6. Luke
6
LUKE
I march into my house and slam the front door before stalking to the fridge to grab a beer. I down half of it in one go, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m still reeling from what just happened and unsure how to come down from it. I made up my mind after talking to Emory at her mailbox this morning. I was going to keep my distance. It was so easy to flirt with her; it came so naturally, but I realized it would drive me crazy in the long run. All it could ever be was harmless flirting. We may not be in high school anymore, but I have no doubt in my mind that Nate would beat me bloody if I touched his sister. Not to mention that it would break our trust.
I can’t do that to him.
Emory surprised me at first. I expected her to be the same carefree, bubbly girl she was in high school. But she seemed different, more reserved, and a little sad. Like life had knocked her down a peg or two. But then I saw some glimpses of the girl I had once known. When she bantered with her roommate. When she sassed me for giving her a hard time at the mailbox. That’s when I made the decision to keep my distance. Her beauty I could handle, but when that bratty little attitude of hers made an appearance again, I knew I would be genuinely fucked if I continued to seek her out.
I kept a low profile for the rest of the day, running errands to grab a few essentials. When I got home, her car was parked outside, so I assumed she was hanging out with her roommate inside. I even gave myself a mental high five for dodging her for a solid five hours.
Then a red-haired lady with wild eyes and a clipboard showed up at my door, barged into my house, and wouldn't budge until I signed her petition against unnecessary electrical work. When she finally took off, I didn't think twice about heading up Emory's driveway. I had to fill her in on having been held hostage in my own home for the better part of an hour. Allie answered the door and said Emory was out. She wouldn’t elaborate. I’m scared shitless of this chick, so I just let it go and went back home.
It wasn’t until a couple of hours later, as I was putting together an end table in the living room, that I heard a car pull up. I walked outside to get a better look, and that’s when I saw Emory in the passenger seat of some jackass’s Beamer.
I saw fucking red.
Before I knew it, I was pounding on the guy’s window like a lunatic. One glance at Emory’s face and I could tell I had fucked up. It was a cross between horrified and confused. But maybe also a little intrigued. Either way, I knew it was wrong to interrupt her date and make her feel bad, but I couldn’t help myself. It was like my brain had been taken over by another entity. I just couldn’t bring myself to leave them alone. But when she asked if I could give them space, I had no choice. I had to salvage what was left of my dignity.
I was going to wait until she got into her house safely and then go back to avoiding her, but when she stepped out of the car, I saw that tiny black dress and those fancy heels with the red bottoms. You don’t wear that on a date with a fucking friend . My anger is irrational. I know that. She knows that. I have zero claim on her. But then I started imagining what would have happened in that asshole’s BMW if I hadn’t interrupted. Would he have tried to kiss her? Would she have let him? If they did kiss, would he have put his hand on her thigh—slowly slid it up inside her dress until he—fuck. I’m such an asshole. I should have just apologized for interrupting her date and made up some lame excuse about being stressed with the move. But then she accused me of spying on her for her goddamn brother and insinuated that I didn’t care. And I lost it. I almost kissed her. God, I wanted to kiss her. Feel her soft lips pressed against mine, warm and wet and fucking perfect.
I was so close.
I could feel those rapid, shallow breaths, her chest rising and falling with each inhale. Her nipples peaked beneath her dress because, of course, she wasn’t even wearing a fucking bra. I was so close to knowing what she tastes like, but there would have been no coming back from that. I knew I had to walk away. I had to physically pry my hands off the car.
Now I'm left wondering what the hell is going on with me. I've never been jealous over a girl in my entire life. Nate and I used to pass girls back and forth in high school—not something I'm proud of, but whatever. Some girls even tried to make me jealous to get me into an exclusive relationship, flirting with other guys at the bar after we'd hooked up. I never felt even a hint of jealousy. Yet, when Emory Fucking Caldwell gets driven home by some guy, I'm about to lose my goddamn mind.
I need to chill the fuck out. I grab the remote and flip on ESPN. Thank God I had the foresight to set up my TV earlier. I start watching some highlights from an earlier game, and slowly, my breathing regulates, and I start to calm down. But then I make the mistake of glancing at the floor, noticing the wooden pieces and screws from the end table I abandoned when I first heard the car pull up. Now I’m ragey all over again. I kick one of the pieces of wood, and it hits the wall, splintering.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I bend down to pick up the pieces off the floor and stack them in the corner, so I don’t step on them later.
I could go out. Check out the new bars and nightlife that have popped up in Rocky Falls since I left. Find a meaningless fuck to take the edge off. But I can’t bring myself to even change out of my sweats right now.
I'm done with this damn day. I'm beat from the move and the emotional mess I just caused. My muscles are screaming from helping the movers, a couple of college kids who probably haven't lifted anything heavier than a five-pound weight in their lives. I need to shower, pass the fuck out, and pretend this day never happened.
