Just a Little Honesty (5 page)

I’d waited for hours for Luke to suggest some kind of activity to pass the time, but he never did. Instead, he sat in the rocking chair with an unmarked book in hand and pretended to read. Now, I say
pretended
because, as long as he sat there, I never once saw him turn a page.

Whenever I wasn’t pacing the floor or smacking my head against the bathroom wall, I spent most of our cooped up hours face-down on my bed in the loft. The silence was almost unbearable, but at least it gave me an opportunity to consider everything that was going on back in Oakland.

I couldn’t count the times I’d thought of stealing Luke’s prepaid phone to sneak a call to Derek or Matt. But if I
did
find the nerve, and I actually stole his phone, Luke would murder me long before Conan Milton ever had the chance.

“Julie,” Luke said from the bottom of the stairs. I rolled off the bed and walked to the landing.

“Hmm?”

“Did your dad ever teach you to shoot a gun?”

Just the mere mention of my father made my heart skip. Not many people—my family included—had ever had the nerve to talk about my parents after their murders. Even when they had, it was usually something simple, and it was usually glossed over very quickly. So hearing such a simple question roll off Luke’s lips was easily enough to throw me off guard.

But it shouldn’t have been. Luke was one of the few people who’d ever willingly approached that topic without much caution. He’d tried to reason with me months ago about the importance of putting the past behind me; he’d even tried to talk to me about the first time I’d gone to my parents’ graves. But every time my parents were brought up, it was something immediately involving their passing. He’d never asked about our lives before they died….

“No,” I said, and I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. The word was so faint, but I could barely muster much else. The look on my face must’ve said it all because he nodded as if I’d given him all the answer he’d needed.

Still, his brows drew together, and he continued watching me with great intensity. He almost looked as if he couldn’t believe I’d gone my whole life without learning to shoot. To Luke, shooting was as much as a survival instinct as breathing. To me, it was just another terrifying thing about his, Dad’s, and Charlie’s chosen lifestyle. I’d never been a fan of guns, but after everything that had happened in the last year and a half,
not being a fan
was a gross understatement.

“Do you think you might want to learn?” he asked, and I could tell he chose his words carefully. “Would you feel better protected if you knew how to—”

“A gun’s not going to protect me, Luke,” I said, and I wholeheartedly believed that. “Our house was full of them, and my parents still died.”

He sighed, and I almost felt him drumming up the energy to argue.

“I don’t need to learn to shoot a gun,” I said with a definite sense of finality. “I have you, and….” I tried to keep talking. The last thing I wanted was to pause, but my words stopped, and a breath slowly drained from my lungs. “I’ve never felt safer. So, you can protect yourself however you need to, guns or no guns,” I said. “But I’m okay, really. As long as I have you.”

Luke stood, seemingly stunned, at the bottom of the staircase. He stared at me with parted lips, and then he nodded. I could easily see that he was ready to move past the conversation, and he had no idea what to say before walking away. But the moment didn’t necessarily call for any kind of closure, so I turned on my heel and headed back to my bed without another word. I threw myself face-down in the pillow once again, but this time my mind didn’t run rampant with thoughts of Derek, Charlie, Bruno, Matt, or Kara.

All I could think about was Luke… and all I could do was wonder if he’d even realized what he’d just done.

Had it been a conscious decision, or just a simple accident?

I didn’t know; either way, he’d done it. And I couldn’t simply turn a blind eye to that triumphant moment.

Though I knew he hated that I hadn’t jumped on the opportunity to learn, he didn’t push his luck. He never once said that I
needed
to learn to shoot. He didn’t even hint that I was wrong for feeling the way I felt.

He wanted something from me, but he respected that
I
didn’t want it.

He presented a situation. And then he asked me what I thought, and he asked me how I felt. And when I didn’t give him the answer he wanted, he didn’t even try to make the decision for me.

For the first time since I’d met him, what
I
wanted mattered, and that was progress if I’d ever seen it.

Sunday, April 07 | 6:00 p.m.

