Page 20 of Falling Backwards (The Edge of Us #1)

“All right,”

Luke says once we’re parked at the sporting goods store.

“What kind of workout clothes do we need?”

I get ready to recite the short list I’ve come up with for myself, but then I send him a questioning look.

“‘We’?”

I repeat.

“Are you getting some too?”

He tugs his cool sunglasses off his face, then slips a look over me.

“Yeah, I decided I want some.”

“What kind?”

Chuckles rumble out of him, sending a pleasant chill whispering over me.

“I don’t know.”

He folds his shades into the cupholder.

“That’s what I just asked.”

Oh.

I nod.

“Oh. Right.”

We get out of his car. While we walk to the store entrance, I tell him I’d like at least one new pair of leggings and a couple shirts. Then I try to figure out what type of exercise he’s interested in.

“You said you were having a hard time with running,” I recall.

He groans.

“Yeah, it sucked.”

“Are you hoping to get better at it?”

As it occurs to me, I look down to his gray slip-on Vans.

“I think you need specific shoes for running.”

He follows my gaze.

“Well, I wasn’t wearing these on my runs, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have some Pumas.”

“Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re quite goofy enough to try to exercise in flat-ass Vans. I was just saying.”

Another chuckle comes.

I give in to a smile and add.

“Still, your Pumas might not be a style you should wear.”

“They’re not as flat-ass as these, though.”

“Maybe, but I’m not the decider of what makes a proper running shoe.”

I gesture at the store.

“We’ll look around in here and see if you find anything appropriate that you like.”

He salutes me.

And once again, he’s got me laughing a little.

Perhaps I should be in a worse mood given how he was acting when he got to my apartment…and how I ended up feeling guilty about what I did when we were sixteen. Thinking about his aunt made me think about his dad because I know—or used to know—the only aunt Luke speaks to is his dad’s sister. And thinking about that filled me with remorse and embarrassment about those flyers. Those stupid damn flyers I put all over school out of anger….

I hadn’t simply figured they would hurt him, I hoped they would. He had stomped on my heart and I wanted to pay him back somehow.

All over again, here in the cold morning, guilt steals into my stomach.

But I told him I was sorry back at home—for trying to make him talk about his aunt, anyway. And that was something, wasn’t it? Especially since he accepted my apology? Paired with his returned apology, things felt settled after that, at least on the surface. That’s good enough, right?

I think so, and he seems to agree.

Couples are supposed to be like this anyway, huh? It’s natural for them to argue and make up, choose their battles, all that. We dealt with the fight we had earlier this week, though it did take a little time…. So for a pretend-couple, I’d say we’re doing all right.

It’s also natural for couples to be comfortable around each other in different ways, so as we enter the store, I know it’s time to mention one other thing I’m shopping for.

I say.

“Full disclosure: I also need to find a sports bra.”

Luke’s eyebrows go up—and I can see how hard he tries not to let his gaze drop below my chin.

I halfway expected this, but it still makes me blush something fierce.

Not wholly with shyness, though, because those eyes remind me of him saying he’s always been attracted to me, and…well, certain parts of me think he’s crazy, but all the others feel as crazily complimented as ever.

Looking away, he asks.

“Regular bras aren’t a good choice, huh?”

I tsk, having learned that lesson over the last several days.

“Not at all.”

“Makes sense. Need the right pair of shoes for running, need the right bra for…”

he squints.

“…what kind of workouts did you say you’re doing?”

“HIIT. High-intensity interval training.”

We approach the women’s apparel section directly in front of us.

“Jumping is a common occurrence.”

“Like jumping jacks?”

“Yeah. The stuff they do in those workouts is pretty varied, though.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe you’d be interested in trying them yourself, like, between running days. I’ve decided I need to alternate HIIT exercise days and other exercise days. Walking at the park sounds nice.”

“That’s a good idea. I remember you saying HIIT is hard.”

He stops at a rack with some sports bras on it. He picks up a strappy, low-fronted pink one that doesn’t look like it’d offer much support, especially according to the research I’ve done.

But of course he turns a single lifted eyebrow to me, along with a blooming grin.

I shake my head in refusal.

