Chapter 24
Tate
“Tate, come sit on this suitcase!” Gabriella hollers from somewhere inside the closet. I peel myself from the bed—and my thoughts—walking the short distance to her. When I hit the threshold, I freeze. Shoes, clothes, hangers, and huge duffle bags cover almost every square inch of space.
“You’re leaving for five days. Why does your suitcase look like the seams are going to pop?” I ask, but still make my way over to lend my weight to the top lid, and it barely relents. The sound of a zipper moves slowly around me.
“Because Thanksgiving is all about the OOTD. I have preplanned my looks per outing and an overstuffed suitcase is the result.” She claps her hands once when she gets the zipper all the way around to the other side.
“That’s funny! This whole time I thought it was about gratitude and being with friends and family.” I shoot her a salty smile before coming to a stand.
“Very funny. Grab the small one and help me take it to the door, will you?”
“Nah, I would rather watch you try to do it.”
“TATE!”
“I’m doing it, I’m doing it,” I whine.
“Is this about missing me? Or about being alone in the house with Levi?”
I stop midwalk. “What?”
She looks back from the doorframe, an Oh, you didn’t know look on her face.
I feel the need to confirm. “He’s not leaving?” He’s honored my wishes since the conversation in the studio. He doesn’t even look at me, and if I’m in a room he walks into, he turns around and leaves. It’s what I asked for, and probably for the best, but somehow it still stings.
Gabriella nods. I pick up the suitcase and start walking again.
Once outside, I pile her stuff on the corner of the driveway.
The weather has been like a light switch.
There will be, like, four fall-ish days, and then boom, sunshine.
These conditions make it hard to get dressed in the morning.
Today, I’m wearing a loose floral skirt with a mustard-yellow quarter-sleeve top that hangs off my shoulders.
Gabriella told me it was one of the ugliest tops she has ever seen and when I least expect it, it will go missing.
We have lived together for almost two months and what I used to consider a jab has now transformed into “just Gabriella.” She, of course, is wearing a fully matching jumpsuit, white-and-pink Nikes, and a coordinating New York Yankees hat.
No, she doesn’t like the Yankees, it was about the colors.
I already asked. As soon as I set down another bag, a black Escalade with darkened windows rolls up and a man appears.
We watch as he starts to load her stuff into the back.
She turns to me, placing both hands on my shoulders.
“You okay? Like, really okay?” Her eyes search mine.
“Yeah. I told you, all good.” I smile.
“Alright,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck in a strangle-like hug.
She pulls back and heads towards her door. The driver opens it for her, and she gets in. I watch like a proud parent sending her kid to college. Just as I’m about to turn and leave, the sound of the window rolling down stops me. “I’ll text you when I land!” she shouts as the car starts to roll off.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
It’s been exactly eight hours since Gabriella left, and I feel myself unwinding.
I washed all my clothes, cleaned our room, and had my weekly chat with my family.
What now? I could take an Uber into the city.
Maybe do a stars tour or something. I sigh.
Bored and unmotivated is a deadly combination. I check the time on my phone. Six p.m.
Gabriella called an hour or so ago to let me know that she made it, and also to FaceTime me the outfit she is wearing for dinner tonight—a punchy red lip with a silk halter in the same color, dark jeans, and matching red pumps.
She looked amazing. Somehow it makes me regret not booking a trip home, too, even though I don’t really have the extra cash to spend.
I guess I should go make dinner or something.
I creep from our room and down the hallway.
When I make my way into the kitchen, it’s empty.
I yank open the fridge in search of inspiration.
I’m not a great cook, but I get by. “Hmm.” There’s nothing.
The studio shops for us once a week, filling it with random bits of food which is nice, but it’s mostly grab-and-go food.
I close the fridge and head towards the pantry, smacking right into a wall.
A wall made of hard lines and tight muscles of flesh.
“Levi! What are you doing in the pantry?” I ask, taking a step back.
“I was looking for food when you came in, and I know you don’t want to see me, so I just stayed put. I was planning to come out when you left, but then you came in here and...yeah.”
“You thought hiding in a pantry was a better option than just walking out and heading upstairs?” I laugh, losing my anger. He smiles and it’s warm. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m under a heat lamp.
