22
LUKA LOVES ME.
Luka is in love with me.
I repeat it to myself on a loop. That look on his face in the video, I’ve seen it before. Of course I’ve seen it before. I’ve caught him looking at me like that in the early morning when I’m standing at the coffee machine whispering hello and begging for caffeine. When we’ve gone out on the bay on those little paddleboats shaped like dragons, a bag of crumbs in my pocket for the seagulls. He’s had that look on his face pretty much every time I’ve ever seen him. The pieces slot together. Luka has been falling in love with me this whole time, and I’ve been too caught up in keeping myself safe to notice.
The bell above the door to the bakehouse jingles when I step inside, the tables empty, chairs still stacked in the corner. Layla doesn’t open for another hour yet, but I know she’s here somewhere, probably getting ready in the back. I spot Beckett sitting at the counter, a plate of donuts in front of him and an icing bag in his left hand. He likes to come here when he’s stressed, eat his feelings, and pretend he’s helping Layla out while he does it. Layla emerges from the supply closet, an apron around her waist and a streak of flour in her hair.
She stops short at the sight of me, Beckett turning with a glance over his
shoulder.
“I fucked up,” I tell them quietly.
Neither of them says anything, completely frozen at the counter. They look like one of those living art exhibits.
“Please say it’s about Luka,” Layla breathes.
Beckett rolls his eyes and goes back to filling his donuts. “Of course it’s about Luka. She has a hickey on her neck and her hat is on backward.” He places one perfect donut on the platter Layla has set out for him and drops a tiny icing mistletoe on top. “Plus, Luka has been hiding out at my house since this morning.”
I’m relieved that Luka is still here on the farm. Despite his promise that he’d come back, a big part of me was worried he’d disappear back to New York, refuse the job in Delaware, and never return.
Layla waves me forward and clears space for me at the counter. She holds a donut up in front of my face. “Eat this and tell me what happened.”
Beckett tries to grab the donut out of my hand, but I twist away from him.
I need it more than he does.
“You’re a mess.” He grabs his own donut, biting the tiny mistletoe fondant on top clean in half. Layla frowns at both of us and moves the platter to the back shelf, out of our greedy reach.
“I’m going to have nothing left if you two keep trying to help me.”
I swallow warm flaky pastry and buttercream filling and muster my courage. “Luka is in love with me.”
Beckett and Layla stare at me. When I say nothing, Layla raises both eyebrows. “And?”
I drop my forehead to the counter with a groan. “Did everyone know but me?”
“Yup,” Beckett answers. I hear the smack of a hand against bare skin and peek up just as Beckett rubs at his forehead, a glare aimed at Layla. “What?
You know it’s true. There was a townwide betting pool about it.”
Layla ignores him. “Did he tell you?”
I nod and give them the abbreviated version of events. That he told me he loved me, and we argued. My conversation with Evelyn in the fields and the video she showed me.
“It shouldn’t have taken a video for you to realize,” Beckett says, squeezing out a bit of the donut filling onto his finger. Layla snatches that away from him too. “He’s been showing you for years.”
I look down at the countertop. “I didn’t see it.”
“You did,” Layla disagrees gently and shoots a warning look at Beck when he opens his mouth. “You saw it, honey. You were just too afraid to do anything about it. You’re comfortable in the friend zone, so you decided to
keep yourself there.”
I shrug, hapless. “How do I fix it?”
“I guess that depends.” Layla turns and plucks a donut from the tray, splits it in half, and offers it to me. Beckett makes a pained noise under his breath. “Are you willing to be honest?”
I HEAD BACK to my cottage after needling Layla into giving me another donut. I make the last turn around the big oak and stumble when I see a figure on my front steps. Luka is sitting on the stoop that leads to my porch, his legs apart, hands clasped loosely between them. He’s staring down at the ground but looks up when my boots send a shower of gravel across my front yard, a donut still clutched in my hand.
“Hey,” he says, hesitation making the word sound short.
After watching the video and examining every detail of every interaction we’ve had over the last month and a half, it’s almost startling to see him sitting in front of me. I hadn’t expected to see him again today. I had constructed a loose outline of a plan on my walk back home:
Find a bottle of wine.