“Why not?”

he asks.

“It would look awesome on you, and it’s cute, right?”

I snort at that first comment, my blush fast returning. Then I say.

“Yes, it’s cute, but it doesn’t look like what I need. Does the tag say it’s for high-impact workouts?”

He snags the thing and reads it.

“Mmm, nope. Low-impact. What does that mean?”

“That it’s better for stuff like yoga.”

“Ah. I get it.”

Blowing a raspberry, he puts the hanger back on the rack.

“Okay, then, let’s see….”

As he starts looking around us, I wonder if he’s really going to help me shop instead of hunt down the stuff he needs for himself. Surely not even a piece of clothing related to boobs is so interesting to him? It’s not like I’ll be wearing the sports bra around him without a shirt over it.

But now he’s pointing out a pair of shimmery dark green leggings and saying.

“Those would look awesome on you too,”

and he seems genuine in his commitment.

So…okay, then, indeed.

And anyway, the point of us going places together is for him to be close to me. It wouldn’t help me feel safe if Kyle showed up while I was over here and Luke was out of sight looking at guy clothes.

Plus, now that he knows what I’m shopping for, this part of the trip can go a bit quicker.

He meanders away and I follow him, deciding to grab my size in the shimmery leggings; in truth, I like them very much.

While we shuffle through this area, Luke wants to know more about HIIT workouts, so I describe the video I’ve been going along with. I didn’t know anything about those kinds of routines before I decided to start exercising, so I get how intrigued he is by the way it all works.

“So,”

he says from next to me.

“you do whatever the particular move is, like a variation of a jumping jack, for whatever length of time—thirty seconds, forty seconds—and then you stop and take a short break before moving on to the next thing.”

I nod and inspect a sports bra that looks promising. “Right.”

“And you can do an easier version of it if the regular is too hard?”

“Right. That way, even if you’re new or getting over an injury or whatever, you’re still getting your heart rate up during the intervals.”

“Mmm. And that’s how you get the benefits of exercise: you get your heart rate up.”

I nod again and collect two different sizes of this bra. I don’t love the idea of having to get a fitting room, but it’d be stupid not to ascertain—

A hand goes down my back, following the fall of my hair over my sweater. I lose both my train of thought and my breath.

“Come to me,”

Luke says.

Oh, God, does he see Kyle?

My pulse freaks out at the thought—but its next stumble is from relief over the realization that a lady is trying to pass us in the narrow space between these two racks. With a weak smile of apology to her, I shift close to Luke, whose strong hand is now curved into my waist, tugging me just out of the way.

It’s difficult to wrap my mind around how it feels.

Especially since he doesn’t stop touching me after the lady is gone, like much of me expects him to.

“Sounds more fun than running,” he says.

I look to his chest, which is so close and is quite nicely covered by a thermal shirt. “What?”

I ask weakly.

“A HIIT workout.”

Oh. Our conversation.

I nod, nod, nod.

“Yeah, it’s—it’s a good place to start, I think. It seems to be advantageous.”

I look back to the bras, trying to catch my breath while swiftly collecting sizes in a second color, even though it’s not necessary to try on more than one.

But he’s still touching me, moving his hand now to some of the hair draped over my shoulder. It’s impossible not to be distracted by it.

“Am I bothering you?”

comes his lowered voice.

It takes me a second to notice the question is sincere. Not coy, not challenging.

So I speak honestly: “No.”

I mean, these touches are new for us as adults. They’re strange in their way. And the parts of my brain that haven’t forgotten about the rift between us feel stung by his perfect imitations of affection.

But…I’m not bothered. I’m especially not uncomfortable like I was the few times Kyle touched me.

At this returning thought of him, I wonder if he really is here somehow and that’s why Luke hasn’t taken his hand off me.

I adjust all the hangers I’m holding, easing up some pinching that’s becoming painful. Then I get brave enough to look all the way up to Luke’s face. He’s studying the bit of my hair he’s caught between a couple fingers.

Gentle fingers.

The question.

“What are you thinking about?”

falls out of my mouth.

“Your hair is soft and you smell good.”

His easy answer settles on me.

