Not Broken Anymore

by Tawdra Kandle

  I coughed a little and tried to pull my hand away. “Oh, we’re just—we’re not—”

  “Here, try this.” Dante shoved a small paper sleeve toward me. On top was a piece of cannoli, stuffed with ricotta and tiny chocolate chips and dusted with powdered sugar. My mouth watered.

  “Go ahead. Eat it. It’s not poisoned.” Angel waved her hand, and I gave into the pressure, sinking my teeth into the crisp shell and smooth filling. A moan escaped me before I knew it.

  “I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Tate smiled down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Angel and Dante are true artists. They make the most perfect cannoli I’ve ever had.” He bent his head closer to my ear, murmuring. “Don’t tell them we had some last night at Amico’s. Angel would be crushed if she thought I enjoyed anyone else’s cannoli.”

  His breath was warm on my neck, and I shivered. To cover the effect his nearness had on me, I lifted the last piece of cannoli to his lips and shoved it into his mouth.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t stop to consider how this looked to the couple who were watching us, beaming. Nor did I think about how it would feel when my fingers slid between Tate’s lips. Something I couldn’t decipher flared in his eyes, even as his tongue darted forward to pull in the delectable tidbit. I felt the tip of it graze my fingertip, and a heat I’d nearly forgotten I could feel surged through my veins.

  “Delicious.” He rasped out the word and licked his lips. “Best I’ve ever had.”

  “Of course, it is.” Angel sniffed. “Now, I’m going to box up a couple for you. Whether you save them for later or eat them as you walk, that’s up to you two. What are you shopping for here, anyway?”

  Tate braced one hand against the counter, the muscles in his arm bulging even through his jacket. “I’m making dinner for Gia tonight. I was thinking pork tenderloin.”

  “Oh, then you want to go Esposito’s.” Dante bobbed his head. “Best meats at the Market. And Carmen Lerro for the potatoes and vegetables. They have the freshest.”

  “Good thinking. Thanks for the advice.” He accepted the small white box Angel handed him. “And I’ll tell Pops you were asking for him.”

  “Bring him with you next time. Tell him it’ll do him good to come see all his old cronies here. We miss his ugly mug.”

  We waved good-bye to Dante and Angel and continued on our way, meandering through the growing crowd. I had to raise my voice to be heard.

  “So your grandfather used to bring you here?”

  Tate nodded with a slight smile. “Yeah, almost every week. He grew up in Philly, and he wanted me to have some experience with the city, even though he likes living in Gatbury.”

  “My nonna lived just a little bit away from here. Before my parents split up, we used to come over to see her and stop at the Market fairly often. Maybe we were here at the same time.”

  “Maybe we were. Just think . . . back when we were little, maybe you spotted a really cute little boy when you stopped to get some cheese or bread, and he smiled at you, and you thought, hey, now that guy has moves!”

  I smirked. “Funny, I don’t remember anything like that. I must’ve blocked it out.”

  As Dante had suggested, we stopped at Esposito’s, where Tate examined all the pork roasts carefully before choosing one which the butcher wrapped in white paper. And then we picked up small white potatoes, green beans, onions, garlic and berries at Carmen Lerro’s. Finally, we went to a small grocery shop on the edge of the Market so that Tate could buy an assortment of other items, mumbling to himself as he did so.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time we left the Market and began to make our way to the station to catch the commuter train back to my apartment.

  “Oh, wait—I need to stop in here.” Tate came to an abrupt halt in front of a chain discount store.

  “What in the world can we possibly still need?” I rested my hands on my hips. “Look at this. If you buy anything else, we won’t be able to drag it and our asses back to my place.”

  “Trust me, toots.” Tate tapped me on the nose. “I know what I’m doing.”

  I’d given up on chiding him for the random endearments he dropped on me all the time. It was a losing battle, as he always had a ready explanation for why, exactly, it was appropriate for the moment. And my feet hurt too much to stand out on the sidewalk arguing with him. So instead I heaved a deep sigh and followed him inside.

