A free preview of IN BETWEEN FOREVER – chapters 1 – 3
Chapter 1
I’m brushing my teeth when I get news of the murder.
Learning such unpleasant things first thing in the morning is a hazard of my job, but it’s a hazard of my own making, seeing as no one is forcing me to check my email before I’m even dressed. My habit is part and parcel of being Deputy District Attorney and driven by my career.
My brushing slows as I scroll the message from my boss on my phone, drawing my husband’s attention. Grant stands at the other sink in our spacious bathroom, rinsing shaving cream off his chiseled jaw.
“Anything good?” he asks, reading my reaction. He, too, is guilty of checking emails before breakfast. Sometimes before we’re even out of bed.
I spit toothpaste into the travertine sink and rinse my mouth. “Murder one.”
“Oof. Rough way to start your birthday,” he says. He taps his razor on his sink’s rim and tosses it aside with a flick, reaching for me in almost the same fluid motion. When he buries his lips in the crook of my neck, I melt into him.
The only reason I can handle starting my day with murder is because I have him to remind me of all things good in life. The smell of him swirls around me: pine, spice, minty toothpaste. With the intensity of our careers, we frequently fortify ourselves with reminders of our home life before we leave the house.
Knowing I’ll be facing murder when I get to the office, the practice feels necessary today.
He trails his lips down my neck in clear indication he feels the same. So delicately, he slips my nightgown’s strap off my shoulder, and I let it fall. I’ve been feeling his touch for the past seventeen years, but it still makes my knees weak. As if he knows I’m having trouble standing, he spins me around and lifts me to sit on the countertop.
“Happy birthday, Ms. Clark,” he says in a low growl. “You are just as stunning as the day we met.” His brown hair has only begun to hint at grey, and his face is even more attractive than it was when we met; still warm hazel eyes but now wizened by years of saving lives. He’s four years older than me and aging like a bottle of fine wine.
“Thank you. And you are just as full of shit,” I remind him and press my lips to his.
Hands start wandering, eagerly smoothing out memorized patterns that are no less thrilling for their familiarity. Soon, my nightgown is bunched at my hips, and I don’t want to face any of the day’s responsibilities.
“The leeches made you breakfast,” he pants against my neck in reminder of our greatest responsibility: the three humans we created, downstairs no doubt making a mess of the kitchen.
“The leeches can wait,” I say on a hot breath as I slip my hands into his waistband. He makes the sound he always makes when I grab him, a soft groan from deep in his throat, and it only makes me want him more.
“Mom! Breakfast is ready!” the oldest of the leeches shouts as if it were scripted. He sounds like a man now, and I still can’t get used to it.
“Sounds like they can’t wait,” Grant whispers.
I unlink my legs from behind his back and kick the door closed. “It’s my birthday. They can wait.”
I feel his smile against my lips, and I can’t help smiling back. He makes quick work of my underwear, clearly signaling he can’t wait, and I lose my patience too.
I swear under my breath when he shoves inside me. My skin ripples with goose bumps, and I’m already close to an edge, nearly trembling in his arms.
“God, I love you, Diana,” he pants and cups my jaw with one hand while squeezing my thigh with the other.
“I love you too.” My words are short, breathless, staccato things. A tugging deep in my belly says I’m about to have a very happy start to my birthday when the littlest leech knocks on the door.
“Mommy, we made you birthday breakfast!” her tiny voice calls as she turns the handle.
Grant and I freeze like we’ve been caught doing something illegal, and I silently praise my husband for his catlike reflexes. He throws an arm behind him to stop the door from fully opening and to stop our six-year-old daughter from witnessing something she’d never forget.
I caught my parents having sex on the bathroom counter when I was a kid, and I’m terrified of sinks, she’d tell her therapist one day. Or maybe it’d be worse. She’d be so traumatized she’d forego oral hygiene all together and need dentures by the time she was twenty.
“Just a second, sweetheart. Mommy and Daddy are busy right now,” Grant manages while I envision the carnage we dodged. He’s an expert in emergencies. I’m not.
My face is on fire, and my heart is still pounding. For two reasons now. I regrettably push Grant back and slide off the counter. I smooth my skirt back into place.
“Your pancakes are getting cold,” Addison tries again.
“Okay, honey. I’ll be there in a second.” I do my best not to sound as out of breath as I am.
“What are you doing in there?” she asks with precious innocence.
Grant and I meet eyes. His face is flushed and his previously kempt hair is in shambles. Based on his crooked grin, I have to assume I look the same. We both stifle a laugh. Our older children, Wyatt and Claire, would know in a second what Mommy and Daddy were doing in the bathroom, but little Addison requires a cover-up.
“We’re. . . brushing our teeth, Addy. Go back downstairs. We’ll be there in a second,” Grant offers.
