Luca’s standing at the stove, carefully frying bacon. I watch him for a second, but when he stops and cradles his head with the hand not holding the handle of the pan, I know I need to step in. “Luca,” I say, trying to keep my voice down.
It doesn’t matter. He jumps so hard the pan he’s gripping flies into the air, raining half-cooked bacon and grease down on the floor. The pan clatters loudly to the ground, and Luca drops right alongside it.
“Luca!” Fuck. I rush around the counter, dropping to my knees in front of Luca, where he’s curled into the fetal position on the floor. “Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?”
He’s mumbling, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s saying; when I do, my heart sinks straight into my feet.I’m sorry.He’s mumbling, “I’m sorry.” Over and over and over. Weak and broken, like it’s self-preservation. Like saying it enough will absolve him of the guilt he feels he’s carrying. “Luca,” I whisper. “I won’t touch you, but can you please tell me if you’re hurt? I’m not mad. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His gray eyes land on mine, and they’re filled to the brim with terror and confusion. “Luca?” I whisper, holding a hand out in front of me. “Let me help you up, please?”
“The mess,” he croaks out.
“I don’t care about the mess. I care about you. Come on. Let’s get you to the couch.”
He eyes me warily, and the distrust in his gaze makes me sad. I know it’s not that he doesn’t trust me; I do. I know this is the result of him being systematically torn apart and stripped of himself through abuse. Doesn’t make it any easier, though. It doesn’t make it hurt less for him to look at me like this. Like he’s afraid I’m goingto hurt him. Like he’s waiting for my hand to close into a fist…
“Please?” I ask again, softer this time.
He gives an almost imperceptible nod, then he’s placing his hand in mine. I help him to his feet slowly, careful to avoid the lingering bacon grease and bacon on the floor.
I lead him to the couch, worried when his knees buckle and he almost goes down again. I pull him a little closer to me, and by the time I make it to the couch with him, I’m almost fully supporting his weight.
Once I ease him down onto the couch, he starts shaking. I’m sure it’s more from the adrenaline crash than anything else, but I still grab the perfectly folded blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around his shoulders anyway.
I turn to walk away so I can shut the stove off and clean the floor, but Luca catches my hand in his. “Please stay with me.”
I glance back at him, giving his fingers a little squeeze. “Let me turn the burner off, and I’ll be right back.”
He studies me, then finally drops his hand with a slight nod.
Ignoring the mess on the floor, I shut off the burner and hurry back to Luca. When I sit down beside him, his eyes snap to mine. He swallows hard. “Tell me your favorite memory of us,” he whispers, glancing away. “I need a little good right now.”
A million memories flash through my mind. Running through fields, fishing, building tree houses—or trying to—hiding out in the woods, a million sleepovers and campouts.
I smile. “Stargazing.”
Luca cocks his head. “Stargazing?”
I nod. “Yeah, it was the summer before we turned thirteen, and that tornado had just come through.”
“Right,” Luca says, recognition lighting up his face. “The wholetown lost power for almost two weeks.”
“Yeah. It was awful, and we were so bored. We begged to have a sleepover.”
Luca smiles. It’s the ghost of one, really, but it’s still there. It’s fond and real andhim.“I don’t think either of them wanted to deal with both of us being bored together. It took mehoursto convince my mom.”
I can’t help but laugh. “We finally wore them down, though. I think they actually flipped a coin to see which one of them would end up hosting. Anyway, we snuck out that night and lay in the field across from the fire tower.”
“You got that old telescope. Yousworeyou could see Pluto.” Luca gives me a side-eye, much like he did that night.
“ItwasPluto,” I defend, just like I did back then, working hard to fight a smile.
Luca rolls his eyes. “No. It was the moon.”
“That’s what you always say.”
He sits up, wincing a bit at the movement, and then he claps once. “Itwasthe moon. That’s why I always say it.”
I chuckle, and before I know it, Luca is joining me. It transforms him and the room. We’re not twenty-six; we’re twelve, arguing about the moon in an overgrown field. Laughing and giggling and playing tag. Staying out until the only light was from the moon and the stars.
