Page 70 of Luka

We slide past people toward the two empty chairs in the middle of the row. It’s a packed house. Spokane must love their baseball.

She doesn’t respond until she’s sitting down, her roaming gaze finally settling on me. “I know… Crazy.”

My lips lower as regret washes over me. For a moment, I forgot I was talking to a person who only left her family’s estate a couple weeks ago.

No sporting events. No movie theaters. No plays, no parks, no lakes, no parades, nonothing.

I face forward and shut my mouth when discomfort settles over me. I can’t tell if Lucia notices. She keeps looking around.

“They aren’t here, Peach.”

Her swiveling head pauses to look at me before finally facing forward. “I know.”

She crosses her arms over her T-shirt clad chest. She’s wearing a red Indians baseball shirt and cut-off shorts we picked up at a gas station along the way. I think this is the sexiest she’s ever looked to me.

“I’m sorry you missed out on so much,” I quietly say. I can’t help but list things in my mind, a never-ending string of missed opportunities. My voice stays even, but anger ignites inside of me, anger at her father.

I watch Lucia’s expression carefully but spot no regret. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She watches the game like it’s engrossing her. What a terrible lie.

When a bat cracks, sending a ball far into the outfield, Lucia stands with the people around us, clapping and cheering. She glances at me as she takes her seat.

“What?” she asks like I’m annoying her.

I don’t know how to respond to that right away, and Lucia doesn’t wait long. She turns back to the game and pretends to be interested.

She’s sensitive, isn’t she? Sensitive about her father. I try to recall our earlier conversations about him, but I was so focused on learning his identity that I didn’t pay attention to anything else.

But she was angry when I assumed she’d been abused. She defended him.

Sheloveshim, I realize, watching her now. My lips dip with a frown as I consider it, but all I see when I look at her is love. Hope. Goodness. How else could she stand to look at me?

“How can you forgive him?” I ask.

She turns to me with her eyes narrowed, but after a few moments of studying my expression, she relaxes. “Are you asking me so you can understand, or are you asking so you can judge?”

Once again, I’m reminded of the first time we talked. I can’t even remember what I said when we played our first little game of twenty questions, but I know I was heartless. I’m always heartless.

I look away as a sour taste coats my tongue and will away the tension in my shoulders.

I don’t want to be heartless with her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gripping my chair’s armrests. “You were searching for a better life, and I took it from you. I’ve been cruel to you, and truly, I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I was just wondering how you could forgivehim. To understand, not to judge.”

She waits several seconds to respond. I don’t know if she’s trying to gauge my sincerity, but I resist the urge to babble.

Shame. That’s what this sour taste in my mouth is. Shame.

“I can forgive him because I know his intentions have always been pure. He just wanted to keep me safe, and now that I’m here, constantly looking over my shoulder, I can understand why.”

I consider that only for a few moments before I nod. Intentions. That’s what makes the difference for her. If only my intentions hadn’t been so horrid.

“For what it’s worth, I think your mother has your best interest at heart also.”

Laughter bubbles up and pushes past my shame. “Oh yeah?”

“She wants you to be happy.”

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