Chapter 7
Harbor
Lark still embodies the bravado she had the first time we met, even if we’ve moved past the cat-and-mouse game we were playing. She owns every sway of her hips and the way she moves in her body.
For all her certainty in who she is, she doesn’t fully trust me. She’s not unwise. Quite the opposite. I like that she’s guarded. It makes the reward of being on the inside of her walls all the sweeter.
“I was going to study,” she says next to me on the couch.
Her hair tousled from being outside, her green eyes still bright as if it were still daylight outside. I search for makeup but can only find maybe darker lashes than her natural ones and a hint of pale pink on her lips that could be mistaken for when they’re nude. She doesn’t need any.
She’s just as beautiful without makeup, if not more, than when I saw her working last night and wearing it.
I pivot my gaze away from her and to the mug on the table so she doesn’t find me creepy for staring at her too long.
Though I could stare at her all day and still find something new that fascinates me.
I reply, “I can go if you want.”
There’s no rush to respond. She sips her coffee with delicate lips pressed to a mug that I’m sure she got from that junkyard of a car dealership just outside Beacon lines.
The juxtaposition is interesting. That she doesn’t have a car gives me the feeling there might be a story behind the acquisition of the mug.
“I’m okay.” Leaning forward, she adds, “If you are.”
“I’m good. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
I chuckle. “Yankee blue or sky?”
“Somewhere in between.” She grins, and then asks, “What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t have one.”
She sits back again, propping her elbow against the couch and her head to her hand, and then furrows her brow. “How can you not have a favorite color? Everyone has a favorite color.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No.” She tilts her head down, but her eyes stay on mine.
“You’re definitely not, but you’re telling me there’s not one color that makes your day brighter?
The yellow of a daisy or sunshine, the green of freshly mowed grass in spring, a patch of clovers, or delicious pesto pasta?
” She sits up, determination anchoring her spine straight, and continues, “The red bird of the year you see or a peppermint stick? The leaves when they turn orange or a patch of pumpkins in fall? Even brown like the smoothest Belgian chocolate or the trunk of the tallest pine trees?”
“You’re very good at this. How about purple or gray, or even black.”
“We may love to wear black, but it’s no one’s favorite color.”
“It could be.”
“I think if someone said their favorite color is black, they’re caught in the idea of it more than the hue because it’s the absence of color.
The gray of a cloudy day or the stunning cliffs overlooking the emerald lake out at Devil’s Edge.
” She doesn’t notice me bristle or my hand fisting, my breath growing deeper as I try to calm myself.
“They say those cliffs sparkle from the water, but I’ve never been on a boat out there to see for myself. ”
“They do.” My tone is clipped, which makes me angry. She doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my reaction to mistakes I’ve made.
“Harbor?” Her hand rests on my forearm when my gaze slides from my lap to the woman beside me. Her smile is small and makes me feel worse for making her feel that way. “Are you okay?” Licking her lips, she then drags the bottom one under her top teeth.
“I’m fine. My apologies. What were you saying?”
She doesn’t rush to answer. Instead, her hand gives me a little squeeze before she pulls it back to her lap. “I was rambling.”
“No, you weren’t. I’m sorry. I just . . .” I push up as anger at myself gets the better of me. “I’ll let you study.”
Grabbing my wrist, she stands. “Stay.” Still latched onto me, there’s no room to make excuses, so I stay, unsure of what she wants from me. Her breath has quickened, her chest rising and falling as fast. “What happened? What did I do?”
“No, you did nothing wrong, Lark. I . . .” I look away from her before I’m tempted to caress her cheek, to lean in and kiss the shine from her freshly licked lips. “I got caught up in a past I’ve tried to forget.”
“It was something I said?”
The truth isn’t something that needs to shroud our conversation.
She didn’t mean to push my triggers. They’re mine and a fucking annoyance for ruining our time.
Despite me escaping the question, I focus on her, the pretty girl, who looks at me like I might have a chance at being someone good, someone she can trust. “I haven’t eaten in hours. Want to go out and get something?”
Her hand falls back to her side as she looks away from me. “I don’t think I can.” I wouldn’t say she’s lying, but she is looking for excuses. I follow her gaze to the mug on the table and remember she couldn’t cover the coffee at the gas station. I’m a dick for putting her on the spot.
I reach over and take hold of her wrist this time and then slide my hand until her palm rests against mine.
This connection is different than the ones we’ve shared before.
Not less important, but more potent as if I’m being given a second chance.
With her, my cousin’s death doesn’t overshadow who I am.
God, I could drink this in, savor her for hours if given the chance.
I wish I could.
I wrap my fingers around her just enough to hold her before she’s gone.
Her breath catches, and the tips of her nails send my pulse racing through my veins.
Only seconds have passed, but I’ve lived a lifetime of bliss inside them with her.
I don’t want this to end. “Hey,” I start with a whisper, lifting her chin so her eyes meet mine again.
“I know paying your way is important but let me take you to dinner. I promise to let you take me another time.”
She giggles softly. “You’ll let me take you out on a date? You’re good, Harbor.” Waggling her finger, she adds, “Very good.” She takes a deep breath as her eyes search my face and then nods. “But I also can eat, so okay.”
I’ve had more enthusiastic reactions when asking girls out before, but that okay was worth the wait.
“Give me five? I need to change clothes.” Her hand starts to slip from mine as she walks away, so I tighten my grip on her just enough to bring her eyes back to mine. Questions fill her greens as we stand there in the briefest moment of silence.
“You don’t need to change one thing, Lark. You’re perfect as you are.” Dressed in shorts and sneakers with a cropped pale-pink T-shirt, she looks great. But even she knows I wasn’t talking about her clothes. “Don’t change.”