Continue to overthink Luka.
Consume said bottle of wine and the rest of the pumpkin pie.
Apologize to Luka.
Beg for forgiveness.
Tell Luka I love him.
Eat some more pie.
The whole thing is a work in progress.
“Hi,” I say back.
My heart lodges in my throat and makes it difficult for me to swallow. We watch each other, hesitant, and then Luka stands, unfolding his tall body from the bottom step to lean against the railing. I fumble around in my pockets for my keys, one of Luka’s pine trees brushing at my knuckles. I never took it out after he kissed me in the barn. That feels like ages ago now.
Layla’s words ring in my head. Are you willing to be honest?
I’m not sure I’m that brave.
“You have a key,” I tell him, ignoring the pine tree and urging my feet forward. It’s cold out this afternoon, a snap in the air that has my fingers numb to my knuckles. I wonder how long I was out in the fields, how long Luka has been on my front porch. I look at the ruddy color on his cheeks, the way his shoulders shrug up by his ears. He’s not even wearing a scarf.
“Didn’t feel right to use it,” he says, gaze still locked on me despite the anxious line of his body. He’s holding himself still, tight, away from me, and that more than anything makes me sad. I slip past him up the stairs, aware of the space between us. I want to throw his arm over my shoulder, curl into his side, and have him tease me about not being able to fit the key in the lock.
“You can always use it,” I mutter, pushing open the door for us. My gaze catches on the Christmas tree in the window as I’m toeing off my boots, my bra hanging from one of the top branches. Luka follows my eyes and snorts when he sees it, a brush of color at the base of his neck where he isn’t already painted pink by the cold.
“Ah.” He scratches at the back of his head and arranges my boots into a neat line, almost like he can’t help himself. That little gesture gives me hope that things aren’t completely ruined between us. He shakes his head and diverts his attention from my new creative ornament. I should take that down before Dane comes over with the paperwork for Hewett. Luka rocks back on his heels. “I’m here for the thing with Evelyn.”
“Oh.” My little spark of hope snuffs out. “We decided not to do that this afternoon.” There’s no point since we’ve been disqualified from the contest. I suppose I should probably tell him.
“There’s, uh, we don’t have to pretend to be together anymore.” I swallow and glance fleetingly at his face before losing courage and looking down at our socks instead. “I told Evelyn the truth. Turns out she already knew.”
“She knew we weren’t together?”
I nod. “Busybodies,” I say. That’s about all I can offer as an explanation right now. I nod my head toward the coffee machine in the kitchen. “Want to stick around, or—”
I don’t want him to feel like he has to stay here with me, especially since it’s clear he only came here to fulfill whatever responsibility he felt he had.
He’s free to go now, free to be clear of me completely if he wants. That sends a sour feeling rolling through my stomach. He must see it on my face because he reaches a hand out, taps once at my elbow. It’s a valiant attempt at our previous physical affection, and I’m left wishing he curled his fingers around me instead, pulled me into his chest and rested his chin on my head.
“I’ll stick around,” he says, looking only mildly morose at the idea of it.
His eyes bounce from the window to the curve of my chin, to my shoulder, and then back again. I hate how awkward this is. Even the first time we ever had lunch together, we didn’t lack for things to say. I had been sad, withdrawn, a little bit lost, but Luka had filled the space between us with easy chatter—data patterns and his mom’s cooking and the little pupusa stand in the city he liked to go to on Saturday mornings.
I start up the coffeepot in silence, the steady drip, drip, drip like a metronome. Are you willing to be honest? Luka sets himself at one of the kitchen chairs, eyes fixed out the window. I maintain composure through two series of drips before I can’t take it anymore, my heart hammering in my chest.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell him the truth.
“Luka, I—”
“I want to—”
I huff out a laugh that is more nerves than amusement and nod for him to continue. If anyone deserves to have their say first, it’s Luka. I’ll follow his lead. I’ll do whatever he wants.
He rests his hands on the table. “I want to apologize for this morning.”
My stomach sinks to my toes, and my face must show it because he rushes to correct himself. “Not—not for what I said, but for how I left. That wasn’t right.”
