I watch Christopher crouch and set a handful of treats on the ground for Puck, who gobbles them up like he’s been on a starvation diet.
Empty-handed, I focus on brushing Puck fur off of me, eyes averted so I can’t watch Christopher pet Puck as he purrs loudly, so I won’t feel that awful mushy warmth flood my heart.
When Christopher stands, brushing off his hands, he glances up at me, then does a double take. I think, with Puck gone from my arms, he’s finally clocked the neckline of my sweater.
Avoiding his eyes, I step up to the refrigerator and open it, grabbing components for the salad I was going to contribute to dinner.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks.
I crack open the container of greens and add some to the salad bowl. “This would be a sweater, Christopher.”
“A sweater,” he mutters to himself, setting the bread on the cutting board and reaching for a knife from the knife block.
Mom strolls in through the swinging dining room door and sweeps up the flowers Christopher brought. “Well, that explains Puck’s foray into the greenhouse.”
“Sorry about that,” Christopher mumbles. “He must have snuck in with me, and I didn’t notice.”
She pats his back gently. “It’s fine.”
As Mom sets them gently into a crystal vase, I realize that the flowers he picked—roses, dahlias, delphinium—are my favorites. Christopher picked my favorite flowers and made a bouquet.
Did he do it for me?
Glancing my way, Mom smiles. “Now, this is much better than Tweety Bird. That sweater on you is so lovely.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “At least someone here likes my outfit.”
She frowns, glancing toward Christopher. “What’s wrong with what she’s wearing?”
“Nothing,” he grumbles, sawing viciously into the bread.
Mom shrugs, walking past me. “Either of you want some wine with dinner?”
“God, yes,” Christopher says.
“Just a splash,” I tell her as she sweeps up the bottle of white Christopher set on the counter and tears off the seal around the cork. “I shouldn’t have too much now, since I’m going out after dinner.”
The knife clatters to the cutting board. Christopher’s stare bores into me from across the island.
“Out?” Mom asks distractedly, struggling with the wine opener.
“Mm-hmm.”
Christopher rounds the island and says to her, “Let me.”
She steps aside and leans against the counter, wide smile, eyes sparkling. “Out where?”
“Fee’s maybe? A club? Who knows.” I return to the salad, sprinkling some chopped almonds across the top. Then I scoop up a handful of pomegranate seeds, adding those, too. “Wherever I go, I imagine it’ll end up being a wild night.”
The cork flies out on a loud pop. Christopher stares at me, jaw tight, fire in his eyes. “Of course. I forgot.”
Mom glances at him. “Forgot what?”
“That I’ll be going with her,” he says, unwinding the cork from the corkscrew.
My stomach knots. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Granted, I’m making up shit, whatever I can think of to provoke him, to get under his skin the way he’s gotten under mine. Maybe he’s just bullshitting right back to mess with me.
“Going with her?” Mom asks. “Why?”
“I asked Kate if I could keep her company tonight, make sure she can have fun and stay safe.” He glances over my mom’s shoulder, holding my gaze. “She said yes.”
Thank God my mom has her back to me. My eyes practically bug out of my head.
“Really? How sweet of you, Christopher,” Mom says to him. I wipe the shock off my face just as she glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes bright and happy. “Isn’t that sweet of him, Kate? What a gentleman.”
“Very sweet and gentlemanly.” Never to be outdone by Christopher, I force a bright smile at my mother as Christopher drags an empty glass his way, pours himself a hefty glug of wine, then throws it back like a shot. “He’s on a roll, lately. Christopher was such a gentleman last night that he saw me home after our paintball group outing and made sure my every need was met before he left.”
Christopher chokes on his wine.
Mom slaps him on the back. “Serves you right for shotgunning a gorgeous Sancerre like it’s moonshine. I’m going to take this with me and attempt to extricate Bill from the book I saw him pick up as soon as I left the room. Wish me luck.”
Sweeping up the bread Christopher half massacred and the wine bottle in the crook of her arm, she disappears through the swinging dining room door.
He watches the door fall shut, then rounds on me. “Give me a chance to explain first, before you go on some vengeful bender tonight.”
I hold his eyes, nerves coursing through me. “Fine. Explain, then.”
“I—” His eyes rake down me slowly, then slip shut. He hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, blowing out a slow, heavy breath. “Christ, Katerina.”
“What?” I ask, hearing how defensive I sound, but frankly, it feels justified.
“I can’t think straight, let alone talk right now, looking at you.”
“Why not?”
He groans, dropping his hand. “You know what you’re wearing. You know how beautiful you look. And you know it’s killing me.”
Warmth crests up my throat and spills into my face. I set a hand against my cheek, trying to cool it. “Maybe I wanted to wear something . . . a little eye-catching. I was feeling vindictive. I woke up this morning, and you were gone, and I was . . . upset. I wanted to make you pay for leaving me like you’ve left every other woman you—”
“Don’t,” he says, storming toward me. I step back as he advances on me, until my back hits the counter. I can’t help but remember not even a month ago being in this very same position—caged inside his arms, his hands planted on either side of the counter, staring me down.
You were always needed.
That’s what he said. I hate that passive sentence structure. I want to know who needed me. I want it to be him. I want to know why he’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him, like he’s searching for solid ground to stand on, like he’s just as lost in this as I am.
“There is nothing,” he says quietly, his hand settling at my waist, “routine or typical about what happened last night. I didn’t leave because you were ‘just some other woman.’?”
I pull back, stunned. “Christopher—”
“Please.” He swallows roughly, stepping closer, his hand massaging my waist, drawing me toward him. “Give me the chance to explain. Don’t go, Kate. Don’t leave.”
Those words do something to me, turn the part of me that’s always been hard and implacable, soft and pliant. I feel warm and willing and a little frightened.
Our eyes hold as I do what I haven’t felt brave enough to do before—reach out when I’m afraid; try, even when I’m nursing wounded pride. I lace our hands together and squeeze his, a reassurance.
“I’m listening,” I whisper.
His eyes flicker; some of the tension eases in his shoulders. “This isn’t an excuse. And I can only promise you I wouldn’t have left otherwise, but it’s up to you to believe me.” His jaw clenches as he stares down at the ground, sighing heavily. “I started a migraine. A bad one. I panicked. I didn’t want to get sick in front of you. I don’t . . . I don’t do that around other people. I’m used to handling it myself. So I took my preventative med and rushed home, and then I slept the whole fucking day somehow and woke up in a panic because I knew how it would hurt you, for me to be gone, for you not to hear from me all day. I . . .” He swallows roughly, tearing his gaze up, finding mine. “I never want to hurt you, Kate.”
The kitchen is quiet, my parents’ voices distant, somewhere deep in the house. Steam curls off the soup on the range. The lights are soft, glowing. I feel like time’s dissolved, like the world’s been paused as I stare at him, my heart flitting like a hummingbird against the cage of my ribs.
Gently, I slide my hands up his chest and feel air rush out of him. I search his eyes, crossing that bridge inside myself from familiar fear to newfound trust. To hope. “I believe you.”