“You made me Greek food.”
I grabbed the back of my neck. “You said it’s your favorite.”
“Once,” she reminded me. “Like… in a passing comment. I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“I listen to you,” I said on a shrug. “And I have a pretty good memory.”
“Explains how you can recite some sort of knowledge about practically every event that’s ever happened in history.” She laughed, reaching for the bottle of wine I’d set out next to the appetizer and pouring us each a glass. She dipped a hot piece of pita in the dip next, shoving it in her mouth and letting her eyes roll back on a groan. “Homgahgawd, dis ish amazing.”
I grinned, picking up my glass and cheersing it to hers. “Thank you for coming over.”
She swallowed, sipping her wine to wash down the pita before doing a little twirl and giving herself a tour through the living room. “Thank you for reminding my taste buds why pita bread is the best thing to ever exist.”
I watched her from behind the kitchen island as she swept through my home, running her fingertips over the top of my couch, the book-lined shelves, the photo frames that held memories made with my family. She paused in front of one of me and my mom, taken at my high school graduation. She was wearing my graduation cap, one arm around my waist and the other squishing my cheeks together while I pretended to be annoyed, rolling my eyes. The grin I wore gave me away, though — and it was one of my favorite pictures of us together.
Mallory smiled, tracing the glass over my face before she moved on, lifting her wine to her lips and letting her eyes wander the books on my shelf. “You have even more here than you do in your office,” she mused.
“I’ve read all of them except the ones on the top shelf,” I said, walking over to join her. “That’s my to-be-read shelf.”
Mallory lifted a brow, trailing her fingers over the spines of the books on the second shelf. “You’ve read all of these other ones?”
“I told you I’m a nerd.”
She laughed. “I think reading is sexy.” She folded one arm over her middle, balancing the elbow of the one holding her wine glass over it as she looked around more. Her diamond eyes danced in the low light of my living room, and she shook her head, still smiling. “Your place is so… neat. Not that I should be surprised, I guess.” She looked at me then, poking me in the chest with one of the fingers wrapped around her glass. “You need a little color in here. And maybe a little mess, too.”
“You volunteering to be that mess?” I asked, reaching out to hook my finger in the belt loop on her skirt. I tugged her into me, sweeping her hair behind one ear.
“I’d be honored,” she whispered, and then her lips were on mine.
I pulled her into me as much as I could with one hand, each of us balancing our wine glasses while we drank each other in. The kiss was soft and sweet, and far too short when the oven timer went off.
“Mmm,” I said, kissing her nose when I pulled back before I released her. “You better get over there and eat more of that tzatziki. Main course has got about ten more minutes after I add this last bit of cheese.”
“Feta?”
“You know it.”
She pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes. “My hero.”
I finished up dinner with Mallory sitting at one of the bar stools at my kitchen island, sipping on her wine and snacking on the dippers and tzatziki as we talked. She asked me about every single picture in sight, begging for stories when I offered short explanations, and I asked her about her childhood and family, too. It was crazy to me that we grew up in the same town, with nearly the same tie to the same whiskey distillery, and yet, we’d had drastically different upbringings. Where my home was filled with laughter and love, with memories being made, hers was filled with business and agenda, with parties and reputation. She had so much expected of her at such a young age, whereas I was free to be a kid.
We ate the salad and main course at my small dining room table — the table that had only served me before that night. Mallory marveled at my skills in the kitchen with every bite she took, making unnecessary moans and asking for seconds, and I watched her laugh and sip her wine with my heart pounding in my rib cage, with words I was still too afraid to say dancing in my head.
The baklava came out of the oven right as I was putting our dishes from dinner in the sink, and Mallory poured the last of the bottle of wine in each of our glasses as I poured the honey over the fresh pastry. I knew it was best to leave that honey to set for hours before eating, so that it soaked down into the flaky dough, but I served it hot, anyway, and Mallory devoured every single bite. She even ran her finger over the plate to get the last bit of crumbs and honey.
“You’re a god,” she said on a final moan, dabbing her lips with her napkin and kicking back in her chair like a king would after a feast. “Seriously. You should open a Greek restaurant so I can have this type of food more often.”
I chuckled, taking a long sip of my wine before I swirled what was left of it around the glass, watching the red liquid splash up the sides.
I could cook for you, I wanted to offer. Every night. If we were together.
“You’ve been so quiet tonight,” Mallory observed, kicking those thoughts out of my head before they could materialize.
I peered up at her, offering a smile and a half-hearted shrug. “Just listening to you, enjoying the evening.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, lips pursed. “You’ve got something on your mind. Spill, Chef.”
I spun my glass again, eyes on the wine, before I abandoned the glass altogether and gathered my napkin off my lap, depositing it on the table. I stood, heart in my throat and voice a little shaky as I extended my hand for hers. “Dance with me.”
One eyebrow arched high into her hair line. “Uh… I don’t… I can’t dance.”
I beckoned her with my hand, smirking. “I’ll lead. Come on.”
Mallory looked at my hand like it was a spider that I’d swore wouldn’t bite her, her face screwing up in a mixture of uneasiness and fear. But, to her credit, she took one last sip of her wine, and then she slipped her small hand into mine and stood.
