Chapter 28
Harbor
It happened so fast.
I went from spying on Lark in class to her being the part of my heart that makes it beat. One month?
That can’t be right.
A lifetime can’t explain what I feel for her. We’re in too deep, emotions too heavy, the weight of gold, and a thousand love stories all in one.
She moves around the kitchen, putting a dash of this and a splash of that into the large pot on the stove.
Since I was banned from assisting, I’ve watched her cook like a professional.
She said her dad taught her how to cook.
The meals aren’t complicated, but they’re good. “It smells incredible in here.”
I think she also picked up a trick or two from working in the catering business.
We could’ve gone out. I could’ve treated her to the best meal in town to celebrate the occasion—our month-i-versary, as she calls it. She didn’t want that.
She wanted to stay home.
She wanted me.
I refill her glass halfway. I’ve already learned she doesn’t like the commitment of having to finish it. This is her second half glass, and I think tonight she’ll finish the job.
I sit back down on the other side of the bar with my own glass of wine. I don’t drink wine much, but I wanted to drink what she was having. I texted my mom for a recommendation. I know it’s a good wine, but expensive, so I asked Lark to stay in the car when I ran in to buy it.
“I’m so hungry,” she says, leaning against the other side of the island from me. She takes a sip and then licks her lips. Always a good sign that she likes it. Like the little wiggle dance she does when she’s enjoying her food, she’s so easy to read and so adorable.
“Can I ask you more questions?” she asks like that isn’t already a question.
“It seems I’m an open book for you, so go right ahead.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin our night.”
She doesn’t see how much she’s helped me. Not yet. I finally feel like I can breathe again. I feel light, like I did before . . . just before. The debt of gratitude I owe her is immense. I’ll spend my days thanking her any way I can. “You can’t ruin our night.”
With each question she asks, I answer, my soul lifted from the hell where it’s been living. But then just like she always does, she gets to the heart of the matter. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I did, but my aunt called me a liar. She said the police report proved her son would never do that. And before my parents had a chance to arrive at the scene, she had police officers questioning my involvement as a suspect.” I take a big gulp of wine.
I thought about all the stuff a million times, but saying it out loud for the second time feels unnatural.
“I know what happened. The only reason I survived is because I put on more muscle than he had that summer.”
She looks at me lost in thought and hesitates to speak. I can almost see the words on the end of her tongue. But she moves to the pot and stirs, appearing to debate whether to ask.
“Anything, Lark. You can ask me anything.” Though I keep my eyes on the wooden spoon as it takes another spin around the pot as a distraction.
She turns the knob, and then asks, “Do you know why he did it?”
“I know he’d been troubled for a long time.
At one point, he wanted help. It was something we had talked about a few times.
” I spin the glass by the stem, but the memories are too strong to stay buried, and the conversations, confrontations we had come flooding back.
“We had a big blowup that ended up in punches being thrown. I hit him first, but it was to stop him from getting in the car. He was high as fuck and just as drunk. Lucas knew just how to get me to react.”
I gulp, ready for the good times to replace all the bad memories he left me with. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved him as a brother. He had a way of twisting things on me, having me take the blame, so maybe what happened after his death was part of the pattern.”
It took me more than a year to realize the day at Devil’s Edge was a cry for help. Before that, I’d always considered it an attack.”
She comes around and rubs my back. Resting her head on my shoulder, she whispers, “What caused his anger?”
“Probably the same thing that caused mine.”
“Your aunt?”
Angling to the side, I kiss her forehead and then spin around in the chair.
Settling her on my lap, I run my hand over her thigh, admiring her pretty eyes.
She sees me, the real me, and shines a light on the darkest parts of my life.
“Lucas and I had grown apart. He was my best friend, but I didn’t recognize him anymore.
Weed can be fun occasionally, but he’d moved on from that, and I just wanted off that ride. ”
“What changed?”
“I was fighting with family, my grades had turned to shit, and I was borderline about to be kicked out of the University. Talks were happening.” I scrub over my chin and the few days of growth shadowing my jawline.
“The fun times weren’t so fun anymore.” Her hand replaces mine, but her soft touch is soothing.
“Your family cares about you, Harbor. They wouldn’t be in talks if they didn’t. I don’t know them well, or at all, but I’ve been to enough events in The Pointe to know they’re special. They’re not like the others.”
I take her hands between mine and look into her eyes.
Stardust embodies her green eyes, the romantic heart seen so clearly in the coloring.
She allows me to open my heart and pour my sorrows on her lap.
I’ve been so fucking selfish, almost letting her day slip unnoticed.
“Why did you quit your job?” I ask, brushing my fingertips over the exposed skin of her shoulder.
