Sweet Nothing(48)

Like sleeping with Ashley. I don’t say it because saying it would be cruel. And I can tell by the clouds in Luke’s eyes that he’s thinking it anyway.

“I love Lilah,” he says forcefully.

“I know you do.”

He clears his throat, staring down at the countertop. “So once I found out I was gonna be a dad, I knew I had to change something. I didn’t want to set a bad example for my little girl. And since Ashley’s struggled with drinking, I don’t keep anything in the house.”

“So you haven’t had anything to drink in, like, five years?”

“Not much. I’ll drink a glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve, or at a wedding. But that’s about it. Does that bother you?”

“Of course not! I love that you made that kind of decision for your daughter.” I take a small sip, feeling a little self-conscious. I like that having a child made him more responsible. His daughter is lucky that way. “My mom… had a drinking problem. She went into rehab a few times when I was younger.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Before she died? You said your parents had passed away, right?”

A chill runs through me, despite the heat in the kitchen and the wine. I don’t want to lie to him. And I can’t tell him the truth. “Not… exactly. I said I lost them.”

“Okay. I’m officially confused.” Luke turns down the heat on the risotto and joins me on the other side of the counter. We sit facing each other, our knees barely touching. Everything about him tells me I can trust him: the way he’s looking at me with care and just the slightest bit of concern in his eyes. The way he waits patiently for me to speak; doesn’t push me to say what I’m not ready to say. Still… I have no idea how he’ll react if I tell him the truth.

“I know. It’s… confusing.” I reach for my glass. The wine inside ripples slightly. I’m shaking.

“Listen. Elle.” Luke takes my glass and places it gently on the counter. Then he takes my hand and rubs it between his. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper. I stare at the center button on his shirt. He must have dressed quickly; it’s only halfway through the buttonhole.

“I mean it. We haven’t known each other all that long, and it’s okay to hold back on some things if you need to.” He laughs. “I did! Have you forgotten already?”

“I know.” But it’s not the same. His having a child is a big deal. Life-changing, obviously. But not shameful. Finally, I glance up at him. His eyes, his face, are so caring and warm and open that I want to rest in them forever. “It’s just hard to explain. My parents aren’t dead, actually. They just… my dad did some things—some really awful things—and I don’t speak to them much anymore.”

I’m stunned into silence the moment the words leave my mouth. It’s the most honest I’ve been with anyone in a long time. And he’s not suddenly fascinated and dying to know details, or looking at me like I have three heads, or even awkwardly changing the subject to make me feel better. He just nods thoughtfully and we’re quiet for a while, until the lid on the risotto pot starts to jump. He gets up and takes the pot off the stove, then sits across from me again.

“You know, when I was a really little kid and we lived in Greece, there was this market we’d go to almost every day. To get fresh bread, and whatever we needed for dinner that night. And the lady who ran the place had these baskets of rock candy at the front of the store. And every time we’d go, I’d ask my mom if we could buy some, and every time, she said no.”

“You poor, deprived child,” I smile. “Rock candy? Is this an ‘uphill in the snow both ways’- kind of story?” I finish my wine and Luke pours me another glass.

“No.” He narrows his eyes at me before he hands me the glass. “Are you going to interrupt the whole time?”

“Sorry. Continue.”

“One day I decided that it wasn’t fair that she always said no, and on our way out, I stole some.”

I mock gasp. “You horrible, horrible excuse for a human being.”

“It was bad!” he insists sheepishly. “I ate it on the way home, and I’m sure my mother knew, because for one thing I wasn’t that slick. And for another thing, my father sat me down after dinner and asked me if there was anything I wanted to tell him.”

“And did you, Mr. Poulos?” I feign stern disappointment, swirling my wine in the glass. I can picture Little Kid Luke, with a mass of dark curls and sugar and guilt smeared all over his face.