Page 32 of Falling for Carla

“Okay. I’m going to meet up with Brent and pick up the things I had him get for you. I’ll be back in an hour. Please don’t leave and don’t open the door for anyone.”

She nodded in agreement. I took out another burner phone and programmed my number into it for her in case she needed it. She took it silently and disappeared into the bathroom for her shower.

As I got in my car in the parking garage, I wondered again what the hell I’d gotten myself into. A huge fucking catastrophe is what it seemed like.

CHAPTER 24

CARLA

A week had gone by with me staying at Drake’s. It would not be an exaggeration to say it was completely awkward.

He went to work. I stayed at the apartment and did my classwork online. I couldn’t even Zoom to the class meetings because my location could be identified or traced. If it weren’t for the burner phone I used to call Brenda and the abundance of romcoms on Netflix, I would’ve lost my damn mind inside of seven days. Partly because any time that Drake was home, he practically locked himself in his room to ‘work’. He was avoiding me like I was some horny student that wouldn’t leave him alone, or a scary clown from a horror movie.

My attempts to talk to him were confined to dull small talk on his end. His day was fine. Class went well. Yes, he had grading to do. I’d had houseplants that made better conversation. One morning I was folding some laundry on the couch and watching a movie. He stopped at the door and asked if I wanted anything from the store. I’d been craving homemade spaghetti and meatballs like my mom used to make for us when we were in the safe house. It was a memory full of warmth and delicious smells and closeness and my lonely heart yearned for it. So, I rattled off a few ingredients I needed.

When he came back with the things I had asked for, I thanked him, and he didn’t even answer. He just went to work. While he was gone, I turned on the radio and danced around the kitchen while I chopped vegetables and fresh herbs. I molded the meatballs and seasoned them the way my mom had taught me and set them to simmer in the pot of sauce. By the time I covered it and turned the heat down to low, the entire place smelled as luscious and homey as my mother’s tiny kitchen in the safe house.

Cooking from her recipe, dicing the onion just the way she’d shown me how, made me feel so close to her. When A Hopeless Place came on the radio, I didn’t automatically turn it off because it was Rihanna and my mom had loved Rihanna. I listened to it and even danced to it as I stirred the sauce. I knew damn well what it was like to be in a hopeless place, so I felt right at home singing along.

When Drake came home, I watched his reaction to the smell of my home cooking.

“That smells amazing,” he said.

“Dinner’s ready in ten,” I said. “I’m putting the pasta on now.”

I grated Pecorino-Romano cheese while the noodles boiled. Drake reached back in a cabinet and took out a bottle of red wine. He popped the cork and poured two glasses. I took one gratefully and sipped. It would be perfect with the sauce. I smiled at him. He held my eyes for just a second before turning away and taking out bowls and forks.

When I placed the food on the table and lit a candle, I felt so much well-being, so much pride. I had made this meal. He was here to share it with me and had opened a bottle of wine for us. It was almost what I wanted.

He took a bite as I twirled pasta on my fork and watched him. He moaned, shut his eyes. “So good,” he said, and tucked into his meal with enthusiasm. I smiled nonstop while he made happy noises of appreciation over my food. I tried not to think about how much I enjoyed making him a meal and sharing it with him, how happy it made me that he liked it.

“You know,” I said, “when I was a kid, we had a cat.”

He looked up at me but didn’t respond.

“It wasn’t the friendliest animal, but at least it meowed once in a while when I talked to it. You see what I’m getting at here?” I asked wryly.

He swallowed his bite of food and took a drink. “I can see how this might be different from living with your best friend. I’m used to being alone with my work.” Drake said it in the professorial tone of someone explaining a simple concept with great patience. I had to try hard not to roll my eyes.

I raised an eyebrow at him, a move that usually intimidated whoever I used it on.

“What?” he said, taking another drink, showing he was nervous by fidgeting that way.

“Nothing. It’s a perfectly reasonable excuse,” I said coolly.

“Dinner was great.”

“I enjoyed cooking it. It’s my mom’s recipe, she taught it to me. Thank you for getting the ingredients this morning,” I said. I thought if I was polite, friendly, not pushy, he might actually ask a question about what was in it or when I learned to make it. We could actually have a conversation and I could share with him why this was a special meal for me. He just nodded and made a ‘hmm’ sound. That was all.

Then he took his plate to the sink and said his usual, “I’ve got a lot of work to do. Good night.”

I wanted to say, it’s seven o’clock, not ‘good night’ unless you’re hiding from me! But I still had a shred of pride left. I’d practically begged the guy to talk to me. If he wanted to spend time with me, he would have. I could be thankful he was letting me stay with him for safety reasons and not be pushy or demanding. It wasn’t in my nature not to push back, not to want more, but I appreciated all he’d done for me, and if I was lonely, I could handle that. I’d been lonely most of my life. A few more weeks of it wouldn’t kill me. Being this close to Drake Sheffield and not being able to touch or kiss him—that might kill me.

CHAPTER 25

DRAKE

The blacked-out windows of the black cars were a familiar sight now on campus. I made a note of when I saw them, but I never reacted or looked directly at them. I went about my business. I talked to Brent over lunch one day, and he confirmed what I suspected. The Mob war was heating up and trouble was spilling out onto the streets on either coast.

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