I decide it doesn’t really matter whether Kyle is around. Luke and I are pretending to date just in case, and part of that is exchanging touches, low tones meant only for each other, moments of closeness that look real.

I glance at his lips without meaning to. Then I give the best smile I can for how stirred and shaky and strangely comforted I am.

“Thank you,” I say.

He takes a slow breath and finally stops touching me, letting that piece of hair slip back down to my shoulder.

“Thank you.”

As he shuffles to the next rack, I can feel my smile becoming more real.

“For what? Smelling good?”

“Yeah, if you smelled like olives, being near you would be terrible.”

I chuckle.

“Still hate olives, hmm?”

He chuckles too.

“Until the day I die.”

Nostalgia touches me.

“There’s a song I haven’t thought about in years.”

“Oh, man. Same.”

Momentarily, my ears catch the start of another exercise question, but my brain focuses more on the bit of lazy air guitar I catch him doing. I know that song is in his head now.

I haven’t seen him play air guitar in such a long time. It’s another little blast from the past.

I wonder if seeing flickers of the old Maggie ever affects him as much as it affects me when I see flickers of the old Luke.

Maybe by the end of all this, we won’t be at such odds anymore, I dare to hope. Maybe we can keep proving we’re capable of getting along and we’ll be able to at least tolerate each other in the future and familiar things won’t feel so bittersweet.

There’s no pretending, even to myself, like that wouldn’t be nice.

For now, I tune in to how he has just prompted me, “Eh? Eh?”

I replay his question that I skipped over before, then send a flat look to his back.

“No,”

I say.

“being able to do HIIT workouts on easy mode doesn’t mean I can wear that pink sports bra after all.”

—

By the time I’ve picked out more clothes and tried them all on, it’s looking like I’ll have to go to another store for most of the things I hoped to find. The leggings Luke pointed out are all I love; no other ones were comfortable, none of the shirts wowed me, and the sports bras were all letdowns.

Sighing, I return to the entrance to the ladies’ fitting room area. The things that didn’t work for me get left on the empty table there.

“All right. Your turn.”

Luke saunters into view from where he’s been waiting just outside the entrance.

“Awesome leggings only?” he notes.

“Yeah.”

I nod at the few clothes he needs to try on himself.

“So if you don’t love any of that, maybe another store will help both of us out.”

“Okay. Shoe department after I see about this stuff?”

“Mmhmm.”

The fitting rooms are set in the middle of the apparel department, but they’re separated for women and men in a back-to-back kind of way, with the women’s facing the front of the store and the men’s facing the back. Each cluster of rooms is nestled amongst the many racks of appropriate clothes. While we leave my area, I glance around, feeling the slightest twinge of discomfort. Before I went into the fitting room, we thought we heard someone call out for a Kyle from out of sight. It seemed more like a dad looking for his kid than anything else, but I guess that name alone is going to unsettle me for a while.

Luke insisted on waiting while I tried the clothes on, rather than splitting away to try his on, too, and save some time. I appreciated that. Weird though it was to know he was nearby during my various stages of undress, I felt guarded.

So I instantly feel vulnerable when he enters the men’s changing area and I have to hang back to wait right outside like he did.

He notices and pauses.

Contemplates me.

Scans the vicinity.

“You….”

He clears his throat and gestures to the rooms.

“If you wanna come with me, you can.”

The offer makes my stomach flip-flop for a few reasons.

I focus on the one about how he’s probably not allowed to make that offer.

I say.

“I’m pretty sure couples aren’t supposed to be in there together.”

He glances around at the walls, then shrugs.

“There’s no sign strictly forbidding it. Or an employee to stop us. Or anyone else around to complain about it.”

Nervousness aside, I give him a look.

“We both know that if there isn’t a sign, then it’s an unspoken rule, and we should—”

“I don’t know that.”

“Well, I do.”

“Do you work here?”

he counters.

“I didn’t realize you had a second job.”

I roll my eyes.

He gives me the same look I gave him moments ago.

“Look, I know how in love with rules you are, but it’s not like we’d be doing anything wild back here. We just don’t want you to be left alone if you’re afraid. In fact, I’d be more than happy to explain the situation to anyone who might come around with something to say about it.”

