Magnolia #3
The first tear falls down my cheek. I feel it leave my eye, slide down my cheek, and drip off my chin.
Another falls, then another, and pretty soon, Lukas is nothing but a blur.
He shifts in the truck, his hand coming out to rest on my shoulder.
He wants more. I can feel the grip on his fingers begging to pull me to him, but I know he wants me to be the one to go to him.
And I want the same, I think. It hasn’t ever been a question for me if I still wanted Lukas.
If I loved him. Love was never the problem with us.
But being with him, the toxic version of him was slowly killing us both, and I had to do what I could to survive.
But now, seeing the look on his face, one that mirrors my own, has me thinking that even though we handled it differently, being apart was slowly killing the both of us.
I lift the center console that’s been the barrier between us.
I lean forward, lifting a knee to crawl along the seat.
Lukas watches with hesitation, his tear-filled eyes darting across my every move.
His long arm reaches out to pull me once I’m close, and I twist, falling into his lap as I sling my arm around his neck.
The tears fall faster now, and Lukas hugs me to his chest as I sob, burying my face in his throat.
For the first time in years, I let Lukas hold me, and I forgot how good it feels to be held by him, comforted by him.
God, how I’ve missed this man. Even at the darkest times, when I was broken, when I thought I hated him, when I’d sit on the floor of the shower and let the water drown out my sobs, my every thought was still of him.
“I’m sorry you felt that way.” I know Lukas is an amazing dad.
I don’t need to meet Candi or Ivy to know that.
Deep down, he is a softie, a lover, a man trying to tamp down the layers of emotions he feels on a daily basis.
I can imagine the guilt he felt when he almost called her my name.
I can imagine his emotional stare, the tears that filled his eyes.
I can imagine him looking at his brand-new baby girl and holding her while he silently cried, making sure no one knew what he was going through.
“I’m sorry, Mags,” he croaks, burying his face in my hair. There’s a salty mix on my lips, and I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that it’s all from me. “Sorry isn’t enough for how badly I’ve hurt you, but goddamn, I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too.” I’m not sure exactly what I’m sorry for most at this moment.
I’m sorry that I assumed the worst from him, that my heart was broken enough to think the worst. I’m sorry for all the months I spent thinking our relationship was a lie and that I tried to make myself believe he faked our near lifetime together.
I soak in his scent, the feel of his arms wrapped around me for another minute, and then I push off, moving to sit next to him in the center of the truck.
My hand reaches up to flip down his visor so I can use the mirror to clean the smudged mascara from my eyes.
As soon as it’s open, an old worn photograph floats down.
The picture is faded from the sun, and the corners are curling in on themselves.
It’s a picture that’s been around for a while, one that’s been held a lot, crinkled as if folded up at some point.
My hand darts out to snatch it from the air at the same time Lukas’s does, but I reach it first, pulling it to me as his breath hitches.
It’s a photo of me in the summertime. I can’t remember the exact moment it was taken.
But I’m young, maybe seventeen, smiling over at him taking the picture.
The wind has kicked up, and my hair would be flying across my face if it wasn’t for his baseball cap sitting atop my head.
But I look happy. The smile on my face says I’m smiling over at someone I love.
And I wonder, when was the last time I truly felt that level of happiness?
The picture feels intimate, like I’m thumbing through someone else’s diary. I look up at Lukas, and his eyes are focused on the photo in my hand. I flip up the visor, tucking the photo back in its hiding place.
“I look young there,” is all I manage to say.
The corner of his lip twitches. “You’re young now.”
“I’m twenty-eight. That’s nearly mid-life for a ballerina, elderly, maybe.”
“Well,” he croaks. “You make elderly look good.”
A smile cracks my face, and I stare over at him. I’m still tucked close to his side, leaning my head back to share his headrest. It’d be so easy for him to close the distance between us, to steal those measly few inches and kiss me, but it isn’t time.
It isn’t the right moment. Not now.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about kissing me.
My eyes flick to his lips, to the lips that I know are achingly soft and can work every inch of my body from head to toe.
“About meeting Candi and Ivy,” he finishes, and I know there is a blush that blooms on my cheeks.
I inch away from him, scooting over until I’m back in the passenger seat and reach for my seatbelt.
“It’ll be five minutes, Mags. If you’re uncomfortable, if you hate it at all, just give me the look, and we can leave. I’ll drop you off at the airport and never bring it up again.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice has me nodding my head yes, and murmuring, “okay,” before I can even question if that's what I want.
“Okay?” His body stiffens, as if he wasn’t expecting me to agree so easily.
I shrug. “Why the heck not?”