  Tate made a beeline for the sundries aisle, where he immediately picked up a dish brush, casting a meaningful look over his shoulder at me as he did. I rolled my eyes but kept my mouth shut. I didn’t raise a fuss about any of his choices until he tucked under his arm a small box with a picture of an electric mixer on the front of it.

  “Wait a sec,” I objected. “You’re not buying me appliances.”

  He flickered his gaze toward me. “Do you have a mixer, Gia? Any kind of mixer?”

  “I have a wooden spoon. I think. It satisfies all my mixing needs.”

  “That spoon won’t work for what I have in mind.” He held the box out toward me. “This is cheap. I promise, I’m not breaking the bank. And if it makes you feel better, I can take it home with me when I leave tonight.” When I didn’t answer right away, he added, “It’s a mixer, Gia. It’s not a lifetime commitment. Or even a weekend-long commitment. C’mon. Don’t be unreasonable about this. It’s not charity or sympathy or a pity gift. It’s a mixer. That’s all.”

  He made it very hard for me to form a rational argument. “Fine. But that’s it. Nothing else. I’m walking to the check-out counter now, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be right behind me.”

  He grinned and gave a small bow. “Your wish is my command, mistress.”

  “Hmph.” I tried to find some dignity and keep from smiling as I headed to the front of the store.

  After Tate had paid for his purchases, we walked back to the SEPTA station, eating the cannoli as we went. I’d asked if we should wait to have it after dinner, but Tate shook his head.

  “I’m hungry now. We missed lunch, so this is like a little consolation prize.”

  “We ate our weight in samples, Tate. That was lunch. I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to eat dinner as it is.”

  He patted my arm, as unfazed as he always was. “That’s okay. We’ve got all this binge watching to do this afternoon. Plenty of time to let the food digest and be ready for dinner. We’ll just eat later.”

  Later. So that meant he planned to stay all day—and maybe into the evening—with me. I knew that was what he’d said, but I realized as we got on the train, with all the bags hanging from our arms, that I’d been waiting for him to make an excuse to cut and run. I didn’t have delusions about how scintillating my conversation or company was.

  We settled into seats on the train as it began moving. After a few moments, I snuck a sideways glance at Tate. He had the bags on his lap, and his head rested against the window behind us. His eyes were closed, and I noticed a trace of powdered sugar lingering on his upper lip, where soft whiskers were just beginning to show—the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, I thought. For a split second, I was tempted to use my finger and brush it away, but I realized it wouldn’t be a good idea. Touching Tate might raise expectations on his part . . . or make him think I had designs on him. Either prospect gave me a panicky sense in my chest.

  Instead, I simply watched him, taking advantage of the opportunity to study his face without him being aware of it. He was relaxed; there was no twitch in his eyelids or tremor in his cheek. His mouth was closed, his lips in a straight line, but even so, even in repose, I imagined I saw a faint trace of the humor that seemed to be with him most of the time. His chin was strong and slightly squared. I wondered what it might feel like to trace it . . .

  He was, I decided, the perfect example of calm. I’d heard the word unflappable used about some people before, but Tate exemplified it.

  “You’re pretty laid back, aren’t you?” I spoke without meaning to, v
oicing thoughts that were running through my head.

  Tate’s eyes slid open, and he rolled his head in my direction, the corners of his lips turning up a little.

  “Yeah, I guess I am. I never saw the point of getting all riled up about something if I can’t do anything about it. And if I can change a situation that bothers me, I should just do it and not make a big deal about it.”

  “Were you always so chill?” I didn’t know if I was really curious about Tate or just filling the silence.

  “Mostly. There were some times when I got upset about stuff when I was a kid, but Pops would always just say, ‘Worse things happen at sea.’” Tate winked at me. “I’ve got no idea what that means, but I figured it was his way of saying things could always be worse. I guess I internalized that lesson.”

  I smiled, too, picturing a young Tate. “You talk about your grandfather a lot. What about your grandmother?”

  He shook his head. “She died when my father was in high school. Pops told me that was why he—my father—got into drugs. He was running away from the pain of losing his mom.”