“Okay. But hurry up!” she demands, sounding too much like her teenage sister.
We wait for the distant thump thump thump of child-sized feet hurtling down the staircase. Grant turns back to me with a sigh of relief. “Damn leeches.”
“Filthy parasites,” I echo and pull him into another kiss.
The heat is still there, burning at a low smolder in anticipation of later tonight.
…
“Happy birthday!” my three children sing in unison when I enter the kitchen. The mess is less than anticipated. Minus a dusting of pancake batter with a tiny footprint, a few oozing eggshells, and a pile of oranges relieved of their juice, the open room full of shiny appliances and granite countertops is unscathed.
“Chocolate chip pancakes!” Addison sings and dances toward me with a wobbling plate piled high.
“Careful, Addy!” Wyatt scolds and offers a guiding hand.
He’s twice her size and nine years her senior. The first born and the only boy, he’s the benevolent leader of the pack. Although his middle sister is beginning to show signs of insurgency. He looks just like his father, but he’s a mama’s boy through and through.
“Happy birthday, Mom.” He smiles and gives me a peck on the cheek.
“Thank you! This looks wonderful.”
“I flipped the pancakes, Mommy!” Addison sings with pride.
She came out blonde for unknown reasons. A perfect little blonde accident. Grant and I had decided two children were enough to accompany our two full-time power careers. But then, in the twilight of my thirties and the dawn of his forties: Addison.
“You did?” I ask with excitement to match hers.
A stool stands in front of the stove, no doubt her booster seat, while her big brother supervised her pancake flipping. My heart suddenly surges as I hope someone got a picture of such an adorable scene.
“I squeezed the oranges,” my middle daughter takes a moment to report without looking up from tapping her phone.
Of course someone took a picture of the pancake flipping. Claire has probably already posted it to ten different social media sites. #makingbreakfast #momsbirthday. She just turned thirteen but already acts sixteen. Squeezing oranges was probably all Wyatt could get her to agree to. And that probably took half the morning itself.
“Well, this all looks delicious,” I praise them again.
Wyatt sets a full plate before me: three pancakes, a pile of scrambled eggs with melted cheese, and a brimming glass of juice. More food than I can possibly eat if I want to function at work, but I have to make an effort.
“Good morning, troops,” Grant greets.
He’s prim and pressed again in a sharp button-down with shined oxfords. He spends ninety-nine percent of his time in scrubs and running shoes, but he always puts on his best for his commute to the hospital. After our encounter in the bathroom, I needed only to fix my hair and get dressed. He, on the other hand, needed a few moments to himself torecover.
I give him a knowing smile as I follow him with my eyes. Even from a distance, I see his lips twist.
“Dad, are you picking me up from practice tonight?” Wyatt asks.
“Uh . . .” Grant trails off with a glance at me as he takes his position at the other end of our farmhouse table.
“Tuesday,” I silently mouth over my juice.
“Tuesday, right. Yes, I am picking you up from practice tonight,” he says.
He’s brilliant and meticulous and can take apart the human body and put it back together again, but keeping the kids’ schedule is like asking a rocket scientist to do simple math. Or like asking a heart surgeon to keep a schedule, I guess.
“Mom, I need new cleats for soccer,” Claire demands without looking up from her phone.
Apparently, the birthday celebration is over. All I got was a heartfelt wish and some breakfast, and now it’s straight back to routine.
“Email me and we can order them.”
“Why don’t we go to the store? I’ll need to order a bunch of sizes so I can try them on.”
Still no eye contact.
Of course she wants to go to a store to shop for shoes, because that means we’ll go to ten other stores to shop for ten other things too, and that is not in my time budget.
“That’s fine. We can send back the ones that don’t fit.”
“Whatever,” she says with a sigh.
Her tone makes me twitch, but I manage to keep calm. Grant picks up on it and gently intervenes.
“Claire, can you put your phone away, please? We’re having breakfast.”
“I’m not even hungry,” she says and keeps right on tapping. Who she’s texting, I have no idea. She’s going to see all her friends at school in a matter of minutes, so the early morning communication seems unnecessary.
I sigh in frustration and realize I sound exactly like her.
“My tournament is this weekend,” Wyatt interjects to keep the peace.
“That’s right.” I offer him a smile. “All day Saturday, right?”
“And Sunday morning, if we make it that far.” He plays first base for the JV baseball team. Pretty big deal for a high school freshman, though he’ll never admit it.
“Of course you’ll make it that far,” Grant claps him on the back. “And we’ll all be there to watch. Won’t we?” He smiles around the table, not so discreetly lingering on Claire.
She sighs again. “I don’t see why I have to spend the whole weekend at a stupid baseball tournament. I don’t evenlike baseball.”
“Claire, we are all going to support your brother. Wyatt comes and supports you, so you should do the same for him,” I remind her.