“You’re right. It was pretty dumb,” he says through his smile. We stand there in each other’s presence for a beat longer.
“Alright, well, I’ll let you get to it,” he mumbles, taking a step out of the pantry. Then something unexpected happens. I reach for him, attaching myself to his wrist, and we’re both surprised.
“I was, um, I was just thinking...have you eaten?” I look up at him, my voice coming out how I feel—wobbly and unsure. He shakes his head cautiously.
“Do you want to make something together and...eat?”
I watch the bomb of his Adam’s apple and the slow way he appraises me.
“Are you sure?” he says, as if I have forgotten all that has happened.
“Yeah, let’s start fresh. As friends.”
He scrubs his hand over the stubble on his cheek. “Friends.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Okay, what do you want to make?” he says, looking away from me, but he can’t move because I still have his wrist. When I don’t immediately respond, he says my name again, “Tate?”
“Yep. Oh, right. I was thinking something easy,” I blurt out before releasing him and reaching for a box of bow tie pasta. I walk out of the pantry first, staring at the back of the box. The small words blur until they read, “You are an idiot. You like Levi. This is a bad idea.”
Levi moves around me, filling a large pot with water and setting it on the stove. I hear the click, click of the burner turning on. He looks back at me. “Tate, what are you doing?”
“Hmm? Oh, I’m just reading the directions,” I say, looking up. I prepare for it to just be a nod of acknowledgement, but when my eyes find his face, his expression is pinched tight, suppressing a smile.
“You’re reading the directions on how to cook pasta?” he says carefully, like slowly letting the air out of a balloon. Careful to not combust completely.
“Are you laughing at me?!” I say with mock offense, but it’s the permission he needs. He folds over, laughing into his thighs. I fight the smile slipping across my face.
“Alright, alright.” I push his shoulder. “Are you done? I’m starving.”
He exhales, his eyes glassy with tears. “I’m done. I’m done.” He presses his lips together. “Tell me, what’s the first step?” he asks before exploding in laughter again. His cheeks are bright red as he’s uncontrollably laughing his butt off at me. That’s when the wheezing starts.
“Levi, breathe.” I laugh.
He quiets and his eyes lock with mine. “Come here.” It isn’t a question, and not rough enough to be a demand, but his eyes whisper please.
I step closer to him, and he pulls me the rest of the way till my face meets his chest. I turn my head and press into him.
His hand brushes over my head a couple times.
No one talks. He just holds me and we breathe in the peacefulness of no longer being at war till the sound of bubbling water behind us is too loud to ignore.
He finally releases me, turning his attention to the stove.
I lift myself on the island behind him, watching as he dumps the noodles into the water before walking off to the pantry.
When he returns, he is cradling a large jar of marinara.
The muscles in his calves bulge as he squats to find a small saucepan.
Once that’s on the stove next to the noodles, he turns back to look at me, arms folded in front of him, a satisfied look on his face.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“Self-taught, but I’m not sure I would consider this really cooking.
” His hips push off their perch before coming to rest in the space between my legs.
A seated reversal of what happened a second ago.
But this time I’m the big spoon. I take advantage of the height I’ll never have, weaving my fingers through the golden-brown locks of his hair as I pull him into my arms.
“I’m sorry, Tate,” he says into my chest, his body heat seeping through the cotton of my shirt.
“Shh, let’s not talk about it right now.” I don’t want to be reminded of the reality of all the ways we don’t fit. I want, for this moment, to believe that we work perfectly together, but he pulls back, blue eyes shining.
He bites back what he wants to say and settles for, “Alright.”
And that was it. A nonverbal agreement on how this week will play out. And after that? That’s next week’s problem. He dishes out two hefty plates of pasta and we eat and talk. As I’m taking my last bite, he leans back in his chair, eyes smiling.
“What?”
He smiles. “Nothin’.”
“Hmm, nothing, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m just...happy.”
***
After dinner, I wash, and he dries. A well-oiled machine. Occasionally he leans in, his arm brushing mine. Accidentally, of course. As I’m about to excuse myself, he pulls me into another hug.
“Let’s watch a movie.”
I look at the time on the microwave; it’s only seven. I place a puny hand on my hip, doing my best to look bored “What movie?”