I turned back to the cookie sheet, trying to shield against the flush that refused to dissipate.
“You really think it’s not too much?” I asked, needing to hear it again.
“Not even close. If there’s too much of you, I sure haven’t seen it yet.”
“Probably because you’re sample size consists of a few weeks. Give it time, I’m sure it’ll happen.”
“Not possible. You can’t have too much of a good thing, remember.”
I hated how obvious I was. I loved how he praised me. “Okay. All of it, then.”
“Great! So what’s the cookie transport plan? Platters? Individually wrapped in aluminum foil or cling wrap? Tupperware? Fancy basket?” Luke asked.
“I figured something simple. Foil over the brownie pans, and Ziploc bags for the cookies.”
“Done. I’ll handle the cookies, you foil the brownies.”
We worked in tandem, with a strange sort of easy domesticity that I knew I shouldn’t allow myself to get used to but couldn’t help but cherish.
“Alright, that’s everything,” Luke said, once we had everything packed and sealed and put into a canvas bag. “You ready to hit the road, partner?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“That’s the spirit. You’re going to be amazing. And hey,” he added, lowering his voice as he stepped a little closer. “If at any point it gets overwhelming, squeeze my hand three times and I’ll come up with a brilliant excuse for us to vamoose. Like a sudden case of the vapors.”
“The vapors?” I repeated, arching a brow at him. “What are you, a character out of a Jane Austen novel?”
He shrugged. “Hey, those books proved it’s a highly effective escape strategy. I’ll do a dramatic faint, preferably onto someone’s lap to cushion the fall. It’ll be the highlight of the night.”
“You could faint in my lap,” I said, my mouth reacting before my brain could catch up.What the fuck?I chided.Faint in my lap. Who says that? Who! Congratulations, you’re now a malfunctioning flirt-bot, corrupted by secondhand rom-coms and bad Tumblr dialogue, who decided to deploy them all in real time, without supervision.
Daring a glance upward, I found Luke’s mouth curved into that frustratingly appealing, dimpled smirk.
“You’re prepared to offer up your lap like some chaise longue for my hulking self?”
“On second thought, I don’t think my outfit could survive the strain. Find someone else to collapse onto, preferably someone sturdier.”
“Don’t worry, I promise to swoon politely. A single gloved hand to my brow, a sigh of great poetic suffering, and not a single wrinkle in your couture top.”
He reached out and let his fingers skim across the glossy satin. The top had a high neckline forming a modern cravat, and from the right shoulder, an asymmetrical pleat spilled down my torso. Neither wholly masculine nor feminine, but elegantly androgynous. A reclamation of my identity, a choice I once would have been punished for. I wore it now in a sort of unapologetic rebellion against the rigid expectations that had shaped my attire, and my sense of self. Vincent had always shunned my affinity for fluid fashion, branding my preferences as indulgent and sissy.
When Luke had taken me shopping to rebuild my wardrobe, I’d hesitated at a rack that held garments of a more fluid style. Bold, beautiful, and me. I’d told myself it’d be safer not to reach,better to pretend those weren’t the type of clothes I wanted. But Luke had caught my lingering, longing glance and the way my fingers had reached out, and without hesitation, he had plucked one of the tops free and held it up to me. “You’ll look amazing in this,” he’d enthused. “We should add it to the pile, and anything else you want. What’s your size?” With his easy acceptance, lack of judgement, and encouragement, he had given me one more antidote to Vincent’s poison.
“This is one of my favorites of the clothes we bought,” Luke said, bringing me back from the memory. “You look like you.”
“I look like me?”
“Yeah, y’know, like some clothes cover a person, but this honors who you are. It isn’t just ‘oh, cool, it fits.’ It’s ‘yeah, that’s him.’ It’s you as you should be seen. The version that isn’t tucked away or watered down.”
Luke was determined to break my capacity for speech. It happened daily, sometimes more than once, where he said something so genuine and earnest it rendered me speechless.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said after a moment. “Three squeezes, remember? That’s all it takes and I’ll spin a plausible story about alien abduction and we’ll be out the door in less than sixty seconds.”
“If you want it to be believable, you might want to stick to something a little more subtle.”
“Don’t worry, I can do subtle. I’ll say the CDC issued a nationwide advisory on a zombie outbreak. The walking dead are on the move. Best to avoid large gatherings, self-isolate, and get home immediately if you value your brains.”
I gaped at him.