After our conversation earlier, Luke hadn’t called up the stairs with any more questions. He never even inquired about my wellbeing when I didn’t come down for comfort food. I spent the better part of the day in bed thinking about all of the changes happening around me; I didn’t have much else to do, so I spent that time in deep thought. And when that got boring, I went ahead and thought some more. And when thinking became too overwhelming, I simply stared at the ceiling and found faces and shapes in the woodwork.

It wasn’t until the evening that I became so hungry that I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rolled off the mattress and trekked down the stairs. Luke, as I’d suspected, was planted firmly in the rocking chair, still “reading” that same old book.

He didn’t look up as I came down, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I retreated to the kitchen and made a sandwich, careful not to skimp on the turkey; I was feeling unusually carnivorous after Luke’s half-naked traipse through the living room earlier that day.

As I stood at the counter and sliced a tomato, I peeked up at Luke as he sat quietly in his chair.

Knowing that it would make the days pass much faster if I just got over myself—and stopped hating him for all the stupid things he’d done—I decided it was time to break the ice.

“Whatcha readin’ over there?” I asked, placing a single slice of tomato on the bread.

For a moment, he didn’t seem to register that I’d even said anything, but his head eventually jerked up.

“Hmm?”

“Your book,” I said, starting to slice again. “What is it?”

“Old photos,” he said, not setting it aside for even a second.

“Old photos of…?” I waited for him to elaborate, but he simply looked back to the book. Frustrated that he wasn’t even trying to make our stay together somewhat bearable—despite the fact that I was doing my best to be friendly—I forced the knife down one last time to finish off the tomato, but the blade missed and ripped through my finger instead.

I let go of a blood-curling scream as I dropped the knife to the floor. The pain only worsened as the moments passed; I was fairly certain that I screamed a thousand obscenities in that very moment, but all I could do was bite back my tears as I searched frantically for a towel to soak up the steady stream of blood.

Luke jumped from his chair and ran to the kitchen, not faltering for a moment at the sight of all the blood. Unlike me, he didn’t bother searching the kitchen for a towel. He simply removed his shirt with a few fluid movements, held it under the faucet for a second, and then pressed his homemade compress against my hand.

“Luke,” I cried, and my body shook under his hold. The excruciating pain had gotten the best of me, and my impulses were no longer within my control.  “Luke, it hurts—”

“Hey,” he said slowly, trying to silence my cries. “I know. It’s okay.” He held my hand tightly beneath his and continuously applied pressure. “I just need you to try to relax, Julie.”

I tried to steady my breathing, but the effort was almost too much. With both of his hands tied up in nursing my fresh wound, Luke had no other way to comfort me but to keep his brown eyes fixed directly on mine. His stare didn’t waver for even a moment; he just stood there and watched me, and his sincerity in his eyes was all that I needed to let go and trust that I was going to be okay.

After five long minutes of manual pressure to my hand, Luke finally diverted his stare and pulled the bloodied shirt away from my skin. The blood flow had stopped, so he lowered his head to examine the cut. Judging by the wave of relief that swept across his face, the injury must not have been as bad as he’d assumed.

“Good news,” he said softly, looking up to meet my stare once again. “You get to keep your finger.” He managed a small grin, but I could see that he hadn’t been so convinced of that fact five minutes earlier.

“Do I need stitches?” I asked, trying to wipe my runny nose on the top of my arm.

“No,” he said, turning my hand to look at it again. “I really don’t think so. It’s nothing a little time shouldn’t heal.”

“Okay,” I said, reluctantly pulling my hand from his. I turned to the sink and ran my hand under a cold stream of water. Little by little, the dried blood washed itself away.

Luke followed me and watched as I cleaned it up, and his hand landed gently on the small of my back.

“Julie?” His voice was just as quiet has it had been in the earlier minutes.

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?” he asked, dropping his face closer to mine. “I’m not a doctor. I can take you to the hospital if you’d rather—”

“I’m fine,” I said, trying not to blink excessively. I’d already cried enough; I didn’t want to cut loose another stream of tears, but it took everything I had to fight my reckless emotions from coming to the surface.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I said, swallowing hard. “It just hurts a little, that’s all.”

