by Jiffy Kate
Deep down, I knew that, but I realize I needed to hear it directly from Sadie all along. A few tears stream down my cheeks, and they feel cathartic, like they’re taking all the guilt with them as they fall.
“And what about Mr. Window Fucker?” Layla asks.
I can’t help the snort-laugh that comes out of me. “Oh, God, Layla.” I groan and wipe the moisture from my cheeks before we go inside.
“Was it that bad?” she whispers as we stand in line to order.
“No.” I shake my head, trying to find the right words. “It was awkward and...good, I guess. I mean, it’s not like we talked about a lot, but it was just good to see him.”
The guy in front of us finishes ordering, and Layla steps up to the counter, placing both of our orders.
“Do you still have feelings for him?”
“I think about him. A lot. Even though I try not to,” I admit. “But I don’t feel like following him home or to work or anything crazy like that.”
“Good, because I’m not sure if prison orange is your color. And I like being able to hug you as much as I want.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I laugh.
After we get our two lattes, we head out the door toward the library, continuing our conversation where we left off.
“I’m not going to let you be a stalker,” Layla says. “That shit gets you sent up the river and you only get two hugs during visitation—one on arrival and one on departure.”
I roll my eyes at her, laughing again. “Right, no stalking.”
She loops her free arm with mine as we continue to walk. “Good. Now, what did the fucker have to say?”
“His name is Luke,” I say, fighting the smile that forces its way onto my face with the mention of his name.
“Okay, what did Luke have to say?”
I sigh, thinking back to how he looked and how good it was to see him. “He apologized.”
“Really?” she asks like it’s a foreign idea. “I mean, that’s good. It’s just, from the little you’ve shared, I didn’t have him pegged to be the type to step up like that.”
“Yeah.”
She looks at me with skepticism written all over her face. “Do you think he meant it?”
“Yeah,” I admit, to myself and her. “I do.”
I’m still trying to put all of it together in my mind, still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that he actually showed up...and that he showed up for me...and that he said he was sorry. I’ll never forget the expression on his face when he said it.
After a few seconds, Layla continues the questioning. “So, what else did he say?”
“Just that he wants to talk. He has something he wants to tell me.”
She takes a drink of her coffee and hmms to herself. “Do you want to talk to him?”
“I guess. I don’t know.” I groan in frustration. “It’s complicated. I’ve spent the last few months working through whatever that was with him, and I’ve wished for a do-over, but what he did and said hurt me.... so much. I don’t know if I’m ready for more of that.”
“Well, you won’t know unless you give him a chance to explain. It could be good closure, if nothing else. Did you make plans to meet up with him?”
We pause at the crosswalk and I sigh before answering, wondering if I did the right thing. “Yeah, I told him I go to Mr. Chan’s on Wednesdays.”
“That’s good. Home turf advantage. I like it,” Layla says.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What about Anton?” she asks. I know she’s just doing what friends do and trying to help me work through stuff, but these questions are only reminding me of how chaotic my life is. A few days ago, I was feeling settled. I had my college courses, my jobs, and occasional dates with Anton. Life was starting to feel easy for once. And now...
“I don’t know, Layla,” I tell her, letting out something between a laugh and a cry. “Sometimes...sometimes, I feel like I’m driving down a road with a blindfold on. I can’t see where I’m going, and it’s scary.”
“That’s life,” she says as we walk up the steps of the library. “The important thing is that you’re driving.” She stops when we get to the top and grabs me by my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “You’re not sitting on the side of the road, and you’re not watching life pass you by. You’re going somewhere. Blindfold or not, you’re gonna make it. And I know it feels scary, but scary isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, scary is good.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” I stand up straight and wipe my face one last time. No more tears. It’s time to embrace my life and live it, not hide away in the shadows.
“Look at you, Harper Evans, two men vying for your attention,” she says, donning a southern accent. “I do declare.”
“Oh, God, Layla. It’s too early for that Gone With the Wind shit.”
We’re both laughing as we walk inside.
“All I’m saying,” Layla continues, “is I know this thing with Luke seems like it was doomed from the get-go, but don’t shut him out. A broken heart is something that heals over time, but regret stays with you for the rest of your life.”
“You sound like one of those Daily Inspiration calendars.”
“I’m like your own personal Dear Abby.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mia groans, walking in on the end of our conversation. “If you want real talk, come see me.”
§
After work on Wednesday, I take a quick shower before getting dressed in a tunic and a pair of tights. Even though I’m technically meeting Luke for dinner, I refuse to think of this as a date.
We’re just two people sharing a meal and conversation. Nothing to freak out about.
Who am I kidding?
There are a ton of things to freak out about, but I’m trying really hard to stay calm. I want to see Luke. I want to hear what he has to say, even if it hurts. Seeing him those two times at the hospital made me realize how much I still miss him.
