18. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
ANDREA
Julian is teaching me how to make chicken piccata.
So far, it’s easy enough since he’s already seasoned and floured the chicken.
Neither of us had plans, so when he offered to cook us dinner, I asked if I could help.
Nowhere in my head did I anticipate he’d be doing it shirtless.
I’m starting to think it’s on purpose. I’m gradually learning that he’s a huge flirt without even trying.
I want him to stop crossing that line almost as much as I want him to ignore it.
He’s the hottest teacher I’ve ever had and now that he’s my fake boyfriend, my thoughts of him are very confusing. I’m overly aware of him, yet absently at ease in his presence. It’s strange and I can’t explain it.
Focusing back on my task, I flip the chicken breasts.
“Like this?” I ask like I have after everything for fear that I’m doing something wrong. I also like when he hovers over my shoulder, like he does now.
“Perfect.”
I beam at the praise, my shoulders bouncing. Once I’m done, I set down the tongs and turn to face him. His expression is calm, and his mouth is set in a relaxed grin as he leans his hip into the counter.
“I have an idea,” I tell him before I lose my nerve .
“What is it?”
“Boyfriends and girlfriends are supposed to know random things about each other. We should ask each other questions,” I suggest, my eyes searching for any indication that he thinks this is a bad idea.
Maybe he prefers to keep things on even ground between us, but I don’t think I can do that.
I want to know more about him because he’s so different from what you see on the outside.
There’s a soft darkness that vibrates around him that gives me the inkling to both run and curl up inside of it.
He nods slowly. “You first.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I blurt, my eyes going round at my audacity, but I can’t stop thinking about the feminine products in his bathroom. Ok, fine, maybe I’m using the fake girlfriend bit as an excuse to be nosy.
His eyes lighten with amusement. “You’re not holding back, are you?”
I wince. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
“It’s fine. You did tell me about your past. I suppose it’s only fair.” He studies me for a beat before lifting a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I would be offended by his bland response if it wasn’t for the look on his face telling me that’s the truth.
My brows knit together. “You don’t know?”
A single shake of his head. “Have you?”
“Yes,” I answer. His shoulders stiffen, drawing a smile from me. “With ballet.”
The tension from him immediately retreats and he narrows his eyes at me. “I thought your question was about people.”
“It was, but I wanted to make you sweat.”
“Cruel,” he scolds, his abs tightening when he breathes a laugh .
I move over to the stove to check the chicken again to help myself appear more nonchalant when I ask, “So whose stuff is that in your bathroom?”
My question is met with an uncomfortable silence, and I wonder if this is one of his boundaries. I’m about to take it back when he responds.
“Her name is Willow,” he tells me, and the fondness with which he says her name makes my stomach turn. “We’re still friends, but we’ve. . .”
“Had sex?” I lift a playful brow, pretending to be at ease even as a weight presses down on me.
I’m overreacting. Of course, he’s had sex before.
He’s a thirty-two-year-old divine-looking man who has needs.
You can take care of those needs. I mentally shove the thought away. My subconscious is such a hussy.
His eyes burn the side of my face. “On more than one occasion.”
I press my lips together, nodding slowly. “She sounds like a great friend.”
Another beat of silence. “Andrea.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve been watching the chicken like it’s going to run away.”
I still don’t look at him. “Oh.”
“Now you’re mean mugging our dinner.” He chuckles, stepping closer. “Are you jealous?” he murmurs in a low sultry voice and damn it; my instinct should not be to lean into him.
I turn and glare up at him. “I hope your chicken is undercooked and you get salmonella.”
A deeper laugh this time. “You are.”
“I’m putting your eyeballs on the skillet next and you’ll never get to look at my legs again. ”
He mocks a gasp. “Now that’s just barbaric.”
I click my tongue. “Well, maybe you can call your friend and talk to her about it.”
“Keep being mean to me, Andrea,” he encourages with a shit-eating grin plastered onto his annoyingly handsome face.
Wait a minute.
Does he like it?
Choosing to ignore the sadist, I check on the roasted vegetables.
I hear him let out a long sigh before telling me, “In the end, our feelings weren’t mutual.
I’m not even sure how I felt.” He hesitates, pinching his eyes shut.
“It’s like I go under these weird blackout spells, well, they’re not necessarily blackouts because I remember myself doing them but sometimes, I don’t know why. ”
The way he lets me see this insecurity of his means more to me than he knows, and my annoyance immediately retreats. “I think I know what you mean.”
His eyes shoot up to mine, surprise etched across them. “You do?”
I nod. “I’ve done a lot of impulsive things and can’t explain why I did them.
It’s mostly because I felt like it and that’s it.
It happened a lot after my accident.” I shrug, thinking more about it.
“My life flashed before my eyes, and it made me realize a lot about my existence. My dad always told me that at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how you got through it, but only that you did.
The sun always sets, but it’s up to us to keep watching it come back up. ”
I turn off the burner and set the skillet to the side, so the chicken doesn’t burn. “Does that make sense?” I ask, looking over at him.
His forehead crinkles. “Your dad sounds like a great guy.”
“He’s the best,” I say, smiling softly. “He feels guilty about using the money he and my mom were saving up to build me a ballet studio. They used it to pay for their mortgage after my accident drained my entire family’s bank accounts.
No matter how many times I tell him it isn’t a big deal, it doesn’t seem to matter.