  For the first time, I detected the smallest note of exasperation in Tate’s voice. “I take it you don’t buy that?”

  “Ahhhh . . .” He looked away from me, staring at the wall on the other side of the car. “I don’t know. I guess I think there’s always a choice, you know? My father wasn’t the only person in the world whose mother died. He had the choice to figure out how to cope with it or to use drugs to escape. He decided drugs would be easier. I don’t judge him for that, but for Pops’ sake, I wish he’d made a better decision. It hurt my grandfather to see his son addicted. I can still see it in his eyes sometimes.”

  I noticed that Tate talked about how his father’s self-destruction and desertion had affected his grandfather, not himself. I was reminded of Matt, who had also been raised by his grandparents. He’d seldom mentioned his mom and dad to me, and when he did, it was with derision. He’d called his mother a loser and his father a dick. He’d never known either of them, really; his mom had popped in and out of his early life, but she never stayed long, and I’d gotten the feeling that her leaving had always been a relief.

  The train slid to a halt, and Tate stood up, offering a hand to pull me to my feet. “C’mon. We need to get this food put away, and then it’s time for you to teach me about this binge stuff.”

  “Holy God. How did I never know about this show?”

  Tate rested his head on the edge of my mattress, craning his neck to look up at me. He’d arranged some of my many throw pillows into a makeshift nest on the floor while I’d queued up the first season of Veronica Mars on my television and settled himself there. Even as I’d protested that he was welcome to sit on the bed with me, his insistence that he’d rather be on the floor, where he could spread out, relieved the twinge of unspoken anxiety I’d had about being so close to him.

  For the first time since I’d moved into this tiny studio, I regretted that I didn’t have a sofa or any chairs other than the two at my kitchen table. I never had any company, except occasionally Zelda, so my lack of entertaining space rarely mattered.

  But Tate hadn’t made it awkward for me. It was almost as though he’d anticipated what might make me uncomfortable and had been intentional about circumventing it. What was more, he’d been enthusiastic about the show, too, asking only enough questions to let me know that he was paying attention and not enough to be annoying.

  We’d made it to the end of the fourth episode before I’d hit pause. The sun had just set, bathing the room in the gray twilight, and my stomach was beginning to feel empty. If I was getting hungry, I figured Tate was probably barely hanging on to consciousness.

  As if I’d asked, his stomach growled loudly, making me giggle. “Does that mean it’s time to start making dinner?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I was so absorbed in Veronica that I didn’t realize how hungry I was. That, my friend, is the indication of a great show.” He stretched his arms over his head and groaned, his body transforming into one huge, tensed muscle. “So Troy. Tell me she doesn’t stay with him. I mean, I guess he’s okay, but I don’t feel any chemistry between them.”

  I hesitated, trying to figure out how to answer without giving anything away. “Well, who do you think Veronica should be with? And don’t say Wallace, or you’re not really a Marshmallow.”

  “A Marshmallow?” Tate cocked at eyebrow at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Fans of the show are called Marshmallows. So who do you think?”

  “Hmm.” He half-twisted, turning his upper body to face me where I was stretched out on my stomach. “I like Duncan. I know he’s had his moments, and we still don’t know why he broke up with Veronica like he did. That was kind of a dick move. But we know he still cares about her, because he didn’t like seeing her with Troy.”

  “You’re not wrong about that. And I think Duncan is a good guy.” I thought for a moment. “What do you think about Logan?”

  “Logan?” Tate made a face. “He’s a jerk, a real spoiled little rich boy.” He shook his head. “I hated those kinds of guys back in high school. They acted like they were entitled to whatever they could get, no matter how it might impact others.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I flopped onto my back, feeling a goofy smile spread over my face. “But . . . Logan. I mean, yeah, right now he seems like he’s not that great, but trust me, there’s a lot more to him than what you see. He has depth.”

  Tate snorted. “Depth? Seriously? And you actually like this guy?” His green eyes narrowed, glittering at me dangerously. “You like bad boys, don’t you, Gia Capri?”

