While August mops up the bathroom floor—we got a littletoo frisky in the shower after our kitchen activities—I cook up a quick chicken Milanese. When the thinly cut, breaded chicken is golden and crisp, I set it on a caprese salad of ruby-red tomatoes, bursting with sweetness, and bright green leaves of herbaceous basil fresh from the garden. Creamy pillows of buffalo mozzarella, rich olive oil, and inky ribbons of balsamic vinegar finish it off.
I must say, I’m proud of my efforts. Cooking isn’t something I’ve done much of over the years. But I’ve been taught how, and being able to do it here in this kitchen makes me happy.
We eat on the wide porch facing the pool. The night is cool but not cold enough to go inside. August has two huge helpings, moaning and groaning as though I’d delivered him heaven on a plate. While it was easier to make than it looks or tastes, his appreciation is satisfying.
I drag a piece of mozzarella through some olive oil and pop it into my mouth. August watches me, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I repeat. He’s clearly in a good mood and wants to talk about why.
“Boyfriend, huh?”
And there it is. My text confession. Warmth wiggles under my skin. “Um. Yes? Unless you don’t want to—”
“I like it very much.” He sets his napkin on his empty plate. The strong lines of his face go soft with a tender expression. “I like that you claimed me in front of my siblings.”
“Is that what I did?” Standing, I collect the plates.
August follows, grabbing our glasses and the serving platters. “You regret it?”
“No.” In the kitchen, I set the plates in the sink. “I prefer it, actually. They should know we’re together now.”
He comes up next to me and follows my lead. “Then why the little frown wrinkle between your brows?”
Instantly, I widen my eyes, self-conscious of the supposedwrinkle. He chuckles and smooths a thumb between my brows. “You do it every time you worry.”
He reads me too well.
“Our family knows the truth,” I say, opening the dishwasher to load it. “But Monica keeps asking what style of wedding dress I like and what sort of wedding I had in mind.”
“Ah.” Leaning a hip against the counter, he reaches out and gently grasps my wrist to turn me around and face him. His expression is solemn. “That upsets you.”
It isn’t a question. But I answer it anyway.
“Of course it does.” I glance down at the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, something I find myself looking at far too much. And it isn’t really mine. “We’re lying to our friends. I don’t like that.”
“What can we do? We’re together now.”
“But not really engaged. Maybe you should take this back.”
He looks at my hand as though I’m offering up a bomb instead. “If you don’t wear the ring, it will look like we’re having problems when we’re not. Then they’ll wonder why you took it off if we aren’t breaking up.”
“Shit. I know. I know! But, eventually, they’re going to wonder why there isn’t any wedding happening.”
“Some people take years to plan a wedding.”
This is offered so half-heartedly that I smile before shaking my head. “I don’t think we’re a couple who would take years.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re contradicting yourself.”
“Well, this is complicated!”
“You’re telling me.”
“Not helping.” With a huff, I run a hand over my forehead. “There has to be some way out of this web.”
His amused expression drops. “This is my fault. I’m sorry, Pen.”