That sweet protectiveness has my stomach flipping again, like the eye-roll-worthy response before it never existed.

“But I won’t make you do it,”

he says.

“I’m nearby no matter where you stand.”

He gestures to the rooms again, then continues walking to them.

“If you change your mind….”

I watch him disappear around the inner corner. A few moments pass before a door closes.

Pursing my lips, I choose to step just inside the fitting room area. I can lean against one of these walls without technically being in a no-Maggies-allowed zone—I can’t even see the hallway of rooms from here, thanks to that corner.

Not inappropriate at all, and I still won’t be out in the open alone.

It’s so quiet out there, I notice. And motionless.

Even after another minute or so.

It’s kind of eerie, really. It’s a normal time of day and everything, but it doesn’t really feel that way since I can’t see the front of the store and the daylight beyond, only racks of clothes and some unremarkable carpet and the stretch of the industrial-type ceiling. Like Luke said, there are no employees in view. And the lady we encountered earlier and the calling-for-Kyle man were the only other customers we’ve been aware of since we got here, which was some time ago by now.

As I continue gazing out into the bit of store I can see from here, I keep my eyes peeled for anything overtly unusual.

Only when my back starts aching do I realize I’m hunched and tense against this wall, my new leggings held close to me.

I inhale slowly, then force myself to relax.

Chill out a little bit, girl. You don’t have a real reason to think Kyle is here. And even if he is, you’re not alone no matter how empty it looks around here—Luke is super close by, and there are employees…and…other shoppers somewhere….

Across the way, a guy has shuffled into my line of sight. My breath freezes in my chest. His sandy-blond head is turned away from me as he peruses the rack of sweatpants Luke visited a little while ago.

Kyle’s hair looks like that.

And the frame of his body does too—it looks like that guy’s.

…I think the latter is true, anyway. It’s kind of hard to tell from this distance, this angle.

My heartbeat can’t decide between ramping up and remaining calm.

Is that really him? What’s the likelihood of it versus the likelihood of me just being paranoid?

He shifts as if to look this way, and my fear takes over. I bolt with a gasp I can’t contain.

Even once I’m around the inner corner of the fitting rooms, out of sight of him, I keep rushing, heavily heading for—

I gasp again as the only closed door flies opens and Luke fires through it. I teeter to a halt so I don’t collide—

Ho.

Ly.

Shit.

“Hey.”

Towering and intense and shirtless, Luke looks me over, then peers around behind me.

“You okay?”

Once again, my lungs aren’t working right.

Holy shit, jeans and socks are all he’s wearing.

I try not to stare, but it’s too hard to resist. I’ve been aware for months that adult Luke is handsome in a different way from how teenage Luke was—he’s grown into being thicker and more masculine—and this is serious proof that I wasn’t expecting to get.

Those jeans couldn’t accentuate his bottom half any better. They were made for his hips, his thighs, the vague shape of the rest of his legs. As for his top half, his uncovered shoulders and torso and arms look stronger than they do in clothes, but he’s not exactly toned. He just looks good. Even his navel is attractive somehow.

Paired with my memories of our most recent physical contact, this sight of him easily teases how good he probably is at giving real hugs, at snuggling, at playfully carrying a girl around.

Lifting her onto a countertop during a kiss. Caging her against a soft bed while they—

No, my God, I shouldn’t imagine things like that.

But now my brain is having a dangerously easy time imagining the girl as m—

“Maggie?”

Starting, I close my mouth—when did it fall open?—and look at Luke’s face again.

Mine is on fire, I realize.

Along with a lot of the rest of me.

His cheeks have colored too. He slips one hand over his mouth in a half-hearted rub.

Are his eyes even more intense than before?

I finally manage.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are as dry as my throat has gone. But how can my throat feel dry when my mouth is practically watering?

Wow, that’s a confusing and embarrassing thing to notice: I apparently find Luke mouthwatering.

Not as confusing and embarrassing as how close I was to fantasizing about him just now.

He starts saying something that gets overrun by my second.

“I’m sorry.”

He pauses, then says.

