Page 89 of Lavish
When I came back, barefoot, hair loose and twisted into a messy knot, the kitchen was spotless.
Miles was at the stove, one hand on a pan, the other braced on the counter. Sleeves pushed up. Veins visible in his forearms.
“You actually cleaned,” I said, my voice softer than I expected. “And you’re cooking now?”
“Don’t pass out. It’s grilled cheese and soup,” he said, finally glancing over his shoulder. His eyes dropped to my bare legs and lingered, just long enough for me to feel it. “I don’t feel like having to evacuate a burning place. My back is fucking killing me as it is, we started moving some stuff out Mrs. Fontaine left behind.”
Before I even thought it through, my hand slid to the small of his back, right where I remembered the pain always settled. I pressed gently. “Still the same place?”
His body went still.
“Yeah,” he said after a second, voice rougher now. “How’d you?—”
“I remember,” I said. “That game sophomore year. You got hit so hard I thought you were dead.”
He let out a dry laugh, but it was low, almost breathless. “You and half the school.”
“You didn’t move for a minute,” I murmured. “You always played like you were invincible. That was the first time I realized you weren’t. I still don’t like thinking about it.”
Miles and Erik played football together from middle school through college. I never liked the sport; it was too aggressive, but Miles wanted to be like his dad, who also played.
His shoulders relaxed under my touch—just a little—but the tension still simmered beneath the surface, coiled and ready to spring. “Serena King, nervous overme?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
I just kept my hand there, warm on his back, letting my thumb move in slow, deliberate circles. The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft bubble of soup on the stove and the static of unspoken things between us.
His hand reached back blindly, found my hip, and rested there like it belonged.
“Can you grab us two bowls?”
Why did I feel dismissed? I removed my hand, putting it back to my side as I went to the cabinet. I moved slowly, reached for the silverware. He still didn’t answer my question.
“I don’t remember you being able to make anything other than instant ramen. And even that was questionable.”
A laugh burst out of him. “That’s because I couldn’t. Ramen and toaster waffles were about the extent of my skills back then.”
“When did you learn? Did the support group teach you like you said before to Mrs. Fontaine?”
“Partially, yeah,” he admitted. “One of the guys in the group was a chef before his wife got sick. He ran these meal-prep sessions to help us out.”
“That’s…thoughtful.” I didn’t think about the day-to-day living going through what he experienced back then. To have to worry about meals on top of your life falling apart?
“Yeah,” Miles said. I hated that he still had that ugly bruise on his face. Then, after a beat, quieter: “He was the one who told me I had to stop feeding my dad frozen lasagna and burritos.”
My chest pinched. “Miles…”
“Shit. That sounded way sadder out loud.”
Doughboy meowed at that, and Miles winked at him.
“No,” I said. “It sounded honest.”
He leaned his hands on the edge of the counter, head down, jaw tight. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Mama was going through a lot—hell, even she wasn’t eating. We couldn’t afford a chef anymore. I also had to keep the business going. Somebody had to do it, you know?”
I nodded. I never thought about the quiet humiliations. Grocery store stares. Empty cabinets. I’d only watched the trial, but never in my head did I allow myself to feel what he could possibly feel. I felt too much regret about him, and I knew I was protected with my family’s name.
Miles didn’t have that protection.
