Page 30 of State of Mind

Luca’s shoulders rose and fell, and Wilder assumed he sighed. ‘I thought it was going to be worse than it was,’ he signed, ‘but I was hoping he wouldn’t tell anyone.’

‘I don’t think he did,’ Wilder replied. ‘Fitz didn’t know.’

Luca scoffed. ‘So why the free scarves?’

‘Because he’s only ever charged two people in his life, and one of those people is the man he’s going to marry.’

Luca’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’

‘Because from what I was told, they didn’t really like each other very much when they first met.’

Wilder dropped his hands into his lap, then reached over and pulled one of the scarves out. Although they were poor stitching and didn’t seem to have much in the way of consistency in color or even yarn texture, there was something unique about them that Wilder had always loved. He knew the teasing was in good fun, but he liked that Luca saw something more in them. He saw something of worth.

‘They’re actually interesting,’ Luca signed. ‘Different. I like that. I know a lot of people who would like that.’

‘He’s not in it for money,’ Wilder signed, trying to keep his face gentle.

Luca shrugged. ‘I understood what he was saying, but he should still get paid for the work.’

Wilder bit his lip, then decided it didn’t really matter since Fitz had never hidden himself from anyone in Savannah. “He was burned in a fire when he was a kid—fourteen or fifteen, I think? He was in therapy for a long time, and he does this mostly to help keep his fingers from getting too stiff.”

“Like Raphael with the massages?”

Wilder’s brows shot up. “The what?” He felt a sudden and unexpected rush of jealousy—the image of Luca stripped down and Raphael’s hands all over him. And it wasn’t his place but…

“He gave me a pedicure and then later he massaged my hands after the whole…cow thing,” he grimaced. “He said he did them for a long time because it helped his hands…or something.” Luca let out a laugh Wilder could see more than hear it was so soft. “I was kind of out of it by the time he was finished with my right hand.”

Wilder felt himself calm, even though the ground beneath him felt shaky. “He’s a good guy.” And Christ—he meant it, even if he didn’t want to right then. “He seems to like you.”

“God knows why,” Luca said. He took the scarf back and shoved the bag between his feet, turning to face Wilder better. “The first time I met him, I fell down the fucking stairs. The second time I met him, I embarrassed myself in front of the entire Tavern. And the third time we hung out was because I had my dick bashed to pieces by a cow. There’s no way he should want to be my friend.”

“You don’t have to be a certain way for people to like you,” Wilder pointed out.

Luca shrugged. “Maybe in your world. And maybe that’s what I need to learn, I don’t know. I don’t really have friends like that. People who want to be around you without wanting something. Back home, they either want money, sex, or both. And I don’t think it’s ever been genuine.”

Wilder flushed deep inside because, in truth, he wasn’t sure what it was about Luca he liked—but he knew the feeling was more than friendship. So, did that make him as bad as all those other people in Luca’s life?

“I think a lot of places—it’s kill or be killed, you know? People tend to step on each other as a means of survival. And it’s not perfect here. Everyone’s closet has a skeleton or two—including mine.”

Luca bit his lip, and Wilder didn’t miss the way he glanced down at his scar. He wasn’t ashamed of them, but there were moments—a lot like this one—where he was glad the rest were covered by his clothes. People knew he’d been through something, but they didn’t feel compelled to ask about the details when they couldn’t see the physical extent of how badly Scott had hurt him.

“I was in a bad relationship,” Wilder started, and Luca shook his head.

“No, you don’t need to.”

Wilder lifted his hands. ‘I was in a bad relationship,’ he began again, and being able to say it all in sign and be understood—even if he had to go slow—was like a balm to his soul. ‘Years ago. I was young when we met, and I was looking for an escape because I didn’t get along with my parents.’ Wilder took a breath, but it felt powerful to see that his hands weren’t shaking. ‘He was nice at first, but after a while, it gradually changed. I tried to leave one night, and he didn’t like that. And I got hurt.’

Luca grimaced, but it looked more like it was from anger instead of pity. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He went to jail for about eighteen months, and then served some probation. I moved back in with my parents, and I re-up a restraining order once every twelve months. He will occasionally get my number or my email address and try to contact me, but he’s lost his power over me.’

Luca’s hands clenched into fists, then relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’

Wilder wanted to brush him off, because he always hated the ‘I’m sorries’ from people. But it was more than that—especially in ASL. Luca’s fist rubbed over his chest in a fierce circle that said so much more than those two, superfluous, spoken words. It meant sympathy, empathy. It meant touching his own heart the way he might touch Wilder’s to soothe those old wounds that still existed, scabbed over and mostly dead.

‘I left my parents and came here not long after that and opened up the shop,’ Wilder went on. ‘It hasn’t been perfect. People didn’t want me here—they wanted Noah to stay or Adam to take over the bakery. But they got used to me eventually.’

Luca laughed, this time a bit louder, and a little kinder. ‘Is that what I should do? Hang tight until they get used to me?’

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