“It’s…it’s fine.”

His voice doesn’t sound quite normal either. Kind of dry, too, and kind of low.

Ugh, I’ve probably made him uncomfortable with my ogling.

“Did you get scared out there?”

He drops his hand from his chin and waves along himself.

“I heard you make a noise and start running in here, so I hurried to….”

I hug my new leggings, lift my shoulders, and keep my voice low too.

“Yeah. I mean, a-a little scared. Kind of.”

He takes a measured breath, then looks behind me again.

“But it might’ve been nothing,”

I admit.

“Was a guy that I thought…. I panicked, but I might’ve been wrong.”

“Well, guess what, Goody Two-Shoes? You’re done following the ‘unspoken rule.’”

He looks at me and nods to his room.

“You’re going in with me.”

This time, I’m aware of my mouth falling open.

A lot of things hit me at once: shyness, intrigue, gratitude, more heat, uncertainty.

I eke out a, “Huh?”

“Yeah. New plan, so get in. You can sit on that little bench while I finish trying on clothes.”

Surprised into a near-whisper, I suggest.

“Or I—I could wait here. That would still be a step up from where I was before, right?”

“Sure it would,”

he agrees, his voice dropping further as well.

“but I don’t want this door standing in my way again. It already felt like I was about to yank it off its hinges.”

Is there such a thing as blushing too many times? Like, health-wise?

“Plus,”

he adds.

“the view will be much better in there.”

A jab at my staring from a minute ago. I scramble for something to say, then try to joke.

“Cocky much?”

He tilts his head.

“If I were only referring to myself.”

Another surprised somersault of my insides.

Maybe I should be more concerned about him causing my stomach to flip out of my body. It’s like I keep getting hit with the feeling of falling through open air.

We don’t break eye contact. He’s serious, and I don’t know what I am.

Then multiple light laughs reach us from somewhere else in the store. They sound female and non-threatening, but they’re an interruption all the same.

I get back to having a working brain.

Being in that room with him sounds impossible—the rule-breaking, the intimacy—but the thought of it does also offer a sense of security I didn’t have before, when I was at the entrance alone. While that particular proximity to him may not be the most relaxed place I’ve ever found myself, it can’t wrap me in the kind of tension I was feeling a couple minutes ago.

Between that and us not having all the time in the world to go back and forth on this, I freshly fix my new leggings against my chest, then concede softly, “Okay.”

He keeps looking at me—at my face, my clutching hold on the leggings. Then he puffs out a breath and waves for me to step into the room.

In a blur of moments and movement, I get seated on the bench and he gets us shut into the small space and has to come close in order to unclip some gray sweatpants from a hanger on the wall right by me. I swear I can feel his body heat emanating from all that bare skin.

But wait, wait—he’s trying on the sweatpants next?

My eyes go quickly around this little area, and yes, it looks like three pairs of the pants are all he has left. Next to me on the bench, there seems to already be a tried-on pile of a couple pullovers and their hangers.

“Jeans are coming off,”

he just about murmurs, confirming my thoughts.

“Avert your gaze.”

After a beat.

“Or don’t.”

With that tone, it doesn’t sound like he’s still mocking me for staring at him, but there’s no way he’s not.

At least, that’s what I insist to myself because the alternative is….

Unsure that I can handle seeing him in only underwear, even for just a few seconds, I dig through the pullovers and find his thermal shirt beneath them. I grab it and blindly thrust it out to him, sending a hanger clattering to the floor.

“Here,” I offer.

He takes the shirt and, to my surprise, passes me the sweatpants. The fabric settles pleasantly in my hands. I try to focus on that, but my peripheral vision tells me he’s pulling the shirt on; I feel both relieved and disappointed.

Once he’s covered up again, I try to give the sweatpants back, but he says.

“Keep holding them. Please.”

Now I send him a curious look. “Why?”

His hands drop to finally undo his jeans. I swing my eyes away again and hear his zipper and his.

“I can’t take off one set of pants and put on another at the same time.”

Obviously, he’s right, but I’m so flustered that I reach for my typical impatience with him rather than going for understanding.