“I hurt you,” I offer and pour two steaming mugs of coffee with shaking hands. If Luka had reacted the way I had this morning, I’d be on the first train out of town. I’d be out in the fields, digging a hole to bury myself in. I’m not sure I’d ever show my face in Inglewild again.
“You did,” he agrees, and that sour feeling twists and pulls tight, making me frown into my mug. I take the seat across from him and fight to keep my gaze on his. “But I still shouldn’t have left like that. I know—I know that’s a big deal for you, the idea of people leaving. I think that’s why you kept Beckett and Layla out of the loop on farm business. Because you were afraid they’d leave if they found out you were having some trouble.” His voice is gentle, but his words hit their mark, landing like little hailstones against my heart. Each one leaves a little dent. “And when I told you I lo—” He clears his throat, avoids saying the words, and that hurts too. That I’ve given a sliver of my fear to him. “When I said what I said, and your reaction wasn’t what I wanted, I did exactly what you were afraid of. I left. I’m sorry for that.”
I can’t stand to hear him apologize. Not after the way I acted this morning. Not after the way I’ve been acting since we started this whole thing.
“Luka—”
“You know I buy those pine trees in bulk? Those little cardboard ones,” he explains like I don’t know what he’s talking about. Like I don’t have every one he’s ever given me saved in the drawer of my desk, the overflow in a box in my closet. It smells like pine every time I open the door to get a sweater out, a little stale now, but I refuse to get rid of them. “The first one I got on a whim at the gas station down the street, but your face lit up when I gave it to you. I think it was probably then that I realized.”
I hold my breath, captivated. “Realized what?”
He’s shy, reserved, staring at his hands curled around his mug before he slides his eyes back to mine. His mouth hitches up at the corner, but he
ignores my question. “I got greedy for that look. I didn’t want anyone else to have it. I still don’t want anyone else to have it.”
You can have it, I want to say. You can have all my smiles and looks and hugs and touches. My heart too. If you still want it.
“Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is I still have about two hundred of those cardboard pine trees. And I have a recurring order. I’m—I’m not gonna leave, La La. I’ve still got plenty of trees to give you. As long as you want me around, I’ll be here.”
He digs his hand into his back pocket, hips lifting to pull something out.
He places a small cardboard pine tree on the table and slides it over to me with his finger.
I stare at that tree for a long time, eyes hot, throat tight.
It’s hard to love someone without restraint. To give yourself over to the swell and pull of it without fear of what might happen. I think it’s only natural to hold a part of yourself back and protect what you can. My mom loved me fiercely, but she also never opened her heart to anyone else. Not after what my dad did. So I think I’ve—I think that’s how I learned not to wish for too much. To play it safe and easy.
But it’s hard to keep yourself from giving in too. Layla is right. These past nine years I’ve buried every glimpse of strong feeling with denial, yearning, and a sprinkle of deliberate misunderstanding. Every time I’ve even glanced at Luka, I’ve felt it. A hollow ring. A sharp tug. A persistent and uncomfortable ache.
I stand from the table abruptly, my chair rocketing backward across the hardwood floor with an angry screech. Luka stands too, eyes faintly panicked. I turn and head down the hallway, my whole body thrumming.
“Stella?” Luka stumbles behind me, hitting his knee on the edge of a vintage umbrella stand that I use for wrapping-paper tubes. He curses under his breath and hobbles after me. “Stella, wait a second. I didn’t—”
I tear open the door to my closet, a cascade of sweaters and scarves and all of the other random things I shoved in here tumbling out. A garden gnome lands on my toe. Two boxes of extra string lights make a leap for freedom. I
toss an old version of Candy Land over my shoulder. Luka skids to a halt inside my room.
“What are you— Oh my god.” He cuts off abruptly. He sucks in a sharp breath, probably horrified at my messiness unleashed. Maybe I should have shown him this before he confessed his love. “Is that a fern?”
It’s a fake monstera that one of Beckett’s sisters bought him and he promptly deposited at my front door. I lower myself to my knees to drag it out of the way and reach behind it for the old KitchenAid mixer box. I don’t even think I even own a KitchenAid.
“You don’t own a KitchenAid,” Luka says, folding up some sweaters behind me. “Can I help you with something, or—”
There’s frustration there, a hint of sadness too. He just spilled his heart out and I’m rummaging through my closet.