It’s like when you’re on a diet and you don’t allow yourself to have chocolate for a few months. Do you still want it? Crave it? Even though you know it might not be good for you? Hell yeah, you do. But when you finally give in and have a taste of that forbidden food, one of two things can happen. One, the chocolate tastes horrible—either it’s too sweet or too strong or bitter—and you vow to never eat it again. Or two, it’s the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth, and you can’t get enough of it.
Luke is my chocolate. He’s the forbidden food—something I’ve denied myself.
Now that he’s back, I don’t know how to act or how I hope he’ll act. I don’t want him to be completely different from before, but I also don’t want him to charm me back to my old habits. I’ve made good changes in my life since he shut me out of his. Is there a possibility we can have some kind of new middle ground? One where he’s changed some of his behaviors and I can accept him without becoming a crazy-ass psycho?
I guess I’ll soon find out.
The walk to Mr. Chan’s feels too long yet not long enough. Part of me can’t wait to get there, and the other part of me wants to stall. My heart flutters in my chest with nervousness and anticipation.
What does he want to tell me?
What made him come find me?
What’s changed for him?
Surely he didn’t seek me out just to deliver more soul-crushing truth. Right? He’s never seemed like that kind of guy. Even when he was telling me goodbye, I could see the pain and hurt on his beautiful face. I know there’s more to Luke Walker than what meets the eye.
He’s already apologized; another thing I definitely didn’t see coming. All this time, I’ve felt like I was in the wrong. Thinking back on my actions made me feel like I deserved the consequences. I forced myself into his life, and he had every right to shut me out. Now, I see where we were both in the wrong, just two people struggling with the life they’ve been dealt. We definitely didn’t handle ourselves in the best way. Hop
efully, this can be a new start, or at least allow us both to walk away with a clear conscience.
Taking a deep breath, I hold it and then slowly let it out as I open the door of the restaurant.
Nervously, I dart my eyes from the ground to the counter where Mr. Chan is handing over a bag of food to a lady in a red jacket. His eyes light up when he sees me, and I smile at him. Then I feel Luke, or his gaze at least. I look over toward the small table we sat at the first time we saw each other here, and he stands from his chair, shoving his hands down into the pockets of his jeans.
“Hey,” I say, walking up to the table.
“Hello,” he replies. I notice that he shifts on his feet and pulls his hands out of his pockets, hesitating. His expression is full of questions, kind of like my mind on my walk over here.
“Have you ordered?” I ask, hoping to break some of the awkward tension.
“Uh, no. I was waiting…”
Did he think I wouldn’t show?
“Well, I always eat here on Wednesdays. Mr. Chan would be offended if I didn’t eat.” I smile and let out a light laugh.
“We wouldn’t want that,” he says, trying to keep from smiling.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “I’d never want to be on Mr. Chan’s bad side.”
“It’s a bad place to be.” He chuckles and runs his hand through his hair, making a mess of it like I’ve seen him do so many times. It’s a perfect mess...kind of like him.
“How would you know?”
“I’ve been there. Don’t want to go back,” he admits.
My interest is piqued. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah.” He bites down on his lip and nods his head. “The first time I stopped by here after…” He stops and motions with his hand, and I know what he means. After us. After whatever we were ended. “Anyway,” he continues, “he wasn’t going to give me any soup.”
I laugh, and it’s not a dainty, girly laugh. It’s a boisterous, head-tossed-back laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“So, what did you do?” I ask, leaning in closer to him.
“Well, he finally caved and gave me some, but I swear, it was the spiciest fucking soup I’ve ever eaten.”
“Oh, my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand to keep from repeating the loud laugh and drawing more attention to us. Looking over my shoulder, I see the old man watching us with a scowl on his face. Maybe meeting at Mr. Chan’s wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“But you better believe I ate the entire bowl. And left a hefty tip. The next time I came in, it was a little less spicy than the time before but definitely had a kick.” Luke clears his throat at the memory and then smiles as he shakes his head. “I figured it was my penance for…” Again, he drifts off, not wanting to say what I know he means. “For hurting you.”
I press my lips together, not sure of how to respond to that. “Does he still give you spicy soup?” I ask.
“No...no, it’s back to normal. Took a while, but my mouth is no longer on fire when I leave.”
“That’s good.” I give him a small smile and my mind struggles to wrap around the fact that he’s been coming here and eating spicy soup...for me.
“Yeah.”
We stand there for a minute, and it’s awkward but good. His lips finally turn back up into a smile. “We should order.” He motions toward the counter where no one is in line.
Mr. Chan is working on something on the large stainless steel counter but looks up every few seconds. His eyes shift between me and Luke, and I know he’s trying to decide what this is and why we’re here together. I wish I could tell him.
“Hello, Mr. Chan.”
“Harper,” he says, nodding. “How’s classes?”
“Good. I still haven’t gotten my grades back from the tests last week, but I think I did well.”
“You study hard. You get good grades,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I hope so.”
“Why he here?” he asks, making my cheeks heat up instantly. “It Wednesday, not Thursday.” He looks around me and directly at Luke. “You come Thursdays.”
What?