” At the thoughtful look on his face, I quickly add, “Now you ask me a question.”
He steps beside me, helping me plate our dinner. “All right, what’s your love language?”
“Oh, I like that question. I’m going to go with physical touch and quality time. What about you?” I bump my shoulder into his.
“Also physical touch, but words of affirmation is a close second.” He looks sheepish as he adds, “I like reassurance. I’m needy like that.”
I laugh at his self-jab. “Does me being mean to you count as words of affirmation?”
A husky laugh cracks out of his throat. “Absolutely.”
Walking over to the silverware drawer, I grab us some cutlery for our dish. “Have you ever been stung by a wasp or a bee?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Never.”
My mouth falls open. “How is that possible? I’ve been stung at least six times. The worst was after a beach day and a bee flew inside my swimsuit cover.” I grimace at the memory. “Been stung by a jellyfish too. Carter had to pee on my leg.”
Julian barks out a laugh as he picks up both of our plates. I follow him over to the dining room. He sets my plate at the head of the table and sits next to me.
“Do you have a favorite song?” he asks as we both sit down.
I stare at the veins in his hands as he uncorks the red wine. “Honestly, it changes every month. Right now, I’ll have to go with anything by Noah Kahan. ”
The corner of his mouth lifts as he pours wine into our glasses. “Is that who you’ve been playing on repeat in the mornings?”
I nod, laughing as I grab the glass to take a sip. “What about you?”
His head tilts in thought. “You’re going to judge me.”
I press my hand to my heart. “I would never.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he says, “I’ve always liked The Goo Goo Dolls.”
“I love them. Solid choice.” I set down the wine and began cutting into my chicken. It smells so good that I’m practically salivating. “Ok, here’s an important one. Are you a dog or cat person?”
“I’ve never had a cat, but Abigail has one.
Pickles likes me well enough, and I wouldn’t be against getting one.
” An emotion flickers across his face, and I can’t decipher it.
“I had a dog when I was younger; before I went into foster care. She was a lab mix. Dogs are loyal and love unconditionally. I’d probably have one if it wasn’t for living in the city. ”
An ache forms in my chest. “What was her name?”
His mouth twitches into a small smile even though his eyes are far away. “Love.” He forces out a laugh and shakes his head as if to clear it. “My mom let me name her. I was six,” he says, giving me a look that makes me return his smile.
“What was your mom like?” I ask him, but what I really want to ask is, what happened to her?
“She was kind and. . .” He trails off as he stabs food onto his fork.
“She’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.
” I wait for him to swallow his food before continuing.
“She grew up in the system, so she never had any immediate family either. My father’s family never wanted anything to do with him or us, so when the time came that everything changed, I had nowhere to go.
I went into foster care on July 25th, 2000. . .my eighth birthday.”
A wave of sorrow washes over me, the ache in my chest a quiet, dull pain. I can’t imagine having family out there somewhere in the world and not knowing what their faces look like. It occurs to me that I have no idea what it feels like to be truly unwanted.
“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” I croak.
He gives me a soft smile. “I’m glad.”
Oh, my heart. I want to reach for his hand but refrain from doing so. “Tell me more.”
I learn that his favorite color is black—shocker—and that he sold his first piece a few months after he turned eighteen.
He grew up in a small town in Massachusetts, and he used to visit a meadow next to a field owned by a man named Mr. Ledgers.
I could tell he was fond of him by the way he spoke about him.
He tried to make light of the fact that other kids picked on him, but I could tell it cut him deeply as a boy. He’s been placed in five homes, which is a lot for a child in need of stability. My heart has never hurt for someone so thoroughly.
When he becomes insistent on learning more about me, I feel a bit uncertain because my childhood was nothing to complain about, but Julian seems to like it that way.
I tell him stories about the trouble Carter and I got into and the stupid fights I’d had with my sister.
I describe the beach in the winter when it’s snowing.
“I can’t wait for you to see it,” I tell him, excitement bubbling inside of me at the idea.
He smiles warmly at me. “Me either.”
I try to make it a point to talk about more upbeat things for the rest of the evening, but the entire time I feel the prying ache of his past burying itself inside of me.
Once we clean up after dinner, we watch a movie. I purposefully only grab one blanket so he’s forced to sit close to me. Near the end of it, I start to doze off. He lets me rest my head on his shoulder as I finish the movie with droopy lids.
We stay put until the credits finish rolling and something tells me he’d sit here as long as I want him to. With great reluctance, we both get up and head to our rooms.
I stare at his back and before I can think, I’m grabbing his hand to pull him toward me. “Julian, wait.”
“What is it?” he asks, walking to me slowly as he eyes me and my hand curiously.
“I—” I pause, my eyes searching his. Then, my body does what it wants and I’m suddenly wrapping my arms around his neck and holding him tightly.
His arms hang loosely at his sides. “What’s happening?”
“I’m hugging you.”
He moves his hands to rest gently on my hips. “Why?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I keep holding onto him with a ferocious urge to protect the child version of him. Even now I want to protect him—the man who is fully capable of protecting himself.
Eventually, he gives into the hug; most likely realizing I have no desire to let him go just yet. One of his arms is banded around my waist and the other on the upper part of my back as he draws me closer, squeezing me with the same fervor.
When he buries his face into the crook of my neck, he breathes in deeply and when he exhales, everything in his body seems to relax. Time passes and my problem is now evident. I never want to let him go.