Chapter 2
Chapter two
You don’t know love until it hurts.
You don’t miss happiness until sadness strikes.
And you don’t appreciate a moment until it becomes a memory.
5:30 p.m.
“Alex!”
The deafening sound of my mother’s voice pierced my right ear like a needle.
Rubbing my watering eyes with the back of my hand, I slowly peeked my eyelids open, allowing tiny bits of light to filter back into my corneas.
I was huddled in a ball, my knees firmly touching beneath my chin and my face pleasantly smushed on my pillowcase.
Piled on me, the crumpled bed cover created the perfect mountain of cushiony solitude.
“Come help me with dinner!” my mom called, the canals of my ears vibrating as she pronounced each syllable.
“No, thank you. I don’t feel like seeing the fire department today.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not making you use the stove after last time … I need your help with chopping.”
“I can’t. I don’t have medical insurance, and I like all my fingers attached.”
“You don’t have medical insurance!?” Judgment bounced off the four walls of my room; my safe place was compromised.
Flinging my comforter off my limp body, I physically grabbed my legs to throw them over the side of the bed.
My heels smacked the floor as I used the edge of my side table to force my body upwards.
Everything around me blurred as if windshield wipers had washed my eyes, and my mind spun faster than the teacup ride at Disneyland.
Once my vision and brain rejoined reality, the blood slowly rushed back to my head, allowing me to move one foot in front of the other. How can the most straightforward task of getting out of bed feel as taxing as running a marathon?
Stumbling like a drunk down each step of the staircase, my bare toes finally hit the old wooden floor, filling the room with a familiar crackling sound that echoed through the hall.
I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, hoping to hear that magical high-pitched squeak once again.
I thought about how many times I had listened to those rusty nails move up and down during my childhood, but I never stopped to appreciate it, to value the history and memories that had been pounded into these old wooden floors.
Then again, I hadn’t appreciated a lot of the things I’d had.
Walking down the hallway past the living room and dining room into the kitchen, my nose was met with a surprisingly mouthwatering fragrance.
It wasn’t that my mom was a bad cook by any means; she didn’t enjoy cooking unless it was breakfast. So typically, when it was her night to make dinner, she’d hand Lucas and me six takeout menus, and we could pick out whatever we wanted if we could agree on something, which usually ended in a very violent game of rock-paper-scissors and one time a hospital trip for a broken finger.
Lucas’s dad, Julian, made most of the meals in the household.
Food was his passion; he even studied in Europe during his twenties, but when his dad passed away, he took over the family hardware store.
Julian passed down his love of cooking to Lucas when he was finally old enough to hold a knife, and like everything else in life, Lucas excelled.
As soon as my foot hit the transition between the hallway's wood floor and the kitchen's black hexagon tile, it was clear that the miraculous smell was not my mother’s Lean Cuisine in the microwave. My brother, hovering over the stove, stood like an obnoxiously perfect Greek statue.
“How did he somehow get taller?” I murmured under my breath as I shuffled my feet to the kitchen island.
I propped my elbows on the surface, allowing my chin to find the perfect resting position on the palms of my hands.
I couldn’t tell if it was the concrete counters or the icy chill of unspoken words that sent a wave of shivers through me.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said, the words coming out more jagged than intended. Exhaustion could be blamed, but truthfully, being in a room with Lucas felt like being in a room with your principal; you know you’re getting detention, but you’re not ready to admit you did anything wrong.
“Five years. After five years of freezing me out, that’s the first thing you say to me?
” His voice was deeper than I remembered.
Ever since middle school, he had sounded like a captivating audiobook—mesmerizing and enduring.
Now, it sounded rough and removed like a wind blowing through a hollow canyon.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” After chewing on the inside of my cheek like a piece of bubble gum, I continued, “Mom yelled for me to come down and help her with dinner.” I looked around the kitchen to find any trace of my mother’s whereabouts, “But obviously, I’ve been tricked.”
Lucas chuckled, still keeping his eyes locked on the boiling water. “Yeah, I figured she was up to something. Same old Monica. Remember when she locked us in that shed outside when you blamed me for breaking your toy?”
“You did break my toy!”
Lucas flipped around, meeting me stare for stare, his arms crossed over his massive chest and his eyebrows raised. “No, I accidentally stepped on your transformer, barely bending its leg, and you retaliated by smashing it into my head.”
“Yeah, and your big-ass head broke it in half!”
“I had a black eye in my first-grade yearbook photo.”
“Karma’s a bitch.”
“Then you must be related.”
Biting my lip to keep from grinning, I refused to give him the satisfaction of winning an argument. “You better keep an eye on your water before it burns.”
“The only person in the world capable of burning water is you,” Lucas smirked as he picked the wooden spoon back up.
“That only happened once, and it was your fault for leaving a child unsupervised with a gas stove.”
“You were sixteen.” His thick eyebrow raised at me.
“Which still legally constitutes a child!”
