Page 39 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

“Your mother isn’t going to let me eat dinner tonight if I don’t ask about you and Wren.”

I blink from my spot trapped under the Firebird. It’s been hours of Dad and I working mostly in quiet, but now that I’m under the car, he’s decided to pull that out. Grimacing, I tighten the bolt I’m working on.

“Coach thinks Wren is the one who’s been leaking information to the other teams,” I say, my voice echoing off the bottom of the car.

While it’s my car, this thing has always been our passion project.

When I bought it, it was on the brink of junk, and he and I brought it back together, working during the off-season together.

The car started making a weird noise when I was driving home from Sloane’s, and without thinking, I brought it straight here. I pulled into my parents’ garage and waited until my dad came out, watching me as I tinkered around in the engine.

“What the f—?”

I come sliding out from under the car when Dad places his foot on the edge of my creeper and rolls me into the sunshine. It’s an unseasonably warm day, and the garage door is open.

“Do you think that?” Dad asks, staring down at me, his foot still on the creeper. I groan and push myself to sit, running a greasy hand over my hair. I have no idea what to think.

My logical mind is telling me that there’s no other option.

Wren is the only thing that makes sense.

But the part of me that cares about her argues it could never be true.

I’ve seen her passion for helping us win.

Watched her under the pressure of other people not believing her, or trusting her.

That day outside the arena, the P.I.’s folder spread out over the ground, flashes back to me, and I realize the look on her face then is a lot like how it looked in Coach Vic’s office.

Angry, but somewhat justified. Like she’d had an inclination that it was going to happen. As though she’s just been waiting for us to show her that she’s not deserving of the benefit of the doubt.

“Luca,” Dad prompts, and I realize I’ve been stuck in my head, saying nothing to answer him.

I clear my throat. “I don’t know. I…want to trust her.”

The unsaid hangs in the air. How it’s terrifying to trust someone, to really give them the wide-open to hurt you and know that they won’t.

“Right.” Dad sighs, sitting down in an old computer chair we use at the wood bench. We sit in quiet for another moment, then he says, “Did your mother ever tell you about the time we spent apart?”

I blink at him. “What are you talking about?”

He presses his lips together, nods like That’s what I thought. “She was pregnant with you—we didn’t know it at the time, god knows—and we decided to take a break.”

My mouth opens, but I have nothing to say. This is news to me, and shocking at that. I’ve always thought of my parents as the kind of people who were made for each other. Not the kind of couple that would take a break—and while pregnant.

“We didn’t know,” Dad says again, as though he can read my mind. “But it wasn’t about that anyway. It was about trust.”

“Trust,” I repeat, staring dumbly at him. He nods, clearing his throat and clasping his hands together, tapping the pads of his thumbs.

“We went to college together, you know that. Well, it was nearing graduation, and we were in that kind of weird place, trying to figure out what to do next. We’d talked about kids, but not in any sort of concrete way. Then I got an internship that would take me to Germany for the summer.”

I’ve heard about this internship, about the “best beer in the world.” I’ve never heard the story in this context.

“Well, that was going to be the longest time your mother and I had spent apart from one another. And I was…not having a good time. Feeling unsure of myself. I went out with some of my friends from the program, and one of the girls tried to kiss me. I pushed her away, not even thinking about it, but I didn’t—well, I didn’t tell your mother about it. ”

I can see where this is going. It’s odd to imagine my parents at my age—younger than me, now. Navigating the world like they didn’t know where they were going when they’ve always been the faithful arbiters of my life.

Of our family.

“She found out,” I say, because of course she did. That’s what my mother is like. She probably knew the moment it happened.

Dad winces and nods. “She did. It was so stupid—I didn’t want to tell her because I was worried about what she would make of it. And then, by not telling her, I made it into a big deal.”

“So, what happened?”

“I went to Germany for a week. I was fucking miserable, so I changed my flight and came home, fell to my knees on her doorstep. Told her she was my future, and that I was in love with her. That’s when she told me about you.”

Even though I’ve only ever seen them as my parents, I can see the scene. Dad in his retro glasses, his light wash jeans and white sneakers. Mom, opening the door and seeing him there.

“It’s a great story, Dad,” I say, accepting the rag he tosses me. I start to wipe my hands, clearing away the grease from my car. “But why are you telling me now?”

He’s quiet long enough that I look up at him, find him staring right back at me.

The moment stretches, then, on a sigh, he says, “Because I wanted to tell you that relationships are about trust. Opening yourself up to being hurt. I have a feeling that—well, all this made me wonder if you knew that, Luca. What makes it special is that chance that you might get hurt. It’s that trust in the other person to be loyal, to be true, to be careful with your heart—that’s what makes it love. ”

My throat swells and I try to swallow around it, my heart pushing up against my esophagus. Of course Dad would see me this clearly, and of course he would be right.

I have a problem with trust. Obviously, given the situation with Mandy. That I didn’t tell Sloane about that, or about the divorce, or anything about the reality between me and Wren.

Maybe that problem with trust is also part of the reason I’ve been so hesitant to call this what it is. Ask Wren, formally, to be my girlfriend. My partner.

Fuck, my wife.

I realize I’d get down on one knee right now. I’ve known her for less than a year, but I know. I know she’s the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, if only she’ll take me.

“Gerald!” Mom’s voice floats out from the breezeway, and Dad stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder and nodding at me before he leaves without another word.

I sit in the quiet of the garage, then sigh and dig my phone from my pocket with a greasy hand.

“Luca?”

“I’m sorry, Sloane,” I say, the moment she answers the phone. It’s quiet on the other side, and I deserve that. Years ago, when she and Callum were getting together behind my back, I was righteously pissed about all the lying.

It’s only just now hitting me, the irony of that. The fact that she and Cal were sparked at my fake wedding.

“You don’t have to forgive me right away, or ever,” I say, a smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Of course Sloane will forgive me—that’s what we do for each other. “But I need your help with something.”

Sloane is quiet for a long moment, then she says, “Bring me a box of éclairs from the fancy bakery downtown. And we’ll talk about it over lunch.”

I can’t contain my laugh. “You got it.”