He looks at me with worry in his eyes. “All right, Sweets?”
“Yeah.” I ease off his lap. “I’m going to go wash my face.”
When I come back from the bathroom, August is carryingin a tray with two bowls oftortellini in brodoon it. He toes the door closed behind him and sets the tray on the little end table between the bed and the chair. I perch on the side of the bed and take a bowl.
We eat in relative silence, me still raw and he still restrained. But the hot savory broth with floating pillows of tender pasta fill me up and warm my bones.
“This is fantastic,” August says, looking at me with awe. “I can’t believe you made this.”
“I only made the pasta dough. Our mothers did the rest.”
“The pasta is the hardest part,” he points out, finishing up his bowl.
“I’ve been doing it so long, it feels more like meditation than work.”
Setting his bowl aside, August leans back in the chair and surveys me as though putting small pieces together. “It’s hard for you to accept praise, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it for everyone?” I stack the empty bowls.
“I live in a family of overachieving showboats.” A corner of his mouth wings up dryly. “We have to fight for every piece of attention we get.”
He’s overstating. I’ve seen the Lucks praise and fawn over each other without prompting. They love lifting each other up. For them, everyone in the family is a star, no matter what they’ve done in life. And maybe that’s the difference.
“Mom is a star of the stage. She walks into a room and holds it. Even with you all. It’s as natural as breathing to her. And Dad, well...” I shrug him off. “Seeking attention in the face of Dad’s abandonment and Mom’s exuberance is as uncomfortable as wearing underwear that’s too tight.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes.” Leaning forward, I rest my hands on my knees and tell him earnestly, “I don’t need it, August. As long as I’m appreciated and not ignored, I’m happy. Being in the spotlight? No. I never wanted it.”
He frowns and glances out the window, giving me his coin-crisp profile. “You’re stuck in it when you’re with me.”
Am I? I suppose a little. But he’ll always be the main focus when it comes to the outside world. I’m okay with that. More so, I like that.
“But I’m therewithyou,” I tell him.
His attention snaps back to me, puzzled.
“When I’m with you, August, I feel like I’m the person I’m supposed to be. Like I was... waiting for you all along.”
His shoulders drop, and he blinks down at the floor as if unseeing. Fear snakes along my spine as I watch him clench his fists and struggle for air.
“Ah, Pen...” August blows out a hard breath. “You have no idea—”
He doesn’t say anything else, and that niggle of worry worms its way farther into my chest. Because he looks so stricken. Was it so wrong of me to want him this much? My fingers turn cold.
The line of his jaw bunches as he finally speaks in a short tone. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“What?” I can’t feel my face.
“Shit. That came out wrong.” He rubs his palms against his thighs in agitation. “I meant lying. I’ve been lying to you, Pen. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
Okay. That’s a little better. I guess.Wait, lying?
I swallow a few times before I find my voice. “How have you been lying?”
“I... shit. Okay, let me say it all before you decide to kill me, all right?”
Numbly, I nod.
