Page 113 of Third Time Lucky

‘That’s my best side.’ He sighs, running a hand through his hair. ‘What the fuck do I have to give her? I’m a fucking sous chef. My best quality is my face. I’ve got no rules in life – zero morals, and you’re my drive. What more could I possibly offer her?’

‘Dude,’ I say gently, patting him on the back. ‘You’re the co-owner of a restaurant. You’re a hell of a chef. You’re pretty. You’ve got to be good in bed considering the women you pull. And she already likes you. All you’ve got to do now is seal the deal. If you’ve discovered she’s not the girl for you, I respect that, but at least tell her, and don’t just avoid the conversation because it’s uncomfortable.’

He’s not looking at me, but I can tell he’s listening because those knives have never looked better.

‘Fine. Maybe you’re right. I’m a fuckboy douche-wagon who’s spent years disrespecting women and using them for my own pleasure. But I don’t know how to change. It’s like second nature to me now. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time.’

‘What Dad does is wrong. He is a terrible example, but it doesn’t mean you need to live like him. Being a man-whore isn’t genetic – look at the rooftop. It’s completely romantic, and you did that. Plus, you always look after me. So, I know you’ve got a heart in there.’ I jab at his chest. ‘Maybe you should focus on healing it and what makes you happy, as opposed to always listening to that.’ I glance down at the front of his pants.

‘You think it’s that simple? To change who I am?’ There’s a world of pain in his eyes as he looks at me.

I shake my head. ‘No, it’s not simple. But it’s possible.’

‘Then tell me how to start this changing, Mr Miyagi.’

‘Yes, Daniel San.’ I bow, mimicking the movie. ‘First step of: “rehab Aaron’s heart” should probably be you being honest with yourself whether you’re into Madi in any other way besides the bedroom.’

He stares at me, silent, his brow furrowed in confusion.

‘Are you?’ I ask, wondering if his brain is smoking as the gears inside malfunction.

‘She’s pretty.’ He holds up a finger. ‘Smart – girl knows everything.’ Finger two. ‘Funny – like truly, I laugh at her jokes.’ Three fingers. After a few silent moments, he drops his hand altogether. ‘Yeah, I think I like her beyond the bedroom,’ he responds with a slight smile.

‘Well, there ya go. Why don’t you devise a plan to try to make it work? Don’t let your penis or Dad’s words dictate your decisions, or you’ll end up just like him, schooling some illegitimate kid about the wrong way to live his life. Strive to be someone’s Miyagi.’

‘Someone’s Miyagi,’ he repeats, his face softening as he takes in my words, nodding slowly in agreement. ‘I think you’re onto something.’

* * *

It’s been two agonizing days since our ‘discussion’ about Aaron, and Lucy is still avoiding me. Every time I reach out, her responses are brief and distant. My insides twist with anxiety as I slice through the vegetables, my eyes darting to her empty chair at the kitchen island. She’s never late for dinner, let alone absent without explanation.

Mitzi notices my unease and tries to reassure me with a smile, but I can’t shake off the sinking feeling in my stomach.

‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon, sweetheart. She’s in love with your cooking, remember?’

I hope that’s not all she’s in love with because, at this point, the woman literally owns me.

Just then, the doorbell rings, and my heart leaps with excitement.

‘I’ll get it,’ I say, hastily wiping my hands on a nearby towel before heading to the front door like I live here.

As I swing open the door, my heart plummets. It’s not Lucy, but a delivery man holding a bouquet of roses. Which I should have suspected because I bought them. Plus, Lucy lives here, so she wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell to get in. I’m losing my mind over this woman.

‘I have a delivery for… Lucy Gray?’ he says, checking his clipboard.

‘I’ll take them,’ I say, accepting the roses from the man before closing the door.

Mitzi’s eyes widen as I walk back into the kitchen. Thirty white roses, not in a vase, partially wrapped in black and white paper – meant to say ‘I’m sorry.’ I Googled which flowers represented an apology, and these were the interweb’s overwhelming conclusion.

‘You do know how to pick flowers, don’t you, darling? She’s going to love them.’

‘I hope she does.’

As I set the bouquet of roses on the kitchen island, I notice Mitzi studying me with a knowing look. Her eyes seem to pierce through my facade, seeing the turmoil I’ve been trying so hard to hide. I can’t keep up this charade much longer; the tension in this house is suffocating, and Lucy’s absence is deafening.

Mitzi gets up from her chair and riffles around in a drawer across the kitchen from me before setting a pad of paper and pen next to the flowers. ‘She won’t be back until late tonight. Write her a note and put these in her room.’

‘A note?’ I ask, wondering if the simple ‘I’m sorry’ I’d put on the bouquet card isn’t enough.

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