“I know,” Luke says, stepping up beside me. “But Harper asked me to come.”
“I did,” I tell Mr. Chan, giving him a convincing nod.
“Mmmmm,” Mr. Chan says, giving Luke a squinted stare-down. “What you want?”
“Soup with extra wontons,” I tell him.
“Soup for me too,” Luke says. “I’m buying.”
“No,” I tell him, turning and frowning. “I’ll buy my own.”
“Let him pay,” Mr. Chan says while he serves up two bowls of soup without taking his eyes off Luke. “No extra wontons for you.”
I don’t even know what to say to that, so I stand there, dumbfounded. I watch as Luke hands him the money for our food, and then I watch as he carries it back to our table. I’m still watching as Luke pulls out my chair and turns to find me still standing by the counter. The small smile he gives me finally pulls me out of my stupor, and I walk over and sit down.
“So, you’re taking classes?” Luke asks after a few minutes.
“Yeah.”
“That’s great, Harper.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin, and his eyes light up, the dazzling blues showing off. “Do you know what your major’s going to be?”
“No, I’m just taking my gen ed courses for now.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I set my spoon down in my bowl and watch him. He’s proud of me? He’s proud of me. I think that makes me feel better than when my mother told me the same thing a few days ago, and I don’t know what that says about me. But I like that Luke is proud of me.
“Thank you.”
“And you moved?”
“Yes.”
He nods his head and takes a big drink of water.
“Is your soup spicy?”
Coughing a little, he laughs. “No.” The smile he gives me is contagious, and I find myself giving him one back. “It’s perfect, actually.”
We sit there for a few more minutes, eating in comfortable silence. I watch people out of the large window, and occasionally, I watch Luke. I can tell he’s shaved a little since I saw him at the hospital. His beard isn’t as long, and it’s more...maintained? He looks happy. The last few days that I saw him before everything blew up in my face, he always looked tired and stressed, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I like this Luke better.
“Why did you want to talk to me?” I ask, trying not to sound annoyed or mad because honestly, I’m just curious. It’s been eating at me since Saturday night. I’ve lost hours of sleep thinking about it.
Luke clears his throat and pushes his mostly eaten bowl of soup to the side, leaning on the table.
And now I’m watching the way his shirt tightens around his biceps and remembering what they looked like…
Stop it, Harper.
“I wanted you to know that I’ve been going to therapy.”
I nod my head and feel a pang in my chest. Luke is going to therapy? But he’s the therapist.
“I know what you’re thinking. I’m the therapist. I should have my shit together.” He smirks and shakes his head. “But the thing is, a lot of times, therapists have their own issues.” He lets out a deep breath and looks away, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “There’s usually a reason a person decides to be a therapist or a psychologist or any other type of doctor, and that reason is often something personal. Most of us have been through a lot of the same issues we counsel our patients for.”
“Like your dad being an alcoholic and your mom leaving?” I ask, remembering the day in the coffee shop when he confided in me and how close it made me feel to him...how badly I wanted to wrap my arms around him and take away all the hurt and pain he’d felt.
“Yeah, like that. There’s a lot of shit in my life that I should’ve gotten help with a long time ago, but it wasn’t until you…” He hesitates but then
seems to gain some determination and continues. “When I realized you’d been watching me, I felt humiliated. Had it been anyone else in the world, I wouldn’t have cared. Obviously, I wasn’t trying to hide my actions. But the fact it was you...It made me feel horrible. And that last night, after we talked, when I...” Letting out a deep, frustrated breath, he rubs his hands over his face and then through his hair. “I was only trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From me, Harper. From me.” He lowers his voice, but there’s so much emotion laced through those words that it makes my heart physically ache. He swallows hard and takes a second to compose himself. “I’ve only loved two women in my life.”
I look up and see him looking at me. His eyes bore into mine.
“One was my mother.” He pauses but keeps his eyes trained on mine. “And she left.”
My fingers itch to slide across the table and touch his, but I don’t let them.
“The other was…” He stops, exhaling a sad sigh. “She was my best friend. We grew up together; made it through hard shit together. We did everything together. We depended on each other, stood up for each other, protected each other. And then... she left. The one thing she did without me couldn’t be taken back. She promised me she wouldn’t... and then she did. I couldn’t fix her...couldn’t help her. She just...left.”
The way he speaks of the other person, his best friend, it makes me feel like she’s gone gone. He didn’t say she died, but the finality in his tone and words is palpable. I feel the stutter in my breathing and then the burning in my eyes, but I blink a few times and will myself to hold it together. I can cry later.
“I felt myself falling for you,” he whispers, sliding his hand across the table and resting it on top of mine. “I felt like if I loved you, you’d leave.”
“You were falling for me?” I can’t help the question as it tumbles out of my mouth with all the regret a person can feel.
I messed that up. Or maybe he messed it up? Maybe we both messed it up.
“I was.” He nods confidently.
Was.
“Did I mess that up?” I ask, needing all our cards to be on the table.
His brows furrow at my question. “What?”