  “Nooooo . . .” I tried to sound convincing, but apparently, I failed because Tate rose to his feet, shaking his head as he looked down at me.

  “You do. You go for the dangerous men. Is it the tattoos and living on the wild side that gets you?”

  He sounded so completely disappointed in me, with a note of disapproval in his tone, that I couldn’t stop laughing. The harder I laughed, the more serious he tried to look, until I was gasping to catch my breath.

  “Stop. Don’t look at me.” I screwed my eyes shut so I couldn’t see him. “I totally don’t dig the bad boys. I’m not a masochist. I don’t seek out people to make my life miserable.” Exhaling long, I let the amusement fade. “They just seem to find me all on their own.”

  “I’m not going to even ask you to elaborate on that, not when you’ve just now gotten your breath back. Besides, I need to get that pork on if we want to eat before midnight. Come on, you can sit at the table and talk with me while I cook.”

  Before I knew it, he’d gripped my hand again and hauled me off the bed, to my feet. His hand was warm over mine, and I felt an odd tingle where our skin touched. I’d noticed both last night and today that Tate was a tactile guy, never hesitating to sling an arm around me, put his fingers against my back as we went through a door or to take my hand to keep me close. But even though all this exposure to more human touch than I’d had in over a year was a little jarring, it didn’t alarm me. I decided it was probably because Tate was so casual. He never made me feel as though he was building up to something more. He was simply being himself.

  “I don’t mind helping you cook. I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can follow orders.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you can, and next time, I’ll take you up on that for sure, but tonight, I’m cooking for you. You get to just sit and relax.”

  I smiled up at him. “If you insist, I’m not going to argue.”

  “Good thinking. Now have a seat. I noticed you have some white wine in your fridge. Would you like a glass? Like I said last night, I like beer with my buddies if we’re watching a game or something, but I enjoy wine while I’m cooking. Or eating.”

  “Sure.”

  For the next hour, I sat back and enjoyed the scenery. Tate in the zone as he cooked was really a thing of beauty; he gave me a running commentary on what he was
doing and why, and he told me stories of growing up, how his grandfather had taught him to know his way around a kitchen and some of his disasters as he’d learned.

  He moved with deftness, spinning from stove to sink to counter with ease. Of course, with the size of my kitchen, that wasn’t difficult. Still, I never saw a misstep, only that same confidence that seemed to exude from him all the time.

  Tate kept me so occupied that it seemed like no time at all before he was sliding a plate in front of me.

  “Voilà, mademoiselle.” He pointed at the food. “Pork tenderloin with balsamic caper sauce, fingerling potatoes with fresh herbs and garlic and green beans almondine.”

  I breathed in the tantalizing aroma. “Tate, this looks amazing. I can’t believe you made this, even though I watched you do it.”

  He smiled, that elusive dimple making an appearance. “Nothing to it. But I’m glad you like it.” He sat down across from me, pulling out his napkin to drape over his lap. “Of course, you haven’t tasted it yet. Might look pretty but taste rotten.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think so.” Forking off a small piece of the pork, I took a bite, letting it melt on my tongue. “Yeah, this is rotten, all right. Or maybe it’s going to spoil me rotten, because I can’t imagine going back to frozen eggrolls and chips.”

  “Stick with me, kid, and you’ll never eat frozen eggrolls again.” Tate dug into his own dinner with the gusto I’d come to expect from him. “Oh, yeah, this is good. The potatoes are done perfectly.”

  “Says the chef with great humility,” I teased.

  “Hey. I have a lot of humility. But I also think it’s okay to be proud of a job well-done. And this, darlin’, is a dinner well-done.”

  “Agreed.” I ate in silence for several minutes, savoring every bite and trying not to pay attention to the voice in my head that was fretting about Tate’s easy promises and affectionate words. He hadn’t made me feel pressured or tense all day, but now that we were here, eating together, there was an intimacy that couldn’t be ignored. I forced myself to think about Matt, to remember that pain and heartache were the only future I deserved.