishes are done, we showered—an activity that took much longer together than alone since we couldn’t keep our hands off one another—and I pull on a pair of peach shorts and a floral tank while Eliot zips up his Wranglers. But he takes one look at his shirt and grimaces.
I pull my hair into a high ponytail, waiting to see if he’ll tell me why he’s making that face. Jumping right into fix-it mode again won’t help either of us.
After another long moment, he lets out a heavy sigh. “This is a new shirt. I cut out the tags, washed it three times, but the seams…” He shakes his head. “If I wear this out in the heat for a few hours, I’ll be in a world of hurt.”
I cross to him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and tip my head back to hold his gaze. “You’re welcome to one of my t-shirts. Or…I could give you the one I wore home Friday morning.”
That startles him. “You took my t-shirt?”
Embarrassment crawls up the back of my neck, white hot and bright enough I’m sure Eliot can see it. “I was wearing it when you locked yourself in the bathroom. I thought…”
Shit. I can’t tell him what I thought.
“I can get it for you.” The words are quiet, and I slink over to my closet.
“Wait.” Eliot captures my hand before I can reach the door. “I like the idea of you having somethin’ of mine. Only seems fair that I have somethin’ of yours, too.”
“T-shirts are in the second drawer of the dresser,” I offer. “They should fit you well enough. They’re practically dresses on me. And they’re old. Washed so much, they’re super soft.”
Eliot stares at the drawer for several seconds before he pulls it open. My stack of Recruit school t-shirts is on the left, faded so much the logos are barely legible.
His jaw works once before he touches the top one.
“Haven’t worn short sleeves outside my apartment in seven years. Not since the fire.” He stares at the shirt like it’s about to bite him. “I don’t let people see the burns.”
I run my fingers lightly over the smaller scars on his upper arms. These aren’t as deep as the ones on his torso. No grafts here. Just long-healed burns. Shiny, pale skin. Almost like mine. The ones I still haven’t told him about.
“You let me see them.”
“Remember what I told you that night I drove you to Urgent Care?” he says, a small bit of humor returning to his voice.
“You ain’t most people?”
His dry chuckle holds no actual humor, but he lifts the t-shirt, holds it up to his chest, and eyeballs the size before pulling it carefully over his head.
“Neither are you, Parker.”
The walk takes less than ten minutes, the weather cooler than it’s been in days.
But it’ll still be ninety by noon. A gentle breeze cools my skin as we round a corner.
A tree-lined path winds through a perfectly manicured expanse of grass that rolls down a gentle slope to the pavilion.
Dozens of white tents form two concentric squares.
At the gate, a guy with a guitar case propped open is playing a tune so quickly, his fingers are nothing but a blur.
The rich scent of kettle corn fills the air.
Eliot’s hand finds mine, and the touch surprises me. It’s easy. Relaxed. The rest of him is anything but.
His gaze keeps going to his other sleeve. To the burn scars peeking out from the soft fabric. More than once, his shoulders hunch inward, as if that will somehow make the t-shirt two inches longer.
“I’ve lived here most of my life,” he says, nodding toward the tents. “Never knew this was here.”
“You live on the other side of Lady Bird Lake. Unless you drive by here on the regular, I wouldn’t expect you to see the signs. But you should check out the Saturday market on Guadalupe Street. It’s twice the size, and the food trucks are amazing.”
“Maybe next week.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “If you come with me.”
A whole swarm of butterflies swirls around in my stomach. I don’t know why. We’re clearly doing more than knockin’ boots here. But I don’t know what.
“I could be convinced. But you’re still gonna be on bag duty.”
He adopts an expression of mock outrage as we pass by a vendor selling huge bouquets of fresh flowers. “I’ll make you a deal, Parker. You let me buy you flowers next Saturday—even if they end up in a pint glass again—and I’ll carry bags for you anytime.”
The butterflies get angrier. Or maybe happier, I can’t tell. But I’m smiling before I can stop myself.
“I accept your terms, Flint. I might even stop at the Dollar Mart and get an actual vase.”
His laugh shakes his entire upper body, and it’s such an honest sound, I can’t help but join in.
We pass a table full of jars of local honey, and someone making daisy crowns for a group of little girls.
“What do you usually do on Sundays? When you’re not on bag duty.”
“Clean the apartment.” He looks over at a stand of sunflowers, but I don’t think he’s seeing them. “Work out. Laundry. If any new journal articles have come out recently, I’ll catch up on ‘em then. Not much time during the week.”