She shifts, and as if the pot called her name, she’s drawn to it. Turning the knob off, she says, “I think it’s ready.”
I stand and come around to get the plates out of the cabinet. “And I think you’re avoiding the question.”
Stopping with the spoon in her hands, she seems to think about it, and then with what she was doing. “I think our night is full already. My problems can wait for another day.”
I set the plates on the island and dig through the silverware drawer, trying not to put a spotlight on the issue but hoping she’ll want to share. I feel better than I have forever. I want her to feel the same.
Lark starts plating the food like she’s a real chef.
It looks as good as it smells, so maybe she has another career in her if medical school doesn’t pan out.
Placing the peas in a perfect line with deft precision, she says, “I quit because one of the ladies at the brunch said her purse was worth more than my life.” Standing up, she looks proud of her creation.
“Voilà,” she adds like what she just said prior isn’t worth a second thought.
Sliding my arm around the small of her back, I kiss her cheek. “Looks amazing. You did good, baby.”
She hugs me from the side. “Thanks, babe.”
Handing her a knife and fork, she starts cutting into the chicken.
I like that we stand in the kitchen eating together without the formality of a dinner production.
Who are we fooling? No one. We don’t have to.
This is us. Casual homebodies. Someone who knew me back in my late teens would never recognize me these days. I like who I am with her.
I take a bite and moan in pleasure. The food is even better than it looks.
She makes a mean chicken dish, but I can admit that the woman has some quirks, like her acting as if the words of that lady don’t affect her.
They did at the time, considering she quit a job that she not only enjoyed but also needed to pay her bills.
But maybe . . . maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she knows her worth and what she means to the people who matter in her life.
Since she’s not sharing more of her feelings, she’s left me no choice. There’s only one way to find out. I stab a piece of chicken, scoring a few peas as well, and drag them through the sauce, keeping my eyes down to act casual. “What kind of purse was it—OW!”
I catch her fist before it leaves my arm, and her other, and pull her to me. Still holding my little MMA fighter’s wrists so she can’t escape, I chuckle. “That was the weakest hit. It’s like a fly throwing a punch. We need to get you pumping weights—”
“Okay, all right.” She rolls her eyes but starts laughing. Still shaking her head, she says, “I didn’t expect to hit a wall tonight.”
“Neither did I, which is why I made the joke.” I’m hoping it worked and she lets her guard down, opening up to me like I did with her. I release her wrists, and she stays.
Her smile softens as do the corners of her eyes. Reaching up, she runs her fingers over my lips and then lifts to give me a kiss. But then doesn’t. With her mouth only a few millimeters from mine, she whispers, “The only joke around here is that you still think you’re getting dessert after that.”
She pushes off me, laughing as she returns to her plate and takes a bite. She’s looking pleased as she can be with herself while I’m left scanning the kitchen for this sweet treat she speaks of before I realize she’s referring to eating her cookie later.
Oh shit, I fucked up.
And she knows it by the smug smirk on her face. Nodding, she says, “Mm-hmm. Thought that might be something you’d want.”
When she swallows, she takes a sip of wine, and then says, “I quit because I don’t want to be around people like that. It’s a job, but it’s not worth my dignity.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“We’ll see how proud you are when I’m some floozy kicked out of her apartment for not being able to pay rent.” Her fork clashes against the ceramic and then scrapes, piercing my ears.
I say, “First of all, what’s a floozy? Secondly, you could always move in here.”
Her mouth falls open, but when the shock wears off, she asks, “And have your parents pay my rent? Um, that’s a kind offer, Harbor, but I don’t think it’s wise.”
“I pay the rent. That’s part of the deal to live here.”
After a rapid succession of blinks, she says, “But how? You don’t have job.”
Setting my fork and knife down, I push the plate a few inches so I can rest my palms to the counter. “I have a monthly stipend. It covers the rent and my car.”
“That’s some allowance.”
“Stipend,” I correct. “There are expectations put in place. Rules we have to follow.”
“Like?”
“Like keeping a certain GPA, not getting arrested or parking tickets.”
Her fork hits her plate with a clatter. “You mean doing what you’re supposed to do? Follow the law, make good grades, use good judgment, exist. You’re telling me you get some ridiculous amount of money each month simply for existing?”
Normally, I’d get heated by her reactions, but I understand it this time. Staying calm, I reply, “I don’t expect you to understand it. I’m just explaining how it is.”
Maybe it was my tone, or not hiding my privilege, but she doesn’t rattle off an angry list of how life is unfair. She looks at me, straight in the eyes, and says, “It was a turquoise Hermès bag.”
She could have gone in a totally different direction with her reaction. But she chose us instead of our differences.