“Whatever,” she huffs her catchphrase again.
I mask my sigh with a gulp of orange juice and meet Grant’s eyes.
“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” He’s asking not because either of us has forgotten—no chance have we forgotten—but to remind me we’ll have time away from the leeches later.
“Yes. Fisher’s at seven.”
He shoots me his hazely-eyed smile in return and warms my heart.
Addison takes this moment to climb onto my lap and present a handmade card. “Happy birthday, Mommy.” She’s going through a mermaid phase, so the drawing is of course the Evans-Clark family if we lived under the sea. I have a fashionable set of seashells covering my chest, and my fin is a nice shade of emerald.
“That’s really pretty, Addy. Thank you.” I kiss her soft hair. “Go get ready for school.”
She’s still in her pajamas and notoriously slow at dressing herself. Everything has to match from shoelaces to shirt to hair ties. Luckily, the saint with the patience for such precision is due to arrive any second.
On cue, the front door opens.
“Good morning!” our nanny sings.
We had to have one. Grant and I work combined over a hundred hours a week. There’s no way we’d stay afloat without hired help. It’s par for the course in our neighborhood full of white-collar professionals and seven-figure homes.
Alicia enters with her beaming smile and a large bouquet.
“Leesha!” Addison squeals and leaps from my lap. Her tiny bare feet smack against the hardwood as she runs to greet her.
“Good morning, my little beauty! How are you today?” Alicia gushes. Her enthusiasm never fades. Ever. It’s truly remarkable.
“Good. It’s Mommy’s birthday!” Addison sings and dances around her.
“I know!” Alicia gasps as if it’s the most exciting news ever. “I brought her some flowers. Can you help me take them to the kitchen?”
Addison squeals another delighted squeak and bounds off with the collection of springtime blossoms.
“Happy birthday, Diana,” Alicia greets and hooks her arm around the back of my chair in a pseudo-hug. Her fresh floral scent wraps around me like another arm.
“Thank you, Alicia.” I halfway hug her back. “The flowers are beautiful.”
“Good morning, Dr. Evans,” she greets Grant. She never calls him by his first name and I think it has to do with the shade of pink her cheeks turn every time she sees him.
“Hi, Alicia.” He gives her a smile worthy of her blushing.
The morning falls back into routine and soon, everyone is gathering their supplies for another day and heading for the door.
“What’s your day like?” I ask Grant as I pull on my blazer.
He’s digging in his own bag, probably looking for his keys that are hanging from the shelf beside us.
“Dropping Wyatt off, rounds, then scrubbing in for surgery at ten. You?”
My phone vibrates with an email right as he asks. “Dropping Claire off, closing the Jacobs case, and then dealing with whatever David just emailed me about.” My boss has a habit of sending thoughts before he’s finished thinking them. I’m used to one long message broken up into pieces.
Grant watches me as I quickly scan the new email. “More about the . . . murder?” He whispers the word and throws a glance at our children busily draping themselves in backpacks and gym bags.
I can’t answer him because I’m suddenly adrift in another reality. The email has untethered me to the busy morning with my family and hurtled me twenty years into the past.
Primary suspect’s name – Luke Bishop
Five words, and I can’t breathe.
“Diana?” Grant asks. “Everything all right?”
Bringing myself back to the present is like swimming through a mudslide. I might drown in the sediment and brush. I tell myself it’s a coincidence; it can’t possibly be the same Luke Bishop I knew once upon a time—the man I was going to marry.
But for reasons I haven’t begun to understand, I look up at the man I did marry and find myself lying to him. “Yes. Just a staff meeting reminder.”
Grant takes my word for it and pecks my cheek. “Have a great day.”
“You too,” I say and kiss the air, feeling guilt for lying to him roil in my gut.
Chapter 2
I manage to drop Claire off at school and make it to the courthouse without committing any traffic infractions. My hands are shaking when I enter the lobby.
Primary suspect’s name: Luke Bishop. The words keep skipping like a broken record at high volume in my head.
We live in a small city north of the Golden Gate Bridge, better known for its tranquil hiking trails and year-round farmers’ markets than its crime. Most of my cases involve property damage or theft. Murder rarely crosses my desk. But my unease is not due to a dead body. The reason for the tremble in my hand when I reach for the elevator call button has everything to do with the suspect.
When I get to my office on the third floor, I hardly notice the two dozen red roses sitting on my desk. No doubt my husband co-conspired with my assistant to coordinate the delivery. I push them to the side and drop my bag. My office window looks out over the parking lot shaded with sycamores. Inside, shelves line my walls, loaded with books and a few photos of my family. My degrees hang behind my chair.
“Happy birthday, Ms. Clark,” Tiana, my assistant, greets and presents a to-go cup of coffee.