Minutes later, the hot water beats down on my sore muscles, and it feels incredible. I grab my body wash and start lathering up my chest and stomach. When I get to my dick, I linger for a second. I picture Emory’s glossy lips and the way her dress strained against her tits as her chest moved up and down. My dick instantly perks up. I stroke my length as I close my eyes, imagining the way Emory’s olive eyes darkened when I caged her against the car, her breath hitching ever so slightly. She wanted me—almost as badly as I wanted her.
Want her. Present tense.
I thought Emory looking up at me sheepishly while on her knees in nothing but a bra and panties was spank bank material. Don’t get me wrong, it definitely was, but it was nothing compared to this. As I picture her beneath me, trapped against the car, anger and uncertainty intermingling, I stroke myself faster and faster. Until I come the hardest I have in months. Letting out a string of curses, I spill all over the shower wall.
Finally, I’ve taken the edge off and can get some sleep. As I towel off and throw on a pair of boxer briefs, I realize that the only thing that could calm me tonight was thinking about Emory. Worse, thinking about her while coming my brains out.
I wake up with my hand on my dick. Again. For the third time since I almost kissed Emory, I shamelessly touch myself to the thought of her. I can’t help myself. I can’t get her out of my fucking head. I finish to the thought of Emory wrapped in that tiny little dress last night, her chest heaving, her lips pouted, waiting for me to kiss her.
God, I’m such an idiot.
I need to stop thinking about her. I need to get out of this house. I should go visit Mom to get a plan together. I stopped by the house yesterday while she was at the office to grab the truck. I just couldn't face her yet, couldn't bear to see the disappointment in her eyes that she has never been able to hide. I didn't even tell her I was in town last week when I checked out the cottage. I'm grateful she's giving me space and letting me do this on my own time, but I can’t keep avoiding her.
Time to be a big boy and face this situation head-on.
I get dressed, grab the keys to the truck, and head over to the house where I spent part of my childhood. We moved from North Carolina right before freshman year, looking for a fresh start, and for a while, that's exactly what we got.
Mom’s sitting on the front porch reading a book as I pull into the driveway, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a messy braid. She’s wearing denim overalls, a navy blue checkered shirt underneath, and the worn brown boots she’s had for as long as I can remember. We may have left the South a while ago, but my mother is a Southern woman through and through. When she’s not working at her office, she dresses like she’s about to milk a cow.
“Well, well, well. The prodigal son returns,” she quips in her Southern drawl, setting her book on the wooden bench.
“I don’t think that means what you think,” I say with a chuckle as I walk up the steps.
She smiles, and there’s no hint of disappointment in her eyes. I breathe a sigh of relief as she stands and wraps me in a tight hug, like she’s trying to tether our souls together. “I missed you, baby boy.”
“I missed you too, Ma.”
I soak up her scent as we embrace. She smells like warmth—tea leaves and basil. When she lets me go, her gentle smile quickly turns into a more serious expression. She gives my shoulder a slap. “Don't ever stay away that long again,” she says firmly.
“Ow! I just saw you in New York a few months ago,” I protest.
“It’s not the same. Look, I know you have your issues with Dad, but this is your home. You can always come home. I need you to know that.”
“I know. I just—needed time.”
Then I ask the question I don’t want to ask but have to. “How is he?”
She smiles reflexively, but it’s not sincere. Not like the smile when I first walked up the steps. “He’s getting a little better every day. I had no idea he had stopped taking his meds. He was so good for so long. Other than that night…before you left, he had no outbursts. No episodes. I don’t get it.”
“None that you saw,” I mutter.
“I know you two butt heads, Luke. I’m not blind. But that night…” She trails off. “He was so angry. And then you left, and he seemed to be back to himself.”
“So it was my fault?” I can’t help the anger creeping up my chest.
“No! No. None of this is your fault. Don’t ever think that.” She stands on the tips of her toes and takes my cheek in her hand. “Your father has a mental illness. It’s not your fault or mine. But it’s also not his.”
“I find that hard to believe, considering he's the one who quit taking his meds.” I pull away from her grasp. I don't want to break my mother's heart, but I'm angry. “If a heart patient stops taking their meds and has a heart attack, isn't that their fault? Just because you're sick doesn't mean you get to neglect your own care.”
“I get that,” she says softly. “But refusing care is part of the illness sometimes.”
“Yeah,” I say dismissively. “Just tell me what I need to do. I'm here for you. I meant what I said a few weeks ago. You've got your own business to worry about. I won't let you take this on too.”