“Well, why did you get the sweatpants off the hanger if you weren’t ready to put them on yet? It would’ve been more efficient to—”

“Is there anything you won’t nitpick?”

Now I hear the rush of his jeans being removed…and I try not to let my peripheral vision catch that too.

I remember to bend over and retrieve the shirt hanger I knocked to the floor, then remember where it came from.

“It also would’ve been more efficient to hang this stuff up when you were done with it instead of just tossing it over here.”

As I’m picking up one of the pullovers so I can put it on the hanger, his jeans land here, too, right over my hand and forearm. It feels like a, ‘Stop picking up after me,’ thing plus a, ‘Watch me toss more stuff over there,’ thing. But what my brain latches on to is how warm the jeans are from being on his body.

Stop being stupid, Maggie.

He takes the sweatpants from me, and I still don’t let my eyes go his way even a little bit. I keep them trained on my task of hanging up the pullovers, warm jeans nudged aside.

But it seems the rest of me just won’t let the moment go. My ears pick up on the sounds of his breaths as he puts the pants on, and faint chill bumps come up on me because my hair is fluttering a bit from his various nearby movements…and because I’m remembering his murmur from a minute ago: ‘Avert your gaze. Or don’t.’

So stupid. This is Luke I’m being so affected by.

It’s like this little turn our trip has taken has sapped me of some of my sense. Good Lord.

But honestly…

“These are all right, huh?”

he asks. I take the invitation to look, and I try not to spend too long soaking up how ‘all right’ is an understatement. The sweatpants fit him as well as his jeans do.

…who could blame a pretend-girlfriend, right?

“Yep,” I answer.

“Cool.”

I drop my eyes to the hangered pullovers and start nitpicking, indeed, at the tiny bits of lint on them; he’s already de-pantsing again.

But when he sneezes, I involuntarily shift my gaze in his direction as I say.

“Bless you,”

and I catch sight of his exposed calves and low-cut socks.

Damn it, he appears to have nice legs too.

“Thanks,” he says.

My eyes fly wide with panic that I—

Oh, wait, no. No, I didn’t say that out loud, I realize. He’s thanking me for the, ‘Bless you.’ That’s all.

I sigh.

The sweatpants land next to me, on top of his jeans. He moves on to the next pair, and while I give this one some time to lose whatever warmth they’re holding, I carefully pull his jeans free. Seems best to have them ready for him once he’s done trying things on.

I don’t need to spend any more time with half-naked Luke than is necessary.

—

Aside from Luke liking that one pair of sweatpants, the rest of our time in the sporting goods store turned out to be fruitless. I wondered if I should get some good athletic shoes of my own, but neither of us found any that we couldn’t live without. We’ll have to pick back up on shopping for outfits later this weekend.

We never found out if the guy I saw was Kyle, which is both a relief and lingeringly uncomfortable. Some decidedly good news is that the coast appeared to be clear when we went to the grocery store to get the laundry detergent and body wash Luke needed. And it was neither here nor there that I got a whiff of the latter, but there was something pleasant about knowing he washes himself with something scented like that—male without being overbearing, fragrant without making my nose itch.

We ate some fast-food tacos, swung back by my apartment so I could get ready for work, and now we’re about to walk into his so he can do the same.

Since learning we’d be stopping by, I’ve been interested in seeing how he lives. Is he the sloppy and lazy sort of single guy, or is he on the tidier side? Does his whole place look like the fitting room bench?

His complex seems nice, but it isn’t built like mine; it has the kinds of doors and porches that face out into the open air rather than line indoor hallways. The upstairs unit he’s in has the feeling of being tucked into a corner, but in a good way—his is the last second-level unit on this end of the string of buildings. While he unlocks the door, I look down between his building and the one sitting at a close catty-corner, where a sidewalk winds out of sight, perhaps towards the swimming pool or a small playground, definitely through other buildings.

I think he has a nice little spot here. I’m sure this area is truly pleasant in other seasons, when the grass is green and the trees are blooming.

And I bet Christmas lights are so fun on these porch and staircase railings. I always like driving by apartments and seeing the different holiday decorations people come up with.

“Here we go,”

Luke prompts lightly.