I led her a few feet away from the table, in the space between my small dining area and the kitchen, and then I pulled her into me — one hand at her waist, the other still holding her hand — and to the soft, melodic voice of Leon Bridges, we began to sway.
She was nervous, at first, looking down at her feet and cringing, apologizing when she misstepped. But I guided her with my hand at the small of her back, encouraging her to keep her eyes on mine, and by the first chorus, we’d found a rhythm.
“My mom and dad used to dance after dinner,” I said, spinning her out gently before I spun her back into my arms. “Every single night. My brothers and I would clear the table, do the dishes, and Dad would pull Mom into the living room, turn up the music, and dance with her.”
Mallory’s eyes sparkled, a smile tugging at the right side of her mouth. “That’s so romantic.”
“Dad always was,” I said, laughing a little. “He always taught us to be vulnerable, to be emotional, to share what we were feeling even if we felt ashamed or embarrassed. And he taught us how to respect a woman, how to care for her, make her feel good.” I swallowed, searching her eyes. “Make her feel loved.”
Mallory swallowed then, too, and she pulled her eyes from mine, resting her head against my chest, instead. “My family was the exact opposite,” she said, voice low. “We didn’t talk about anything, least of all how we were feeling. I have no idea who my parents are, outside of the entertainer and business owner façade they present to everyone in town. And my brother?” She shook her head against my chest. “I don’t know a single thing about him, other than that he likes to golf. And I don’t even know if he really likes it, or if he just does it to do business with Dad.”
“And they know nothing about you, either, do they?”
A soft laugh left her lips. “Not a th
ing.”
I sighed, swaying to the music, holding her close. “That’s a shame. Because if they knew you the way I do, if they could see what I see, they’d be the proudest family in this whole town.”
She smirked, lifting her head from my chest and reaching up to thread her arms around my neck. We slowed to a two-step sway, back and forth. “Oh, yeah? And what is it that you see, exactly?”
It was my shot.
And I was taking it.
“I see a woman who isn’t afraid of anything,” I said, searching her eyes with my own. “I see an artist with heart and passion, and talent that she’s so modest about that it somehow makes it even more impressive. I see a business owner with hustle and drive, with a dream that has no other option but to come true with her in the driver seat.”
I swallowed, watching her eyes widen, her lips soften until they parted slightly.
“I see an intelligent woman, who had to grow up faster than she should have, but who handled it with grace. I see strength, and thoughtfulness, and care. I see someone who doesn’t stand for being walked on, who refuses to follow the stream just because someone tells her it’s what she’s expected to do. I see a voyageur, someone who makes her own path, her own journey, and who gives off a light that draws everyone around her in like moths to a flame.”
“Logan…”
“And I see someone who fights for justice, and who learns before she judges.” I stopped swaying, sliding my hands up her back, over her arms, eliciting a wave of chills in my wake before my hands framed her face. I swept her hair back, looking into those almost-violet pools of her eyes as I spoke my next words. “I see the first woman to steal my heart, and the only woman I ever want to keep it.”
Mallory’s bottoms lip quivered, eyes glossing as they flicked between mine. For a long moment, we watched each other, those last words hanging between us, the air so thick I felt it pressing in on every side of me. Then, she took a breath, stepped back, away, my hands dropping from where they held her as she pressed a hand to her head.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” she said, swallowing and offering half a smile as she shook her head. “I’m feeling a little dizzy, I think. I should probably go lie down and get some rest.” She was already walking toward the door, swiping her scarf off the coat rack and wrapping it around her neck. “We both have to work tomorrow, and the grand opening, it’s going to be a long day.” She laughed. “Need to be sharp, you know?”
“Mallory…” I tried, reaching for her and pulling her into me again. “I…”
She watched me, waiting, but I found I didn’t have anything else to say. I didn’t want to apologize, though by the way she was reacting, I felt like maybe I should have.
But I wasn’t sorry. I’d said what I’d meant, and I’d said it because I wanted her to know.
What she did with it now was up to her.
I swallowed. “I can drive you home,” I finished. “If you’re feeling dizzy.”
She shook her head. “No, no, I’m okay. It’s not too far.” Her eyes glanced at the table, where our dessert plates and half-empty glasses of wine still sat. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at me again. The gloss in her eyes was gone, but her voice trembled slightly. “For the dinner, and the wine.” She smiled. “And the dance.”
I nodded, swallowing, unsure of if I was allowed to kiss her, to pull her into me even more than I already had.
“With the grand opening tomorrow, will you…” She reached for the back of her neck. “I mean, I know everyone will be there, and with our families… I just… I understand, if you can’t come. If you don’t want to.”
I shook my head, sliding my hands back into her hair and bending to look straight into her eyes. “Mallory, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
She nodded, but her eyes slipped to my chest. She couldn’t hold eye contact, and she avoided it even more when she pulled away, grabbed her purse, and opened the front door.
Mallory zipped out, leaving me inside with the warmth of our embrace battling against the cool wind whipping in now. But she paused on my porch, turning to face me.
