23
LUKA
IT TOOK ALMOST a decade, but I finally got my shit together.
To be fair, Stella did her fair share of feet-dragging too. I think it makes us a good pair, unnecessary heartache aside. I tell her this while we’re lying on the floor of her bedroom, my skin still sticky with sweat and my fingertips tracing between her shoulder blades, her pale skin glowing in the afternoon sun. I’m pretty sure there’s a shoe digging into my back, but Stella keeps snuggling closer, her hair tickling my chin, and I wouldn’t move if Beckett and all his kittens kicked in the door. Stella tilts her head up to glare at me after my comment of “Finally,” but I see her hiding a smile too. My favorite Stella smile, dimples winking in her cheeks.
I should probably tell her she needs to get her bra out of the tree.
She sighs into my bicep, and part of me shifts, rolls, and settles. I’ve had my doubts that we’d get to this point. Before this social media thing, my plan for telling Stella how I felt about her was just a . . . general wear down, I guess. Keep coming around, keep feeding her Bolognese, maybe try and hold her hand. I told Beckett it was the long game. He called me a moron. When I explained the plan to Charlie, he just slapped me once upside the head and stole the rest of my beer.
I don’t think she realizes it, but we’ve kind of been dating for the past nine years. Even when she’s been with someone, I’ve been the guy she calls when she locks her keys in her car at the gas station. I’m the guy she calls when she accidentally puts dry ice down the sink and is afraid she’s going to explode her plumbing. I’m really glad I’m the guy she calls when she needs a fake boyfriend.
The farm is going to be fine. With the monthly installments Dane has Hewett paying for all of the damage he’s done, Stella won’t even need the money from the contest. And she doesn’t know it yet, but Charlie texted me earlier while Stella was wandering through the fields.
Elle has decided she’s leaving Brian. Apparently, there was an incident with his secretary and seven other women at the firm. Not sure you can call it an incident when the number is over two, but I wasn’t asking questions. As a parting gift, Charlie has decided to buy every dead and distorted tree from the south pasture and drop it on the front lawn of his father’s house. I think it’s a fine way to celebrate the occasion. I’m sure Stella will agree.
Stella presses a kiss to my chin, and I smooth my palm down her spine.
Here’s the truth of it. Back when Stella asked me for my exit strategy for this fake boyfriend thing, I didn’t have one. Frankly, I was too occupied with the idea of getting to touch her, hold her, be with her the way I’ve always wanted. But as soon as she asked, I knew what my answer was. I told her we’d continue and I meant it.
I have this memory of my dad that comes to me in bits and pieces. Vanilla ice cream. Sticky summer heat. Humidity that made my clothes feel like they weighed ten thousand pounds. And my dad’s socks, one higher than the other, caught in the leg of his pants. Tiny bottles of ketchup on them, a gift from my mom.
I had just punched Jimmy Tomilson in the face on the playground at school, and my dad had picked me up early. He had been silent in the car and silent when we pulled up in front of the ice-cream shop. Silent in the line until he ordered us two cones to go. He walked us down the street to a little garden tucked away, surrounded by rose-bushes with an empty fountain in the middle. I had been terrified of what he might say, the threat of his disappointment hanging over me like a thick cloud.
“Why’d you do it?” he had asked.
I told him that Jimmy was picking on Sarah Simmons, tossing mulch chips at her and tripping her every time she tried to hop on the slide. I told him to stop, and when he didn’t listen, I punched him in the face. My dad didn’t say anything at that, just took another slow bite of his ice-cream cone.
He always did that. Bit his ice cream instead of licking it. My mom called it barbaric.
“You’re not always going to know what the right thing is,” he said.
“When that happens, you continue.”
I had blinked at him, ice cream melting down the side of my cone and over my knuckles. “Continue what?”
“You’ll figure it out.” Another bite of ice cream. “Continue. Listen.
You’ll find your way.”
I’ve tried to figure that advice out as I’ve grown up. It’s always been there in the back of my mind every time I’ve been confused or frustrated or impatient. Continue. Listen. But now, for the first time, I think I get it.
I’m going to keep stuffing Stella’s pantry with whole-grain bread and protein bars and actual real-life fruit, because Cup O’ Noodles and Oreos aren’t a reasonable diet. I’m going to dance with her in the kitchen, her bare feet stepping on my toes every other step. Cook her ravioli and manicotti and garlic bread with extra cheese, because her face lights up when she sees me at her stove, chin on my shoulder as she tries to reach over me for a taste. I’m going to hold her hand when she needs it, tuck her close when she needs that too.
I’m going to love her in all the quiet ways, the slow ways, the loud and obnoxious ways. My heart has been moving steadily in that direction since she fell down the steps of the hardware store, right into my arms.
“Why’re you smiling like that?” she mumbles into my chest, one eye squinted shut, her finger poking at the line in my cheek. I swat her hand away and tangle our fingers together. “S’weird.”
“Mmm, you’ve got a way with words. Anyone ever told you that?”
She presses up on one elbow, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder in a riot of curls. She is stunning like this, all bare skin and rosy cheeks, tangled hair and a hickey at the curve of her shoulder. I push all that hair away from her face and trace the line of her jaw, the little divot in her chin, her full and tempting bottom lip. I don’t know how I kept my hands to myself for so long.
She presses a kiss into my palm and everything in me settles. I swear I didn’t
know how much I was rattling around in there until Stella curled her hand around my heart and tugged.
“Seriously though, what’s with the look?”
“Just thinking,” I tell her. I drop my head back to the floor. “Just happy.”
She hums at that, a little shimmy of her body against mine. The silence is a warm comfort between us, her ankle hooked over mine. The wind whistles at the windows; the old clock in her hallway ticks an uneven beat. It’s slow one second, too quick the next. I eyeball the mirror in the corner of her room and get some ideas.
She walks her fingers up my chest and then slides her palm down.
“What’s the plan now?” she asks, a little bit drowsy.
Move to the bed, I think. See how many times I can make your breath catch.
“Hm, I think that’s obvious,” I say. I tilt my head to look down at her. She props herself up, her chin in the palm of one hand, the other flat against my ribs. I don’t think she realizes it, but she’s tripping her fingers over each of my freckles, painting pictures into my skin. I grin.
She huffs and collapses back against me, her face in my chest. “Don’t you say it.”
I wrap both arms around her and hold on tight. I grin at the ceiling.
“We’re gonna continue,” I tell her.
