Page 22 of No More Secrets

I don’t know. I don’t know, he shouts, vaguely recalling the night he found his father at a wine symposium in Carlsbad and followed him up to his hotel room. How his father knocked him over the head with the hotel room’s metal trash can when Lucas physically accosted him because he was fed up with how Dwight treated Lucas’s mom. He despised him for how he’d abused Lily and hated him for all the years Lucas couldn’t live up to his expectations. He delivered a punch to his father’s jaw, his cheekbone, and his right eye socket. One for each of them. But when Dwight fought back and pushed him off, his father grabbed his keys and ran from the room. Missing the elevator Dwight took, Lucas raced after him down ten flights of stairs, bursting into the parking lot as Dwight’s Mercedes squealed around a corner. Then there’s a large gap in his memory, because next he was sitting in his truck parked on the side of the road, staring at his bloody hands, his father’s car crumpled in a ravine below him. Lucas doesn’t remember how they got where they were, or how the accident happened. Though he feels the truth to his core: Lucas hated his father for what he did to Lily. He despised how Dwight belittled and abused her and how Lucascould never live up to his expectations. He loathed Dwight’s affection for Olivia, the prince-siswho could do no wrong. When his mother insinuated that Dwight emotionally abused her, and that she wanted him taken care of and wouldn’t blame Lucas if something befell Dwight on his business trip, Lucas realized how much he wanted to hurt his father. How badly he desired his father to die. So, he murdered him. And now there’s a warrant for his arrest. Traffic cams somewhere must have recorded what went down.

No, he can’t go home.

He won’t go back to prison either.

So he’s biding his time. For what, though?

He doesn’t know anymore.

“A watched pot never boils,” Ivy says from behind him where she’s arranging and rearranging merchandise on the shelves to keep busy. Not much else to do around here when customers are scarce.

Lucas glances over his shoulder at her, confused.

She gestures outside. “Staring at the parking lot won’t make the customers come.”

He’d wrapped eight sub sandwiches and rung up thirteen customers since he opened the market at six thirty this morning, thirty minutes early in case Sunshine Girl returned. He’d consider this a profitable day compared to others, except his thief hasn’t shown her face.

He turns away from the window, feeling uneasy and hating that he’s worrying. He strides over to the deli counter. He splits three Dutch crunch rolls and smears on mustard and mayo. “Ready for me to start on the kitchen in Mike’s apartment?” He needs a new project.

Ivy shakes her head. “Not enough money yet. I owe Keith from the work you did on my place.” She ran up a tab at Ace. He didn’t realize she was still paying it off. “I need to find a tenant first.”

“I’ll cover it.” He brought cash with him. He keeps it in a boot in his closet. Not like he has plans to spend it.

“Thank you, Lucas, but I can’t accept. I won’t be able to pay you back.”

“Consider it my treat. You’ve done plenty for me.” He meets her eyes to say what he can’t out loud. He’s grateful for the home-cooked meals she prepares him at least once a week. He’d be dead if she hadn’t sat with him that first night, and he wouldn’t be here to keep her company. He tells himself she needs him and that it’s not the other way around.

He slaps on roast beef, salami, and ham. Adds pickles, jalapeños, and shredded lettuce. A splash of oil and vinegar. Ivy collapses an empty cardboard box and turns to him.

“You’ve worked nonstop since the day we met.”

“I like the work.” He wraps the sandwiches. He puts two in one bag with chips and extra pickles, the third in another.

Ivy plants a hand on her hip. She’s a petite thing with protruding veins on the back of her hand. Her lips purse.

The corner of his mouth pulls into his cheek. “Spit it out.”

“You keep up with these projects, you’ll only convince me you want to buy this place.”

He takes in his surroundings, the scuffed concrete floor and sputtering air conditioner. The antique cash register. Once upon a lifetime ago, he would have leapt at the opportunity to remodel such a place. That past version of him, young and naive with stars in his eyes, aspired to study architecture at USC. He dreamed of designing cities and building skyscrapers, but only got so far as starting his own paint contracting business. Admittedly, installing Ivy’s kitchen cabinets and tiling her bathroom reignited that spark. But not enough to tie him down to this place.

“I’m the last person you’d want to sell to.”

Her shoulders round, and he looks away, her disappointment affecting him more each time she brings up the subject. She’s been asking him to take over for months.

He packs up the deli counter, putting away containers in the undercounter fridge. When he’s done and looks up, Ivy is sweeping an aisle she’d swept earlier in the afternoon. An unfamiliar emptiness pulls at his chest over her slow, methodical movements, when it strikes him. They’re both trapped by their circumstances.

He could change their fates in a heartbeat. All he has to do is say yes. His work on the property hasn’t been anything more than chores, maintenance, and upkeep. But they’ve spoken to a part of him gullible enough to believe he can still dream.

But he isn’t being fair to Ivy. He’s hiding his past, and she’d never offer him the place if she knew his secrets.

“Mind if I cut out early? I’m picking up Mike for the game.”

Ivy waves him off without looking up from the floor. He finds himself waiting for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, he grunts and picks up a Sharpie. Uncapping the lid with his teeth, he writesSunshine Girlon the bag with the single sandwich. He says goodbye to Ivy and drops the bag just outside the front entrance when he leaves for his truck.

He feels guilty not checking on Sunshine after she took off last night, which pisses him off. You only feel guilty when you care.

12

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