He nodded as if he understood, and I’m sure he did. After all, he’d suffered a whole lot more in his time than just a simple cut; the scars on his chest (and missing baby toe) were proof enough.

Luke left me alone in the kitchen to tend to my wound, but he returned several moments later with a first aid kit. The metal container was worn and aged, but it served its purpose. He sat it on the counter and opened it up, revealing all the essentials inside.

“May I?” he asked, nodding at my hand.

“Yeah,” I said, taking a step closer.

I stood only inches away from him, holding my hand out so that he could properly tend to it. He moved his head a few times to try to find the best light, but his shadow kept blocking his view. Before I could suggest moving into the bathroom or somewhere with better lighting, he tucked his arms up underneath mine and raised me off the floor; he placed me safely on the countertop and pulled his body in close to mine.

It was almost hard to restrain a laugh, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“Sorry,” he said, almost frustrated. “Couldn’t see a damn thing.”

“It’s okay,” I said, still holding my hand forward. But my hand had become the least of my worries; suddenly my heart fluttered at the thought of how close we’d just gotten.

While I tried to control my raging hormones (I can’t count the times I thought of running my one good hand through his hair), Luke spent the next couple of minutes cleaning and treating my cut. He worked gently and efficiently, and it was almost too endearing. He seemed to care that he was doing something to help; he was finally getting the opportunity to take care of me.

Once I was bandaged up, Luke offered a hand to help me down from the counter. I took his hand and jumped down, but for some reason… I couldn’t seem to let go.

We both looked down at our linked hands, and one slow minute ticked by without a single movement on either of our parts. His thumb gently caressed my fingers as he reached forward with his one free hand and pulled me closer. I rested my head on his chest and closed my eyes as he finally pulled his hand away to wrap me completely inside his full embrace. I wrapped my arms around his waist and nuzzled my face against his shoulder—only then realizing that he was still shirtless, and I was letting myself slip back into his grip.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly pulling back. I looked around the room and searched for any excuse to put distance between our bodies. “My sandwich!”

“I wouldn’t eat that,” he said, and he wasn’t the least bit jilted by the fact that I’d just broken our hug to reclaim my food.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, putting one final slice of bread on the top to finish it off. “A little blood never killed anyone.”

Luke looked as though he was about to make an argument, but I kept a firm grasp on the bloodstained sandwich as I darted from the room.

I didn’t know what had just happened back there, but I knew it wasn’t good; Luke and I were getting close again. And if there was anything I’d learned about getting close to Luke it was that I’d always end up getting hurt.

And Luke wasn’t going to hurt me again.

Period.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunday April, 07 | 6:45 p.m.

Only half of what I’d made was edible, so I trashed the other half.

And it wasn’t long after I finished cramming the last of my sandwich in my mouth that I looked up to find Luke standing at the top of the stairs. My cheeks were packed full, and I tried to chew, but I’d overstuffed myself. Luke watched me with a hint of amusement in his eyes; he seemed intrigued that I had absolutely no shame about my pitiful eating habits.

“Whaddaya want?” I asked, trying to talk and chew at the same time.

“How’s your hand?” he asked, nodding at the bandage he’d just helped secure no less than ten minutes before.

“I’ll survive,” I said, finally able to swallow what was left of my turkey sandwich.

Luke watched me with a simple smile, but his expression hadn’t said much. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to refrain from laughing at me, or if there was something else on his mind. Either way, he seemed far too amused for the moment.

“Do you wanna get out of the cabin tonight?” he asked, leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs.

“What are you suggesting, exactly? I wiped my crumby hands down the front of my jeans. “Last time I checked, Piqua doesn’t offer much in terms of entertainment. And I’m not—let me repeat myself one more time,
not
—going hiking. That one mile walk to and from the car is the most exercise you’re getting out of me on this trip.”