Page 24 of Worship
I lift my arms slowly over my head, and he lines the hands up and slips the soft cotton over me and then over my head. I lower my arms when he pulls the fabric over my chest and looks into my eyes again. There’s something about this that feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done. He’s caring for me. Not trying to fuck me or scandalize me. He wants to protect me, from himself.
“Thank you,” I whisper, wishing I could kiss him my thoughts instead of saying them.
He just nods and steps back and out of my bathroom. I stay, needing to refocus. I don’t know how long I’ve been in the bathroom—five, ten minutes—but I decide to treat him like any other friend and then have the uncomfortable talk. But when I walk around the corner, my feet stop moving—everything stops because Luca King is in my kitchen unpacking the boxes.
My boxes.
The ones that he knows I can’t.
He looks over his shoulder and then points to the counter where there’s a croissant and what looks like coffee. I look back to him, not knowing how to process what he’s doing. He knows. He knows what these boxes mean to me. He knows how gutted I am at the goddamn thought of opening them. But here he is. Unpacking them for me.
I walk with slow steps to the counter and take the croissant in one hand and the coffee in the other, feeling so many emotions that I won’t speak. I can’t. I don’t even know where to start. I look at him, knowing that I feel lost. He points to the chair a few feet behind me, and that’s where I go to sit. I draw my legs up beside me and nestle into the oversized chair and watch him carefully and methodically lift glass after glass, placing them into the empty cupboards. We don’t speak or say anything.
I just watch him take care of me.
IDIDN’T PLAN TO DOthis. Any of it. I came here to tell her that what happened last night would never happen again. To tell her to keep her mouth shut. I came here to make sure last night stayed in the past and forgotten. I don’t need the fucking headache. But now I’m dressing her and unpacking her boxes.
The moment she opened the door, I knew that if she didn’t put on a goddamn shirt that I would spend the immediate future finding justifications for fucking her in the doorway. And that I would also try and manipulate her as well.
But when I walked in and saw the boxes, I remembered her words and everything changed. I wouldn’t let myself manipulate her, so I did the only thing I could do. I grabbed a sweatshirt and put it on her. And now I’m doing this because I can’t fuck her, love her, or be with her, but I can do this. And this is what she needs.
We’ve sat in silence for over an hour. Every box in her kitchen has been checked off and unpacked, and she hasn’t said a word from her chair. I grab the last box, smaller than the rest, and tear open the top.
Inside the wrapped newspaper are four coffee mugs, They’re all some various rendition of “World’s Best Dad.” I look over my shoulder, knowing she’s going to feel this, but I pull out each one and unwrap it fully from the paper. I take them to the sink, washing and drying the individual mugs. I make sure to wash them with care, as if the level of gentleness I treat the mugs is directly related to how I’ll treat her feelings.
When I look up, her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. I would expect nothing less from her. Always so strong. Her words catch me off guard, and my eyes jump to her.
“I got that one”—she points to a white mug with rainbow letters—“for my dad when I was twelve. It was the same year my mom left us, and we were both going through it. You know, just real deep in the grief that she didn’t want us.”
She pushes her hair over her shoulder and takes a deep breath, lost in the memory.
“Anyway, he always used to say, ‘You can’t have a rainbow without a little bit of rain.’ I was his rainbow.” She smiles. “It was always his way of saying that I was his gift. So, I got him the cup with rainbow letters that year.”
A stray tear escapes her eye, but she wipes it away faster than it descends.
I don’t say anything. I want to, but it all seems empty. All the nice words or promises things will get better seem like bullshit. I just give her a wink because she needs to feel this—she needs to feel broken, to own it so she can move past it.
I know; I’ve been right where she is. I had Dom to let me rage and pick me up. She has me. A thought pushes to the forefront of my mind and stills my hands as I load the cups into the cabinet.She has you. She’s rooted herself inside of you, and you need to walk away.
We continue like this for another hour, me unpacking and her remembering and telling me memories. My phone starts to go off like there’s a three-alarm fire, and she grabs it from where it’s sitting next to her and looks at the screen. “Says Shelby.” She holds it out to me, clearly uncomfortable that my wife is calling.
I walk around the island and squat in front of Gretchen, taking the phone and hitting Ignore.
“Don’t do that. Don’t look like that, don’t.”
Her expression is tight. She’s feeling ashamed or regretful, and I fucking hate it.
“Gretchen, look at me.” Her eyes meet mine. “Nothing happened. We can be friends—you might be the best friend I’ve had in some time. I know it’s tricky, but don’t tap out. Not yet.”
Her hand reaches out, gently gripping the front of my hair, and I smile.
“Luca, what am I going to do with you? This ‘friendship’ is a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Maybe, but it keeps me from losing my mind, and right now I feel like we’re exactly what the other needs.” I answer honestly.
She lets go of my hair and I run my fingers through it, watching her thoughts play across her face. She’s considering every word. I hate that I can’t hear all of them. I want her to agree to our friendship because I’m not ready to really walk away. I’m greedy and selfish. I want her and right now I’ll take her any way I can.
“All right, friends. But no touching or flirting or anything inappropriate. Don’t make me hate you because today you are pretty fucking amazing. Thank you.”