When my mom first called me to tell me dad had relapsed and was in the psych ward, she said she’d take over his construction business until he got better. I immediately shut that shit down. No way in hell would I let my mom’s business suffer. Growing up, my mom had always worked—she was the lead accountant for a big company in North Carolina. My dad and grandma stayed home with me until I was old enough for preschool. I always wondered why my grandma had to be there. I loved her, and she made me fun lunches and let me watch cartoons in the afternoon, but my dad didn’t work. So why couldn’t he watch me? Then, when I was four, I found him sobbing in the bathroom one day, holding a razor blade against his wrist. He hadn’t done anything, but he had a look in his eyes I’ll never forget. It was haunted. He was shaking and repeating something over and over, like a chant, but I couldn’t make out what it was.
Then, a few days later, he snapped out of it as if nothing had ever happened. One morning, he woke up and announced we were going to the new train museum. As a kid, I was obsessed with trains, so I was super excited. Mom and Grandma had a miscommunication, and my grandma thought she had the day off work, so she didn't come to the house. It was just me and Dad. We had an amazing time, building tracks and playing with the boxcars. After a while, I started to get tired and hungry, but Dad said there was still so much more to see. After a while, I sat down on a bench to rest my feet. Dad said he wanted to check something out and would be right back.
He never came back.
I waited and waited.
The museum started clearing out, and I really had to pee, but I held it. Finally, I saw my mom rushing in. She held me so tight I thought I was going to piss my pants. When she released me, tears were glistening in her eyes. She carried me to the car in her arms like a newborn.
Never again, baby boy.
I realized later that my dad had simply forgotten about me. He got sidetracked by something, lost track of time, and then headed home for dinner. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he completely forgot he had come with me.
That's when the doctors and hospitals started. Over the next few years, my dad went through a revolving door of therapists and psychiatrists, often being admitted to psychiatric in-patient programs. When I was eight, he finally got a definitive diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. However, it took another few years to find the right combination of medications to keep his manic and depressive episodes under control. When my dad had been stable and steadily employed for a couple of years, Mom decided we needed a fresh start. There were too many bad memories in our old house. We had gone on a weekend trip to Connecticut to see the foliage that past fall, and my mom fell in love with the quaint little towns. It meant leaving my grandma behind, but Mom promised we would visit often. So we packed up and headed for Emberfield.
“Luke,” my mom calls from the kitchen, snapping me back to reality. I hadn't even noticed she'd gone inside. “Let me walk you through this week’s schedule. We've pushed back all the jobs from the past two weeks, so it'll be a bit chaotic, but most of my clients are morning appointments, which means I'll be free in the afternoons to lend a hand.” After years of working for others, my mom took the leap and started her own accounting firm when we first moved here. A year later, my dad launched his construction business. With years of experience under his belt, he felt mentally prepared to take on more responsibility. Starting two businesses in such a short span meant things were tight financially for a while, but we managed to make ends meet.
Then, about six months ago, Dad decided to stop taking his meds and started having manic episodes again. It got so bad that Mom decided he needed to be admitted, so here I am, giving up my carefree life bartending in New York to take over his business while he’s out of commission. Luckily, my dad has shown me some things over the years, and I’m pretty handy in general. I’ve been fixing and customizing my bike for the past three years since I bought it. Dad has a few employees who are competent, so I only need to oversee the job sites and manage estimates and customer relations. Mom takes care of the billing and financial side of the business.
Mom hands me a folder labeled Job Info . “Marco and Tim will meet you at the job site tomorrow morning at eight. They are retiling a bathroom. They may need an extra set of hands, but they will show you what to do. They’re our best guys.” Most home contractors have an area they specialize in, like painting or tiling, but my dad insisted on being full-service, so now I have to learn every aspect of updating a home.
Perfect.
I grab the folder and kiss her cheek. “I got this, Ma. I won’t let you down.”
“You never have, baby boy,” she says gently. “Hey, maybe you’ll get a girl out of all this. A lonely single mom falls for the broody, handsome handyman…” she narrates as if she’s reading the description for a Hallmark movie.
“Okay, first of all, I am not broody. I’m super fun and light-hearted. And secondly, you need to stop watching those ridiculous movies.”
“Never,” she says with conviction, and I shake my head.
“Bye, Mom. I’ll stop by again in a few days to check in,” I say as I place a kiss on the top of her head.
“You better. I’ll whoop your behind if you stay away for that long again.”
I shake my head and chuckle, heading out the door, but then my mom calls after me. “Luke…don’t minimize the possibility of finding love. It could be right around the corner. And I’m going to need grandbabies eventually.”
I wave her off as I close the door. My mom doesn’t miss an opportunity to try to insert herself into my love life. Not that I have one. I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school. It’s cleaner that way—no feelings, no loss. No one can leave me if I leave first. Relationships are messy. And getting married and having babies is so far out of the realm of possibility for me; it’s in an entirely different universe.
So explain to me why the second my mom said the word “love,” I imagined what it would be like to fall for a certain wavy, brown-haired, hazel-eyed nurse.