“Is that your same argument for the cookie disaster of 2015?”
“If the baking industry didn’t want kitchens to be burned down, then they shouldn’t make parchment paper and wax paper look the same!”
A subtle twitch of Lucas’s facial muscles betrayed his soldier boy exterior.
Despite his best efforts, his eyes crinkled at the corners, hinting at the light joy bubbling beneath the surface; then, almost like a sneeze, a flicker of surprised laughter escaped.
His posture stiffened as if the action physically pained him.
“I miss this,” he said under his breath. I’m not sure if he was speaking to me or himself, but those three words hit like a ruler slapping against my skin.
“I’m sorry.” My voice came out as a rattle. Lucas's big eyes locked with mine, and for the first time in five years, I felt like I was home.
“I know.” A silent understanding passed between us. “Here, why don’t you help me with the dessert?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I grimaced.
“No. But if this mushy gushy moment continues, I’m going to turn into you, and that’s a fate worse than death.”
“Ha, ha! Very funny, soldier boy.”
“Ouch! Haven’t been called that since high school.”
“Looks like the shoe still fits.”
“Careful now; if you don’t behave, I’ll call Monica back in here to supervise you.”
Throwing my hands in the air, I surrendered to his threat. “Okay, so what exactly do I do with this?” I glared at the sliced apples and cinnamon.
“Everything is pretty much done; you just have to put it all together.” My puzzled expression must have been evident, because Lucas walked over and began explaining the baking process, as if teaching a second grader to spell.
“It’s simple. First, put some flour on the counter and roll the pastry dough large enough to cover the pie dish.
I already prepared the apple filling, so all you have to do is assemble the pie.
Pour the apple filling into the pie dish, then roll out another portion of pastry dough and create a lattice pattern by cutting thin strips and weaving them together.
Lastly, place the crust over the filling, seal the edges, and place the pie in the oven. ”
“That sounded like another language!” I stood there dumbfounded.
“Lord knows Spanish was never your strong suit.”
“One time! I asked you to do my Spanish homework once, and you’ve never let me forget it!”
Lucas rolled his eyes. “Just yell for me if you get stuck.” He returned to add the noodles to the pot.
Next to the water was a large saucer with sautéed minced garlic and chopped onions surrounding hot dog chunks and tomato sauce. “It needs more banana ketchup,” he grumbled, tasting the Filipino spaghetti sauce from the wooden spoon. “I haven’t made this in ages.”
“Really?” I questioned as I rolled out the pastry dough on the floured counter. “I would have thought you’d want to cook all the time for that new girlfriend of yours. Mom wouldn’t stop sending me pictures of you two last year.”
“That was last year.” His shoulders deflated. “We broke up a few months back. She wanted a boyfriend who lived in the same country as her.”
“Life as a foreign correspondent must be pretty lonely,” I pried, pouring the apple filling into the pie dish and splattering tiny bits of apple juice on my shirt.
“It’s not without its challenges …” Lucas’s eyes narrowed as if there was more to his sentence. “So, what about you? Still sleeping with your boss?”
I choked on air. “Dude! Gross! No—it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t my boss, and neither are we still dating, nor am I still employed.”
“You got fired! Mom is going to kill you! Please let me tell her!” He was almost jumping up and down.
“Quiet! Keep your voice down!” I hissed. “I wasn’t fired. I quit … after Mark threatened to fire me.”
“So, he was your boss.” I wanted to smack that boyish grin right off his annoyingly perfect face.
Surrendering to his accusations, I threw the mangled dough on top of the filling. “Fine. Yeah, he was my boss.”
“God. I couldn’t believe it when Jamie told me you were banging your boss—”
“You talked to Jamie?” My heart fell to my feet. The sound of his name in the air made a ball of nerves gather in my throat.
Lucas looked like a kid caught sneaking out of the house past curfew. “I called him last month.” He spoke to his shoes. “After he saw you in Boston.”
Boston. The memory overwhelmed my senses: skin on skin, lips crashing into each other in desperation, the feeling of his body intertwined with mine, heat rising in my face.
Then reality came rushing back. I couldn’t catch my breath, my lungs playing tug of war with my heart. Collapsing right where I stood felt like a real possibility. My face twitched involuntarily as I searched for words that didn’t exist.
“Hey, guys,” a familiar squeaky voice poisoned the air around me.
Not possible. I clenched my jaw so tightly I could hear my back tooth squeak against my top molar.
She wouldn’t dare. I slowly turned my head to the right, holding my breath while I decided which kitchen utensil would be my weapon.
Butcher knives were always a solid choice, but reminded me a little too much of Scream, the horror movie, for my liking.
The meat tenderizing mallet, though? That had potential.
“Your mother invited me.” She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, her fingernails baby pink. Kayla looked the same as if five years had been five minutes, except now she seemed unsteady.
She rocked on her heels. “You’re imagining how to kill me with the blender, aren’t you …”
“Meat mallet, actually.”