We stop at a stand with tomatoes stacked in burlap-lined crates. I pick through them until I find half a dozen that give slightly under my thumb, pull a reusable bag from my back pocket, and pay the farmer who grew them.
Eliot picks one up and turns it over twice before setting it back in the crate. “How do you know which ones are good?"
“They should have just a hint of softness. But you have to be gentle. If you bruise them, they’re ruined for anyone else. Here. Feel this one I bought.”
He accepts the tomato from the bag, and presses his fingers lightly against the skin. I’m not sure a tomato has ever received as much focus as he’s giving mine.
Two stalls down, I find blackberries dark enough to stain my fingers, and peaches that’ll be perfectly ripe in a couple of days. Carrots, onions, and basil will give me enough for a bolognese sauce once I pick up beef and pork at the grocery store.
Eliot accepts the bags without a word, and I cradle one of the green berry baskets in the crook of my arm so we can enjoy their sweetness on a perfect summer’s day.
We round the corner down the next aisle, and I stop mid-step, the scent of buttery pastry surrounding me.
A folding sandwich board announces: New to the Market!
Kolaches! Sausage, Cream Cheese, Apricot, and Raspberry!
Behind the folding table, a woman laughs, sliding a hot kolach into a paper bag for a guy in a pair of board shorts and flip flops.
For a moment, all I see is the baker’s graying hair, flushed cheeks, and knuckles swollen from kneading dough. So like my mom, I can’t breathe.
“Parker?” Eliot’s voice sounds far away.
I can’t answer him. I don’t know what to say. Or why all of a sudden, all I can think about is the last time I baked with my mother.
Eliot eases the basket of blackberries from my arm, tucks it into one of the bags, and rests his hand at the small of my back. Gently, he steers me away from the booth, away from the crowd, until he finds a bench under a tall willow tree.
I don’t sit so much as collapse onto it, my eyes burning with tears I won’t let fall.
“I’m right here,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”
“My dad…” I curl my fingers around the warm metal slats of the bench, squeezing until one of my damaged nerves fires, and pain shoots up to my elbow.
It shocks me enough to continue. “He left when I was three. Mom hadn’t worked since before I was born.
The only job she could get was as a secretary for this little construction company.
It wasn’t near enough to pay the bills. So every weekend, she’d make a whole mess of kolaches to sell at church on Sunday.
That led to farmers markets. Then a sous chef position at Comfort Food.
When the head chef retired, she took over. ”
Eliot doesn’t say a word. Just lets me sit in silence until I can give voice to the memory that stopped me in my tracks.
“There was a day,” I manage, “a year or so after she was diagnosed with dementia. I was takin’ care of her as best I could. But my sergeant was losin’ patience with me bein’ out so much.”
I wish I could cry. It’d be easier if I could cry. But the tears stopped a long time ago.
“I was makin’ dinner. Chicken pot pie. Her recipe.
” I stare at a crack in the sidewalk, recalling the crack in Mom’s cutting board I’d sealed with resin.
“She was having a bad day. One of the worst so far. She was so scared. Hollarin’ at me, convinced I was an intruder…
Then cryin’ in the next breath, tellin’ me how sorry she was. Because that’s how dementia works.
“I had a ball of dough resting on the counter, and I didn’t think. Just shoved it under her hands when she tried to reach for a knife I had out to cut the veggies.
“Then…she calmed. Somewhere under the confusion and fear, her body still recognized what to do with dough. And for the next twenty minutes or so, I had my mom back. We laughed and cooked and it was one of the last good memories…”
My throat locks up, and I squeeze the bench slat harder. “I moved her into a facility six days later. I’m not sure she ever forgave me. And I know for damn sure, I’ll never forgive myself.”
Eliot doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t tell me I did the right thing or I’m beatin’ myself up over nothin’. He just wraps his arm around me.
My forehead finds the curve of his shoulder, and I breathe him in. My soap. His deodorant. A hint of sweat over something that’s purely him.
Eventually, he tips his head closer, his voice rough. “You don’t have to be okay. Not with me.”
“I miss her.” The words are no more than a whisper, quiet enough I’m not sure he even hears them over the noise of the market.
Until he tightens his hold and presses his lips to the top of my head. “I know.”
We stay there long enough the wind changes, the sweet scent of kettle corn breaking the hold my memories have on me.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”
I let him help me up, and this time, it’s my hand that finds his.