“Goodnight, Logan,” she spoke softly.
“Goodnight, Mallory.”
Her eyes flicked between mine one last time, then she was gone.
And I was there, on the wrong side of the line she’d drawn between us, wondering if I’d ruined everything, wondering if she’d call it all off tomorrow, wondering if I’d have to live without her — all because I couldn’t live within the terms she’d set for us.
Knowing I wouldn’t be able to move on — not now that I’d known what it was like to have her.
With nothing left to do, and the ball firmly in her court, I swallowed, closed the door, and started cleaning.
Mallory
Twenty minutes before the grand opening of my very own, very first art studio, I stood upstairs in my loft apartment, staring at myself in the mirror, and hating everything I saw.
I hated that my hair was pinned up instead of straightened and framing my face. I hated that it was blonde instead of the bright violet I’d loved so much. I hated that I was wearing a white dress that was cut under my knees in the front but fell down to the floor in the back, like a goddamn bride, instead of my raggedy old jeans and a t-shirt and Chucks. I hated that I was a picture-perfect vision of what my parents wanted me to be that night, instead of who I really was.
“It’s just for tonight,” Chris reminded me gently from where he stood behind me. He fixed the strap of my dress, touching up a piece of my hair that had fallen before he handed me a tube of nude lipstick.
Nude, instead of the red or rose or burgundy I preferred.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You actually look quite beautiful,” he argued, but it was hard for me to believe him, considering he was wearing a fitted, fuchsia tuxedo. He did somehow manage to pull it off, though, and he looked — as he would have called it — gay boy chic. “And I know you hate hearing that, since this is the last thing you’d ever pick for yourself to wear. But, you do. And, regardless of what you’re wearing, this is a night of celebration.” He framed my arms, turning me to face him instead of the mirror. Then, he unscrewed the liquid lipstick tube, tapping my bottom lip until I parted my lips enough to let him paint them. “Tonight is the opening of your business, Mallory. Your art studio. And no one can take that away from you.”
I mumbled, not really able to speak with him doing my lipstick, and he rolled his eyes.
“Yes, okay, except for your father. BUT, he won’t. Because you’re holding up your part of the deal. So, just relax, and try to find a way to not hate the world long enough that you can enjoy this?” He gave me a pointed look, and a smile, but my stomach was sinking as he turned away.
My father wouldn’t take it away, what I’d worked for, as long as I held up my end of the deal.
But he would, if he knew about me and Logan.
I realized, very distantly, that the bigger reason why I was feeling agitated and shaky was because of last night more so than tonight. It was because I’d fled from the first man to ever confess he saw me for who I was, to confess he liked what he saw, to confess that he was into me — and more than just casually, like we’d agreed upon.
I’d ran out of there so fast you would have thought someone told me the studio was on fire.
But how could I not run? How could I not feel every nerve in my body warning of danger with Logan Becker that close to me, telling me in not so many words that he wanted more? It was impossible. His family would disown him, which would absolutely crush him. Everyone in that town knew how tightly bound that family was, and I couldn’t stand to be the one to ruin that.
My family wouldn’t just disown me, they’d make my life a living hell in this town until I had no choice but to leave it. And my studio? It would be gone before it even had the chance to get started. Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d sacrificed up until this point — my dignity, my pride, my weekdays, my fucking
sanity — it would all be for nothing.
My father would rip it all away in a heartbeat.
I thought when I saw Logan at work today, we would be back to normal. I thought it’d be jokes and laughs and sneaking makeout sessions in his office.
But it was more like prison.
I’d barely seen him, and when I had, it’d been awkward, forced conversation — with both of us avoiding what he’d said last night while holding me in his arms.
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose as a headache started, and Chris hurried over to me, framing my arms again. “Hey, are you okay?”
I let my hand fall to my thigh with a slap, sighing. “I’m nervous.”
Chris narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe me, and if anything, now he knew there was something more on my mind than just the fact that I was in a dress and heels.
To his credit — bless him — he didn’t push.
“It’s normal to be nervous,” he said, and his eyes searched mine, his hands rubbing my arms encouragingly. “But, ready or not, in about fifteen minutes, those doors are opening.” He paused, mumbling the next words with a flick of his imaginary hair. “Of course, not with a blast of glitter, like there would have been had I been the one to throw this shindig, but still.”
I tried to smile.
“Your family is downstairs waiting,” he continued with a sympathetic smile. “I think it’s time we join them.”
I nodded, numbly, in lieu of an answer, and let my best friend guide me downstairs to where my father, mother, brother, uncle, aunt, and cousins waited.
It was all a blur from there.
The studio that Logan and I had brought to life shone like a new penny under the string lights Mom had installed. They hung from the rafters above, giving the shop a hip, industrial look. There was a jazz band playing softly in the corner of the room, right next to where the bar was. Servers waited at the ready, silver platters loaded with hors d’oeuvres in their hands. Each section of the studio was pristine — tidied, cleaned, decorated, and ready to be shown off. Tables near the front entrance held class and event schedules for the next few months, along with a pamphlet about me, my education, the shop and how it came to be.
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