Page 48 of Third Time Lucky

He remains silent, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond me.

I turn my attention to wiping down the countertops, trying to defuse the tension that has suddenly erupted between us.

But as I work, a thought occurs to me. It’s not just about whether or not Aaron will change his ways – though I desperately hope he will.

It’s about doing what’s right and standing up for what I believe in, even if it means confronting family.

Which is personal growth that I didn’t expect considering I’ve never even been able to tell a cheating girlfriend off, yet here I am, having an intensely hard conversation with my little brother.

Aaron finally speaks, his voice heavy with emotion. ‘Nothing made me like this, it’s just who I am. Jesus, you definitely don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

I stop wiping the counter and look at him. ‘Then explain it.’

He sets down the knife he was cleaning and meets my gaze.

‘You were already grown when Mom finally left Dad. Which means I got the worst of him out of the three of us.’ he explains bitterly.

‘You know he told me he needed to get laid more – when I was twelve . I didn’t want to think about that shit.

Then when I brought home my first girlfriend he handed me a condom and said “ startin’ young, that’s my boy, better buy these in bulk, son .

” I was a thirteen-year-old asshole fuckboy yet the girls kept on coming.

At the time, I had no idea what it meant, but something sprouted in here,’ he motions to his heart, ‘that convinced me that there is no love, only sex. So far, we’re both proof of that. ’

Well, not both of us.

‘For my sixteenth birthday he literally bought me a box of condoms. And not a small box, like a fucking case. You know every holiday he still gets drunk and insists that women don’t belong in a man’s life long term – they’ll only fuck you over?

Then he talks about his latest conquests – and the guy somehow pulls some seriously hot women.

But you wouldn’t know any of that because you never show up for holidays at Dad’s. ’

‘It’s because he’s a liar. An ex-pro ball player. Or a tech CEO. He’s an asshole. Assholes say whatever benefits them,’ I counter. ‘I’d bet money not a single story he tells is true.’

‘It’s felt true,’ he replies with a shrug. ‘You’ve seen my life; even if I like a girl, she flees within days.’

‘That’s because you make it clear you only want one thing,’ I point out. ‘And while some girls are cool with that, most want something more serious than just a physical relationship even if that’s how it started. And I’m pretty sure Madi is there. She sees through your exterior.’

‘That’s my best side.’ He sighs, running a hand through his hair. ‘What the fuck do I have to give her? I’m a fucking sous chef. My best quality is my face. I’ve got no rules in life – zero morals, and you’re my drive. What more could I possibly offer her?’

‘Dude,’ I say gently, patting him on the back.

‘You’re the co-owner of a restaurant. You’re a hell of a chef.

You’re pretty. You’ve got to be good in bed considering the women you pull.

And she already likes you. All you’ve got to do now is seal the deal.

If you’ve discovered she’s not the girl for you, I respect that, but at least tell her, and don’t just avoid the conversation because it’s uncomfortable. ’

He’s not looking at me, but I can tell he’s listening because those knives have never looked better.

‘Fine. Maybe you’re right. I’m a fuckboy douche-wagon who’s spent years disrespecting women and using them for my own pleasure. But I don’t know how to change. It’s like second nature to me now. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time.’

‘What Dad does is wrong. He is a terrible example, but it doesn’t mean you need to live like him.

Being a man-whore isn’t genetic – look at the rooftop.

It’s completely romantic, and you did that.

Plus, you always look after me. So, I know you’ve got a heart in there.

’ I jab at his chest. ‘Maybe you should focus on healing it and what makes you happy, as opposed to always listening to that.’ I glance down at the front of his pants.

‘You think it’s that simple? To change who I am?’ There’s a world of pain in his eyes as he looks at me.

I shake my head. ‘No, it’s not simple. But it’s possible.’

‘Then tell me how to start this changing, Mr Miyagi.’

‘Yes, Daniel San.’ I bow, mimicking the movie. ‘First step of: “rehab Aaron’s heart” should probably be you being honest with yourself whether you’re into Madi in any other way besides the bedroom.’

He stares at me, silent, his brow furrowed in confusion.

‘Are you?’ I ask, wondering if his brain is smoking as the gears inside malfunction.

‘She’s pretty.’ He holds up a finger. ‘Smart – girl knows everything.’ Finger two. ‘Funny – like truly, I laugh at her jokes.’ Three fingers. After a few silent moments, he drops his hand altogether. ‘Yeah, I think I like her beyond the bedroom,’ he responds with a slight smile.