“Here it is.” I flip open the lid of the box and turn it over, hundreds of tiny cardboard paper trees falling to the floor between us. They slip over one another in a tiny waterfall of stale pine and curled green edges, the strings tangled. Luka abandons his folding and picks one up, eyebrows knit in confusion.
“I’ve got some data points for you,” I tell him, voice wobbling at the edges. “After that day you took me to get a grilled cheese, I thought about your smile every time I walked past the hardware store. I still think about your smile every time I walk past the hardware store. I get heavy whipping cream when I go to the grocery store because you told me once homemade whipped cream is better than the canned stuff. Do you know how many cartons of cream I’ve wasted? I sometimes pretend I haven’t seen a movie just so you can point out the best parts.” I suck in a deep shaking breath.
“That concert when I wore that pink dress? I wanted to kiss you too. When we took that first camping trip to the beach and I woke up with you wrapped around me, I could feel your heartbeat against my back. It was the first time in years I didn’t wake up lonely and sad.”
It’s a relief to release every secret thought, every hidden feeling. I wipe my fingertips under my eyes and try to get control of my breathing. It’s quiet between us, and I look down at the trees scattered across my floor.
Luka clears his throat, hands reaching for me. At some point, he decided to sit on the floor next to me. “I think data analysts—” His voice breaks off and he stops, collects himself, and tries again. “I think data analysts refer to that as a long-term trend.”
“I want all your trees,” I tell him. “You know I wrote boyfriend on that application on purpose?” I mirror his honesty from the kitchen with some of my own. “I had just gotten off the phone with you. You were laughing about some commercial you just saw, and you had those lines by your eyes—” I reach up and caress the faint smile lines by his left eye. “These. Right after we hung up, I filled out the application for the contest, and I wrote boyfriend.
I was only thinking of you. I wanted an excuse, to have to pretend. I thought I could have you for a week, and it would be enough to make my feelings go away.” I look down at my hands and start pushing the trees into a pile. “But all this week did was make it easier for me to love you. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. I’m sorry for the way I reacted, and I’m sorry I hurt you. I haven’t handled anything right. I don’t know, all of my excuses sound stupid now.”
I remember what I told Layla. That if something were supposed to happen, it would have happened. I’m such an idiot. Things have been happening for years, I’ve just been clinging to this idea that if everything stayed exactly the same, I’d never have to be hurt again.
Luka pushes onto his knees in front of me, brushing the trees out of his way. He curls his hands over my thighs, ducks his head down until he can
look at me. “How do you feel now?”
Are you willing to be honest?
I suck in a deep breath. “I’m still afraid,” I tell him. I hold his eyes, hoping he sees how serious and terrified and stupidly in love with him I am.
“I’m really afraid. You’re my best friend. I need to know if we do this that I still get to keep you if it doesn’t work.”
“You will,” he says, palms moving up and down, shifting closer. “You won’t be able to get rid of me, I promise.”
“Even if it goes bad.”
“It’s not gonna go bad.”
“Luka.”
He grins at me. “It’s not gonna go bad,” he says again, voice softer.
“I want it notarized.” I sniff and run a shaking hand under my nose.
“We can get it notarized. Alex does that, right?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He nods, a smile starting in the corner of his mouth. The sun slanting in through my windows lights his eyes in shades of gold, the freckles on his nose a starburst. “See, was that so hard?”
I laugh. It’s only been the hardest thing of my life.
“I’m really glad I asked you to be my fake boyfriend,” I confess.
“I’m really glad I agreed to be your fake boyfriend.”
“I love you.” I sigh, and the change on his face is instant. His smile softens and spreads until his whole face glows with it, the hands on my thighs sliding up to my hips. He drops his forehead to mine until he’s only colors.
Gold, chestnut brown, pale pink. I sigh and close my eyes. “I love you so much.”
I can feel his smile against mine, bright and beautiful. His hands squeeze my hips, my ribs, and then rise to cup my cheeks. His thumbs smooth under my eyes. “Fucking finally.”
When he kisses me, it tastes like hazelnut lattes, the edge of a mini pine
tree digging into my knee.
Finally.
