My reaction must have thrown him because he rushes out, “No pressure. It’s just dinner. I wasn’t… expecting anything from you.”
“No. August, it’s not that.”
“I’m…” He’s blushing deeper now, and I’m sure he’s thinking about last night too. The sound of his broken gasps falls over me, and I cannot believe I’m standing here in the presence of this man whom I’ve come to adore. And he’s doing all this for me. “It’s just casual. It’s just…”
Then he grabs my hand gently, leans in, and drops the smallest, most fatal kiss on my cheek.
I wish I could brand it on my skin.
I’m a wreck for him. I want him more than breath itself. I cannot walk away. I can’t do this. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” He laughs lightly, places his pretty hand on his lovely chest. “I was going to get changed. I haven’t had a chance.”
“Please don’t.” Again, and always with August, my words come too fast. I can’t hide a thing from him. Before I know it, my hand’s sunk into the soft and thick cotton at the groove of his hip, squeezing for the feel of him, for the comfort of him. He yields to me like he’s as desperate for this as I am, sweet lips upturned in open expectation, a movement that’s as natural for him as it is for me. I take his lips and press a long and lingering kiss, wishing it would be enough, wishing I could take that sensation with me for the rest of my life. That I could bottle this, bathe in it, wear it like perfume, that it would always surround me everywhere I go.
Like I could ever get enough of August.
But I have to. I’m leaving him. Tonight. Forever.
I break the kiss as suddenly as I started it, the thought turning my face away from him. “Can I help?”
There’s a hesitation, and his hand drops from my shirt, the little creases he made with his curling fingers precious in every rise and fall. I usually leave everything behind when I leap worlds, but I’ll keep this shirt. How long will it keep his scent?
“You can. Um… You can… Want to lay them out for the grill?”
“Okay.”
I’m treating him horribly already. I know I am. Sending him mixed signals and barely able to string two words together. This wasn’t the plan. But he’s pulled the rug out from under me with this.
I set about laying the thin slices of zucchini side by side on the baking paper. When I pick up the brush from the little bowl of olive oil, I can see it’s the same type Mum used to have. A harsh and sharp memory of doing this with her comes back to me. The way she’d let me paint the slices yellow. How pretty it was, how tactile, the feel of the oil between my fingers, the colourful drops on the countertop. The mess I’d never realised I was making for her, while she let me be near her, taught me these things that I’ve almost forgotten in all the years I’ve spent without a kitchen.
Not August. It’s here in his mind and his kitchen, alive in him. It’s home, in every brush and stroke and chop and movement. He’s quiet next to me, Poison still turning around on the record player, soft and wonderful, and never a song I thought would become so instantly dear to me.
“I got out at Camden and thought I’d just walk over. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t realise you were doing all this.”
“It’s not much,” he says, as though he didn’t just hand me the world on a plate. “I thought… you’re always in that room, working. And I wonder how often you get to cook something.”
“Never.”
“So, I guess you get sick of eating out. And going places. And I just thought it might be nice.”
Tears, vicious in my eyes, that I try to hide from him by lowering my head, concentrating on this simple task. “It’s really nice.”
“I thought we could just do that. And maybe… maybe you want to see the properDesperately Seeking Susan? We could put it on, and… Unless you wanted to go out? Or do something else. Or anything. I don’t mind.”
“It’s perfect.” But this time I can’t keep the shake out of my voice. It breaks, and he’s looking at me, searching my features, and in half a second he’s slipped his arm beneath mine, pulled me around, and I’m in his arms. In his arms and home.
He doesn’t say a word, and it pours out of me—all the sadness, all the anger, all the frustration at that one point in time when my whole world turned to shit. One second of bad timing from a bad driver that took both my parents and my whole life from me. That sent me down the dark path that destroyed me. That destroyed worlds. That brought me here, into the arms of this man, who’s the gentler, kinder version of me. Who I might have been. And I can’t hurt him. I can’t do it. I can’t and won’t let him down because heisme, but he’s a better me. And he deserves to be loved and protected in a way I never was. The way he’s protecting me now. And it’s breaking my heart.
It’s an effort to loosen my fingers when I realise how hard I’m gripping him. I wipe my tears onto my sleeve, and the mortification drops my eyes closed so I don’t have to see his reaction.
His hand lands on my cheek, soft, then drops away, and the gentle chop, chop of his knife on the board sets me free. So I grab the salt and start seasoning the zucchini.
How can he make everything so easy? He’s like walking magic. He doesn’t even ask, just goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine, pours out two glasses, and puts one near my hand.
“You shouldn’t spend your money on me,” I tell him.
“It’s nothing fancy.”
