Antonia lifts a shoulder. “Wherever. They need to at least appear comfortable together. Lena’s plans can work in our favor just as much as a dinner alone could. I’ll call Jason. Decker is neck deep in practices, but I think he should have tonight off. If I remember correctly, the Kings have Sundays free.”
I know my mom is about to lose it, but I’m so happy. I wish I could wrap Antonia in a hug and squeeze her until she turns blue. Relief replaces my looming anxiety. Not only because I don’t have to cancel my plans, but because she’s allowing me time to ease into this chaos with that oaf. If I have to meet with him, at least it’s on my turf.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DECKER
I climbout of the back of Lena’s black SUV and thank Gustav as he shuts the door behind me before jogging to catch up to Lena, who looks like she’s on a mission. My hair’s still damp from the rushed shower I took when Jason called to let me know we were“officially doing this thing.”I just agreed and got ready. It was easier to go along with him than to tell him she and I had already decided todo this thinglast night and that we talked guidelines and everything. It’s weird how fast it happened, and it’s better to let him think he’s still steering this ship. Thisrelationship.
Lena walks ahead of me, hips swaying as she puts distance between us. Only the faint scent of vanilla and something else lingers in her wake. I dodge a dumpster and a few trash cans, but she doesn’t wait for me to catch up. It’s like she’s trying to lose me. Maybe she is. I hate to tell her, but one of my strides is about two of hers. If I wanted to be beside her, I would, but she wants space, and I respect that. I wouldn’t be too happy either if someone encroached on my plans.
My foot lands in something sticky, and the sole of my high top peels away with a nauseating sound. The irony is not lost on me—America’s Pop Princess being smuggled through the least glamorous place imaginable. She pads down the alley ongrimy sneakers. Seeing her in those ratty things instead of her usual designer heels is jarring. Not only because they’re less than pristine, but she’s shrunk a few inches. She’s even shorter than I realized. We weave through another alley, Gustav—her bodyguard—leading the way. It feels silly having someone here to protect Lena when I’m sure I could handle anything that comes our way myself, but I’m no stranger to security detail. It’s his job, so I won’t argue. Besides, I’m not sure how far I’d be willing to stick my neck out for her, anyway. I doubt she’d do the same for me, unless it was to save her own butt, from what I’ve gathered.
“Where are we going again?” I finally ask.
Lena whips her head around, dark hair obscuring her smirking face as she nods toward a steepled church towering ahead. It feels out of place with all the new buildings crammed around all sides, but there’s something comforting about it withstanding all the updates surrounding it, stained glass and all.
“To help make food,” she says simply. “For people who are hungry. People who can’t afford enough food.”
She says it to me as though I couldn’t possibly know what it’s like. What she doesn’t realize is that there were a few years my family could have benefited from a place like this. We always scraped by, but there were times I had to watch my parents go without. They never took handouts. Too proud. I can’t say I agree with their logic, but we live and we learn, as they say.
“Gotta keep up appearances,” I say, sizing up the brick building.
She scoffs, and I don’t look at her when she flips around to scowl at me. Gustav reaches a metal door and props it open for us both as I file in silently behind her.
We weave down a dark hall, Lena guiding us like she’s been here a million times. She’s greeted with broad smiles from thestaff members, and even calls a few by their first name. What’s different about this place is that no one rushes her, no one asks for an autograph. Their smiles may be a little brighter when she looks their way, but for the most part, every person we encounter treats her as though she’s any other human on the street.
When we make it to the kitchen, hairnets and gloves in hand, I realize she wasn’t joking about making food. A nice lady with pink lipstick and flowery perfume takes us to a table buried in potatoes and hands us two peelers. I pull out a chair and sit, examining the sterile-looking room. For a church, it sure doesn’t feel very inviting in here. Everything is white and wallpapered. Gray linoleum flooring runs from wall to wall. It’s like someone lost all the crayons in the box except for the most boring colors. I’m no interior designer, but this place could benefit from some flowers or a different paint orsomething.
I turn back toward the mound of vegetables and realize Lena’s watching me. “What?”
“You just look uncomfortable, that’s all.” She arches a brow, whisking her peeler across a potato. “Feeling a little out of your element?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that she’s enjoying the thought of my discomfort. “Why? Are you in yours?”
She shrugs. “Kind of, I guess. I like this place. I try to go to every Christmas service here. Sometimes I rearrange my work schedule so I won’t miss it.”
“And when it isn’t Christmas, you just sit in the kitchen and peel root vegetables?”
“Not always. Sometimes I go out to meet people, but a lot of times I just like to stay behind the scenes. Work with my hands instead.” She holds up a half-peeled potato and wiggles it. “Get some dirt under my nails or whatever.”
“Hard to do that with the gloves on.”
A corner of her mouth lifts at my joke, and then she sighs. “It’s probably weird I don’t just stand out there and say hi. And not to toot my own horn, but it does make people really happy when I do meet and greets.”
“Of course it does. You’re Lena Lux.”
She eyes me coyly. “But I think it’s just as important that their food is made with love, ya know? And I feel like I can provide that. Maybe some people would think it’s selfish not to just go out and let everyone have an autograph or whatever, but I like to think I’m helping just as much this way. I have more to offer than a pen on paper.”
Her words burrow into me. She’s right. We’re so much more than our careers, than what people witness from the outside.
“So, this is your philanthropy?”
“My mom and Antonia only call it that because it sounds better. I just volunteer when I’m in town. We make donations to all kinds of places I never even get the chance to visit, but this place calls you to serve. To be active. So I try to make time.”
I arch a brow, still shocked by all her—very unbratty—answers.
“Is it your first time in a soup kitchen?” she asks.