‘Well, there ya go. Why don’t you devise a plan to try to make it work? Don’t let your penis or Dad’s words dictate your decisions, or you’ll end up just like him, schooling some illegitimate kid about the wrong way to live his life. Strive to be someone’s Miyagi.’

‘Someone’s Miyagi,’ he repeats, his face softening as he takes in my words, nodding slowly in agreement. ‘I think you’re onto something.’

* * *

It’s been two agonizing days since our ‘discussion’ about Aaron, and Lucy is still avoiding me.

Every time I reach out, her responses are brief and distant.

My insides twist with anxiety as I slice through the vegetables, my eyes darting to her empty chair at the kitchen island.

She’s never late for dinner, let alone absent without explanation.

Mitzi notices my unease and tries to reassure me with a smile, but I can’t shake off the sinking feeling in my stomach.

‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon, sweetheart. She’s in love with your cooking, remember?’

I hope that’s not all she’s in love with because, at this point, the woman literally owns me.

Just then, the doorbell rings, and my heart leaps with excitement.

‘I’ll get it,’ I say, hastily wiping my hands on a nearby towel before heading to the front door like I live here.

As I swing open the door, my heart plummets. It’s not Lucy, but a delivery man holding a bouquet of roses. Which I should have suspected because I bought them. Plus, Lucy lives here, so she wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell to get in. I’m losing my mind over this woman.

‘I have a delivery for… Lucy Gray?’ he says, checking his clipboard.

‘I’ll take them,’ I say, accepting the roses from the man before closing the door.

Mitzi’s eyes widen as I walk back into the kitchen. Thirty white roses, not in a vase, partially wrapped in black and white paper – meant to say ‘I’m sorry.’ I Googled which flowers represented an apology, and these were the interweb’s overwhelming conclusion.

‘You do know how to pick flowers, don’t you, darling? She’s going to love them.’

‘I hope she does.’

As I set the bouquet of roses on the kitchen island, I notice Mitzi studying me with a knowing look.

Her eyes seem to pierce through my facade, seeing the turmoil I’ve been trying so hard to hide.

I can’t keep up this charade much longer; the tension in this house is suffocating, and Lucy’s absence is deafening.

Mitzi gets up from her chair and riffles around in a drawer across the kitchen from me before setting a pad of paper and pen next to the flowers. ‘She won’t be back until late tonight. Write her a note and put these in her room.’

‘A note?’ I ask, wondering if the simple ‘I’m sorry’ I’d put on the bouquet card isn’t enough.

Mitzi nods. ‘Women adore love letters. I’ve gotten dozens throughout my life, and even though I only occasionally loved any of the men who wrote them, I’ve kept every single one to this day.’

I wonder how big a box that is.

‘Really?’ I ask, surprised to hear this. ‘Do you still read them?’

‘When I need a pick-me-up, yes. Trust me, dear. I’ve lived a lot of life; I know things. Write the note. She already loves you; she just needs confirmation she’s not making another mistake. Stand out. Be the prince she’s always dreamed of.’

The words of Madi in Vegas, flash through my mind suddenly. ‘ He’s her prince .’ At the time, she was talking about Brandon, and we all know how that turned out. Is that what she’s looking for? Because I can be that. I’m a blow the socks off that daydream prince.

* * *

So, after dinner, I grab the pen and paper, the weight of Mitzi’s words heavy on my shoulders. Women adore love notes. I’ve never actually written one, so here goes nothing.

After what feels like an eternity, I finish, folding it neatly and slipping it into the bouquet – her name written across the front.

With a determined stride, I make my way to Lucy’s room, pausing at the door as I’ve not yet been in her bedroom, and it feels slightly weird to do so without her here. But the door is already ajar, so I push it open slowly.

Her room is a soft oasis decorated in pastel colors and touches of floral patterns.

The lace curtains billow gently in the breeze, the windows on either side of her bed casting a warm glow over the room.

The walls are a pale lavender, casting a dreamy hue over the space.

Her bed is neatly made with a plush comforter, and a stack of books sits on her bedside table.

Trinkets and treasures line the shelves and dressers, including a photo of us that neither of us took, but we’re at the bubble dance party, looking quite comfortable in one another’s arms. If I had to guess, I’d bet Mitzi took this.

And she framed it. In her room. Maybe she doesn’t hate me if she’s not burned this yet.

I carefully arrange the flowers and note in the middle of her bed, then leave her bedroom door as it was before. God, I hope every word I wrote will make her heart race a little faster, just like they did mine.