Page 58 of Love Notes & Lifelines
“You made a fire.” I’ve lost the ability to carry a conversation.
“Yeah. I hope that’s okay.” Stella tucks her feet in close and rests her chin on her knees. Daisie grunts and flops off the sofa, heading toward the stairs.
“And you opened the flue.”
Her face scrunches up. “I grew up in upstate New York with frigid winters. I know how to start a fire.” I lean forward, starving for any bit of her I can get. “We lived in a tiny house for a while, but it was cheaper to run a small woodstove in the winter than use the oil. I’d get up in the middle of the night when I got cold and put another log on. You learn to do things pretty quickly when you have no other option.”
What did it cost her to share that bit of herself with me?
“When did you move to Raleigh?” Every piece of her I get is a hit of dopamine that has my body begging for more.
Her gaze drops to her knees, and I use the distraction to sit on the other end of the massive sofa with the tray of lasagna in my lap.
“When the winters became too hard for my mom.” It’s a non-answer, but it tells me a little more about the mother who hits her.
“Did you make this?” I ask, lifting a forkful to my mouth. Even cold, the scent has me drooling.
She stares at my plate and then the bite on my fork. “Wait!” She reaches out with one hand, like that’ll stop me.
I raise one brow in return and slide the cheesy pasta between my lips. I don’t mean to groan, but Jesus, it’s good.
“Did you even heat it up, or are you eating like a drunken college kid?”
Her words pull a chuckle from me even when my heart still feels so fragile.
“Drunk college kid,” I reply, and take another bite.
My eyes close to savor the taste. It might be the best lasagna I’ve ever had.
Then my plate is snatched from my lap and she’s quietly stomping to the kitchen. Is she going to toss it in the trash due to my garish manners? I scramble after her.
But nope. She wets a paper towel, lays it across my plate, then sticks it in the microwave.
“You got the girls to eat that?”
Her cheeks turn pink. “There may have been some bribery involved. But I put spinach in it, so it was worth the cookie I gave them after.”
She turns and shoos me away with both hands. “Go eat your salad. I’ll bring this out when it’s ready.”
I nod in thanks because my throat’s closing on me. She’s taking care of me. It’s so…domesticated, and I don’t completely hate it, even though I need to.
She works for you, Beck. She’s not a friend. She’s an employee. That’s an important distinction. If she betrays you as an employee there are repercussions. If she betrays you as a friend, it would shatter what’s left of you.
The voice in my head lately is nameless. It’s not mine. It’s not my father’s. But it feels real all the same.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I finally ask.
Her shoulders fall forward like she’s relieved, and she hangs onto the edge of the island. “I’d love one, thank you. Just half a glass. I meant it when I said I don’t drink often.”
I grab a bottle of red from the wine cabinet beneath the island, two glasses, and an opener from the same drawer it’s been in since I was twelve, then return to the safety of the sofa.
In here, we have our own corners. Opposing sides. In here, there’s no temptation of more, of what-ifs. There’s only my side and hers.
The air shifts, swirling around me with memories of apples. Closing my eyes, I take a moment to breathe her in before she places the tray in my lap and skips closer to the fire.
“Thank you,” I mutter, then continue opening the wine while she adds another log to the blaze.
When she stands, I hand her a splash of wine and try to regulate my heart rate as she returns to her side and covers herself with a thick velvet blanket.