Angling on her ankle, she tilts—her body and head, “Ever?” Her voice is low, quiet . . . seductive. My body vibrates, reacting to the sound. I don’t think she even realizes what she does to me, and probably to every other guy on this planet.
Her na?veté makes her more enticing.
I step back, needing a breather before this night goes sideways. We’re not fucking, after all. At least not before I have the chance to buy her dinner. I run my hand over my head and clear my throat. “So dinner, then?”
Crossing the room, she replies, “Dinner, then.” She pulls out a little yellow-and-red wallet, she takes her keys with a smile that feels personally tailored for me. She sweeps her hair off her shoulders and into a knot on her head. “I guess I’m ready.”
We walk to the car, and I open the door.
Lark slips inside, her eyes roaming the interior, and her hand rubbing the leather beneath her.
I close the door and walk around the front to the driver’s side.
My chest tightens from the sight of her tucked inside my car.
It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with or one I can pinpoint.
Just feels good to be around her, and I’ll take that good and try to hold on to it because it’s not as common after the accident.
As soon as I start the engine, she rests her head back, and smiles at me. “What are you craving, Harbor?”
“What am I craving?” Fuck. She’s going to do me in. “Pizza, burgers, tacos, or there’s a little Italian place in the far corner of the square? I think they close just over an hour from now, so we need to get going.”
“I love Moretti’s. It’s always a treat.”
“Moretti’s it is, then.”
She lives close enough to downtown to get to the restaurant within five minutes, even with the two stoplights. Even though it’s not that late, Moretti’s closes earlier on Sunday nights. When we walk in, Lark asked the hostess, “Is it too late for dinner? We don’t want to keep you.”
Most people I know don’t give a damn about other people’s schedules or lives that might be affected. I think that’s why Lark stands out so much . . . Or should I say even more at this moment?
I may have only just met her yesterday, but I can tell she doesn’t have a pretentious bone in her body. I add that to the list of things I find so attractive about her. It’s a list that’s getting longer with every hour we spend together.
The hostess smiles, tapping Lark on the arm, and says, “You know you’re always welcome here, Lark.” Her eyes shift to me and then back to her, giving her a little wink. “I have the perfect booth for you right back here. Follow me.”
They chat as if they’ve known each other forever, asking about each other’s families and how their classes are going this semester.
The restaurant isn’t big, but it’s quaint, and the food is good. As we pass through the dining room, I can’t help but notice it’s quieter with only a few tables occupied. The Italian music can barely be heard, low enough to allow for private conversations.
We slip into the booth near the window and open our menus. I’m scanning the specials that are clipped inside when I feel Lark’s gaze on me. I look up to see her attention shift down, but I know I just busted her. “What sounds good tonight?” I ask.
“I’m thinking about the carbonara. It’s my favorite.” She sets the menu as if she’s more than thinking about it. She’s decided. “You?”
“Lasagna. It’s been a while since I’ve had it, and it’s not something I’ll ever make.”
“Do you cook?”
I lean forward as if I’m revealing some great secret. She does the same. I reply, “Not at all.”
Surprise doesn’t contort her expression, but it does bend her brow. “You don’t cook, not eggs or anything? Ever?” Her voice starts pitching even through the whispering exchange.
“No. Never. I should, though.”
“I don’t under—”
“Ready to order?” the server asks, a kid I might recognize from campus, but I’m not sure. Though his blond spikes tend to stand out in this small town. He sets down two glasses of water, and then pulls a pen and pad from his apron. “We can start with drinks. Wine, soda, tea?”
I look at Lark. “We can get a bottle of wine if you’d like.”
She glances up at him. “I think water will be fine for me.”
“I’ll stick with the water as well.”
He takes our food order and quicksteps it back to the kitchen. While we unwrap our napkins, she asks, “Do you have a chef? Or you order food every night? Or . . .” She leaves it open for me to reply. Curiosity shapes her face, but her features remain soft.
“I order a lot of food, I’m a whiz at heating up food—frozen meals or dishes that my family sends me. I eat out a lot or grab something quick from a fast-food joint.”
“I don’t understand. Do you live at home, the home from yesterday?” She adds, “You had a room upstairs?”
“That’s still my room. Whenever I stay over, that’s where I sleep. My childhood, my life before moving out, remains there for me. I suppose one day I’ll have to pack it up, but it’s there now, maybe always will be. Who knows?”
She relaxes across from me, her shoulders rounding as she takes a deep breath. “I still have a room at home. My dad keeps it just as I left it. Sometimes I wonder if he hopes I’ll move home, and other times I think about it because I feel guilty for leaving him.”
“You didn’t leave him. You’re just living somewhere else right now.”
Hope returns to her eyes and raises a smile.
“That’s a nice way of looking at it.” She toys with the red pepper shaker, spinning it mindlessly as if her thoughts are elsewhere.
“I’m not sure if I’ll ever live there again.
Growing up is weird.” She looks at me. “I’m twenty-one, living on my own, paying my own bills, but I feel caught in this age, like I’m not an adult but I’m no longer a kid anymore.
” Shaking her head, she says, “Weird. And every time I see my dad, I still feel like a little girl?” She whispers, “I think he'd keep me young forever if he had a choice.”
There’s such a sweetness to her that I can see what she means about being trapped in the age in between. It’s almost like the darkness of life hasn’t touched her yet. She’s lucky that way.
Lucky.
Fuck luck.
Luck doesn’t exist.
Only this.
She and I right here.
Right now.
This is the luck I created.