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As a data analyst, Luka is ridiculously thorough in all things. Especially cheese.
BRIAN: We’ll be having our Thanksgiving dinner the first weekend in November. Estelle, you may bring a pumpkin pie. I may bring a pumpkin pie. Awesome. I bet if I were the type of person to save text messages, I’d have this exact same message on this exact day at this exact time from last year. In fact, I’m not sure my father has ever sent me a text message beyond this little nugget. That explains the three text messages from Charlie, then. I delete the group chat with my dad, his wife, and my half brother and move straight to the next. CHARLIE: He sure has a way with words, doesn’t he?
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a certain sort of nostalgia when the past intermingles with the present and flirts with the future.
And isn’t it silly to love the way someone’s things look like next to yours?
Like this, I could bite his bicep if I wanted to, the curve of it just an inch from my nose.
I want her to walk through the rows and rows of trees, just as the sun is setting, where it’s quiet enough to hear the way your boots crunch along the frozen ground. Where pine needles tangle in your hair and you feel like you’re the only person in the world.
“Honey”—her eyes trip back and forth between my own, a sad smile pulling at the corner of her lips—“just because you let yourself love someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave.”
just because you let yourself love someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave.”
“We are people who date?” Luka’s gaze is fixed on the tree line, a small smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners. He turns and peers down at me. “You know, I think that’s how we should introduce ourselves when Ms. Instagram gets here.”
“I think we both knew that was going nowhere, Cinnamon Stick.” I roll my eyes at the nickname he gave me when I was thirteen years old, tearfully confessing my great crime of forgetting to pay for a cinnamon stick sucker at the Save More on Third and Monroe. I sat myself down in front of his desk and cried myself silly, holding up my wrists for the cuffs I was so sure he would be forced to use. Shockingly, he did not feel the need to put me into custody.
Having him here, it’s a shot of comfort and confidence. I find his hand under the table and squeeze, his warm eyes darting up from his food and holding mine. Charlie was right. Best Thanksgiving ever.
He squeezes every now and again, and when his pinky lightly caresses the inside of my leg, I jump so hard I knock over a basket of dinner rolls. He hides his smile in his napkin and leaves his hand where it is.
“It’s not usually like that.” “You mean your dad doesn’t typically eat out of dishes with his hands before passing out?” Luka offers me a nugget, and I shake my head.
“I’m going to kiss you, and we’re going to deal with it like two mature, consenting adults. And when I come back, and when Evelyn is here, you won’t be worked up about it. And it will be fine.”
I shrug. “You wanted a kiss. I gave you a kiss.” “What you gave me is a concussion. Is that how you kiss?” He looks genuinely concerned.
He looks like sugar and spice and everything not so nice, sleep rumpled and flushed in my bed. I’ve had dreams that started and ended exactly like this.
“Meaning if we’re here, and I want to press you into the countertop and see what you taste like, then I can try that.” My stomach swoops low. He nuzzles my knee. “If you want.”
“I’m in love with you,” he says, frustrated and shirtless in my bed. He yells it at me, really, his dark eyebrows angry slashes over his eyes. “I’m in love with you and I want to be with you.”
“I asked my mom for this ring two years ago. The same day you told me you loved me. I’ve been keeping it with the casserole dishes because I know you don’t even bother with those. Sometimes I carry it around with me in my pocket when we go out, just in case it feels right. But here’s the thing, Stella.” He blows out a deep breath. “It’s always felt right.”
