It’s food, Scottie. Not a kiss.
You missed that chance this morning.
The buffet line is mercifully empty. Stainless steel chafing dishes reflect the early morning light slanting through the courtyard doors. A cook behind the omelet station nods at me, and I order the green chile omelet, confessing my feelings in culinary form.
By the time I get back, plate in hand, I’ve scanned the room twice. Still just the two men in golf polos. No Firebirds. No staff.
I sit.
“How was your morning?” he asks.
“Productive,” I say, my eyes shifting left and right.
“Productive?” he asks, leaning closer and grabbing my hand under the table. “That sounds a lot less exciting than I’d hoped.”
“You have no idea how exciting I find productivity.”
A laugh bursts out of him. “I stand corrected.” He takes a bite of his omelet. “How did you sleep?”
Normally, I wouldn’t be up for truth bombs before seven in the morning, but with Lucas’s hand on mine, I feel stronger. Safer.
“Like someone who got emotionally body-slammed by a group text at ten thirty,” I say.
He winces, and his thumb rubs my palm. “That bad?”
“Agent’s ‘BIG mad,’” I say, air-quoting with my free hand. “Which is apparently worse than regular mad.”
Lucas huffs but doesn’t let go. “So there’s a scale?”
“Oh, definitely. Mildly annoyed. Frustrated. Disappointed. Mad. BIG mad. Nuclear.”
“Where does Scottie mad fall?”
I give him a level look. “Scottie doesn’t get mad.”
“Everyone gets mad.”
“I beg your pardon. Scottie’s anger is futile and ignored by her well-meaning but oblivious family.”
He nods, twists his hand, and intertwines our fingers in a way that’s so intimate, I can’t believe everyone in the lobby isn’t blushing.
He looks past me. “You know, my mom’s been gone for three years, but she was sick for a long time before that?—”
“Lucas, I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “I’m complaining about my family when your mom?—”
“No, I’m not saying that,” he says. “My sister’s big on the idea that life isn’t the pain Olympics—you don’t have to win at suffering before you’re allowed to hurt.”
I tip my head to the side. “I love that.”
He smiles. “Yeah, Liesel’s smart like that. But what I was going to say is that my mom was sick for so long that we put her on a pedestal before she even died. I told myself she couldn’t do anything wrong because she was dying, but it wasn’t true. Shewas an amazing mom, don’t get me wrong. But she still said insensitive things or got mad or accidentally compared us to each other. It’s not like being sick turned her into a saint.”
His head is angled down too much for me to tell what emotion he’s processing. “She loved us, and with everything going on, I never felt like I was allowed to get mad at her or tell her if she was being hard on me.”
“Do you wish you could go back?” I ask.
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. She would have felt awful, but she wouldn’t have beat herself up about it. She would have tried harder. That’s it.”
“But you couldn’t do it,” I say.