I turn and see he’s standing aside, waiting for me to pass through the doorway, so I head for the dim indoors.

Once I’m in, I accidentally kick a shoe lying haphazardly just there. He rushes to apologize right as I do, even though I also mentally roll my eyes. Why are his shoes so close to the door?

Then he hits the light switch and shuts us in. Blinking, I look around.

And a sense of comfort envelopes me.

Small yet comforting—that’s what this space is.

A soft-looking gray furniture set is in his living room to my right, one piece of which is an oversized chair that could easily seat two people and that I want to sink into this very minute. He has two simple end tables, and they have nothing on them but coasters. His TV is in front of the window that faces where we just came from, but I’m sure lighting isn’t a problem for daytime watching because his dark blue curtains are the thick blackout kind. Except for a hoodie and a coat, I don’t see loose clothing lying anywhere.

Across the way is his dining room, which flows into the kitchen, which is only separated from the living area by a bar counter sort of thing. A small Bluetooth speaker and a box of tissues are sitting on it.

A wall runs close to my left side, and flush against it is a skinny, long, dark brown accent table that Luke is putting his keys on, as well as his two plastic shopping bags. I see mail scattered there, too, plus…a child-made Thanksgiving turkey craft?

That one is cute and puzzling. I point at it, turning my head to follow his slow walk around me.

“What’s this?”

He looks at what I’m talking about and chortles warmly.

“An older woman and her granddaughter live, like, two doors down from me. They had car trouble the other morning when it was super cold outside, so I gave their battery a jump. The little girl brought that turkey to me later and said she and her grandma are thankful for me.”

This wrenches at my heartstrings almost as much as it surprises me.

“Gosh,”

I say softly.

“That’s really special. It was so kind of you to help them.”

He shrugs one shoulder, then gives me a look that matches the thought entering my mind: Why should it surprise me that Luke did something kind? He’s been kind to me lately. He isn’t a monster.

The still-fragile part of my heart wants to disagree with that last bit, but it’s muttering more than loud.

And obviously, it’s a bit melodramatic. Younger Luke was hurtful in his way, but the label ‘monster’ can’t be thrown around willy-nilly.

So it’s easy to overlook that part of myself.

Present-day Luke starts walking away.

“I’ll be ready to leave again soon. Sit down or whatever if you want.”

He gestures at the open kitchen across the way, then adds.

“Sorry about all the mess in there. My aunt called right as I was about to clean up after breakfast, so….”

So he got distracted, I remember with a sympathetic frown.

I’d still like to know what she did to upset him.

Maybe someday he’ll tell me.

Or maybe not, because why would he?

He disappears off to the left somewhere. As I mosey after him, I see a short hallway there. Just one bedroom and the bathroom he’s closed himself into, plus the standard doors probably hiding a linen closet and the heating-and-cooling stuff.

I continue to the dining area. His table is a four-seater nestled into the corner. It’s the same dark brown as the entryway table. There’s another assortment of stuff here: a bottle of sriracha, a banana, some sheets of fast-food coupons, an insulated beer bottle holder. Next along the wall is a bunch of vertical blinds, behind which must be a sliding glass door leading to a patio.

I keep going, preparing myself for the mess that his kitchen is.

Except when I step into the space and look around, I learn he was a little too hard on himself. There’s one small pan on the stove that I think had scrambled eggs in it. An empty orange juice jug sits out on a counter because it clearly wouldn’t fit in the trash can; the flip-up lid on the can is very slightly propped open by the contents of the bag. And there are only a few dishes in the sink.

My urge to help is strong.

I’m sure I can have this cleaned up before he’s ready to go. Then he won’t have to worry about it.

Since there’s nothing better for me to do, I set my purse aside and go to the sink. Hopefully the cabinet underneath has some trash bags in it…yep, sure does.

In no time, I’ve got the full bag replaced and tied off, ready to be taken outside. I throw away the orange juice jug, then open the dishwasher. Nice, it’s in the process of being loaded; the sink dishes won’t have to be handwashed.

But the ones already in the machine make me pause because they’re arranged quite haphazardly.

Well, that won’t do either….