“Right before he held up that mini-mart, he’d started showing his true self. He stopped being polite to people in town. He’d keep us home from school to avoid anyone knowing there was a problem. In sixth grade, I’d missed about three weeks of school before the winter break. The counselor, Miss Jennings, came to the house right before Christmas break to check on me. I remember her black slacks and polished shoes . . . not sure why the shoes mattered, but I remembered them. She stood in my living room. Dad wasn’t there, he’d told me to stay home and watch Zanya, and he went out to ‘find money.’” She huffed out a laugh, understanding what that meant now. “Miss Jennings stood with polished shoes on our worn carpet. She asked me why I wasn’t at school. I was scared to answer. I don’t think I did.”
“What happened?”
“I met Jo’s dad, formally. I knew of him, of course. But he came over the next day to check on us. I found out later that Ziggy had made a scene in town and the teachers were talking.” It helped to know that people were aware and finally willing to step in. “I had just started to stop by Miss Gina’s on the way to school . . . she never said anything, but I think she had something to do with Miss Jennings coming over that day.”
Zoe looked over to see Luke’s carefully controlled jaw, his tense hands on the wheel. “You probably don’t want to hear this.”
Luke pulled in what seemed like a painful breath and reached over to grasp her hand. “I hate that you went through all that . . . but I absolutely want to hear it. When we were kids and you said your dad was an asshole and in jail, I knew on some level that meant he’d hurt all of you. I heard a few things over the years, but I didn’t really know much of anything.”
Zoe squeezed his hand back. “I told Mel and Jo years ago how bad it was. I made them swear to not say a thing to anyone.”
“Even me?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I wasn’t embarrassed about my dad . . . my childhood. In a way, I still am.”
“You can’t help who you’re born to.”
“I know that.”
Luke pulled off the main road leading out of town and toward his house. “Unless you object, I’d like you to stay with me tonight. I can take you to Miss Gina’s—”
“No. I’d much rather . . .” She kissed the back of his hand. “You make me feel safe, Luke.”
He gripped her hard. “I won’t let him hurt you, Zoe.”
“It isn’t me I’m worried about.”
It was pouring down rain the next morning. Zoe drank her coffee black and stared out Luke’s kitchen window. Tiny drops fell off the gutters and onto the back deck. The small pools of water would give the birds plenty of places to bathe once the rain stopped. She wondered if Luke had birds that showed up on his back step. She leaned over the sink to take a better look at his outdoor space. He didn’t have a bird feeder.
A back porch needed a bird feeder.
The floor squeaked behind her, taking her attention away from theoretical birds.
Luke slid his arms around her waist and leaned his head into hers.
“You smell nice,” she told him. Fresh from the shower and clean-shaven.
“So do you.”
He stood holding her, both of them looking out the back window.
“I’ve never been in your backyard.”
“You can go out there now . . . might get a little wet.”
She chuckled and hugged his arms around her.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.
She hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning with memories and stress. Somewhere around four, she turned her pillow around for the hundredth time, found a cool spot, and drifted off.
“I’m sorry if I kept you up all night.”
“I slept.”
“Liar. But thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
He kissed the top of her head before backing away. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“It is.”
Luke removed a clean coffee cup from his cupboard and filled it.
“I tried to find cinnamon to brew with it. No luck.”
“You’re lucky you found coffee. I don’t always bother until I’m at the shop.”
She found her smile. “I noticed it’s a little lacking in here.”
He turned, leaned against the counter, and took a sip with a grin. “Consider it an empty canvas. Feel free to paint it up.”
“But it’s your kitchen.”
“And?”
She glanced around. “Rearranging your kitchen . . . I don’t know. That’s a big step.”
“It’s a kitchen.” Luke looked at her over his cup.
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”
“It’s a kitchen. I could give two shits about where things are.”
She pretended shock.
“Now if you wanted to talk about a drawer in my bedroom . . . we might have a problem.”
She put a hand in the air. “Wait . . . I can move everything around in here, but no panties with your boxers?”
He was trying hard not to smile, but he wasn’t fooling her. “We would have to negotiate that.”
“And what kind of negotiations are we talking here?”
He held his cup with both hands and kept it close to his face. “For starters, if you have panties here, I have boxers at your place.”