She usually brings me something from the breakroom, but this offering means she made a special stop on her way to work. She wears her hair in a bundle of braids and looks sharp as always in a white blouse and high-waisted pants.
“Thank you, Tiana,” I mutter and know I won’t be drinking it. I have one thing on my mind, and I won’t calm until I speak with the man upstairs.
On cue, Tiana keeps the morning moving. “David wants you in his office as soon as possible. He said he emailed you this morning about a new case.”
“Right. Do you know anything about it?”
“Not much. Looked like it could have been a B&E from a few days ago, but they’re circling a suspect now. We’ve been so deep in the Jacobs case, I haven’t been paying attention,” she mutters the end with a wave of her hands.
I can excuse her because I haven’t been paying attention either. Rumors of a breaking and entering gone bad up in El Dorado Estates does sound familiar now.
But still, Luke?
“Tell him I’m on my way,” I instruct Tiana. “Also, call Wesley and confirm we’re closing today.”
“Of course, Ms. Clark. Anything else?” she asks as I begin walking away.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I say, even though I’ve left it sitting on my desk.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator. I’m too impatient to wait for anything other than my own two feet.
“Diana, good morning,” District Attorney David Contreras greets when I knock on his doorframe.
“Good morning, David.”
“Come in. Get the door, please,” he says and waves with a large hand. He’s a large man. Linebacker-sized. He sits in a leather chair custom-made to accommodate his frame, looking professional as usual with a clipped tie and tailored jacket. His office is clean lines and mahogany wood. Framed degrees decorate the wall behind him. “You got my messages?” He has a file spread on his desk, pages of notes, and photos.
“I did. Is this the El Dorado case?” I ask like I know what I’m talking about and try to hide the nerves in my voice.
“Yes.” He nods as he keeps reading. “Looked like a B&E, but we’re moving toward murder. This rich guy lived alone up there in this huge house. Real earth-friendly kind of guy, so no security cameras or anything. His friend was staying with him for a couple days, and he supposedly comes home to find him dead.”
“The friend? Or the rich guy?”
“The friend found the rich guy dead,” he says as he flips a page.
“Cause of death?”
He unclips a photo from the pile and hands it to me. “Blunt force.”
“Jesus.” I gasp at the gruesome photo. The victim’s face is unrecognizable, partially bashed in, and covered in blood. “Who’s the victim?”
“Forty-five-year-old, Dylan Garrison. The family has been notified, obviously.”
A bell chimes in the part of my memory I’ve forbidden myself from visiting and makes me even more nervous.
“What’s wrong, you know him?” he reads the reaction I thought I hid.
“No,” I lie with a shake of my head. I should confess the truth and recuse myself immediately, but if this has anything to do with Luke, I need to know. “Why are we thinking murder?”
“Because the blunt force was caused by a professional telephoto lens, and the friend is a professional photographer. Forty-six-year-old Luke Bishop,” he says and tosses another photo at me.
Any doubt I had shatters. The world stops turning. I know those blue eyes as if I saw them yesterday.
“Diana, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” David says with a frown. “What’s wrong? Do you know this guy?”
It’s him. My Luke. The man I knew better than anyone else. Twenty years ago, we were in love. Mad, stupid, crazy love. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes. Our future was planned, set, and shining brightly.
And then one day, everything changed, and the world stopped turning. Just like it has right now.
Luke Bishop disappeared and broke my heart into a million pieces. I searched for him, but he didn’t want to be found. I gave up when I met Grant and decided the part of the love of my life could be played by someone else. I’ve spent the past seventeen years erasing Luke Bishop from my memory. And now here he is, piercing me with his blue eyes, and it’s like no time has passed at all.
“No,” I lie to my boss. “I don’t know him.”
Chapter 3
22 Years Ago
I stare out the coffee shop’s window, momentarily taking my eyes off my notes. The delicate crisp lacing the autumn air says winter is on the way. But before I can even think of home-baked holidays and a much-needed reprieve from my course load, I have to survive my final exams. My notepad balances atop a small pyramid of opened textbooks; all tomes whose content needs to make its way into my brain. Most of it is already in there. This study session is mainly a tune-up.
“You know, studying too much can be counterproductive. At some point you start forgetting things,” a stranger says and fills the empty chair across from me. He’s my age with glasses and a grey beanie.
“Can I help you?” I ask with a frown.
“I think I just helped you.” His smile says he thinks he’s charming.
I frown harder, growing more annoyed. “How so?”
“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sitting alone. Who knows who could be wandering around.” He makes wide eyes like a threat is imminent.
I glance side to side and see nothing but other studying students and the occasional couple. “You mean like creepy strangers who invite themselves to sit at your table?”
“Creepy? Come on, that’s a little rude, don’t you think?”
“Just about as rude as interrupting what I’m doing and assuming I am interested in talking to you.”
His face contorts in offense. The charm evaporates. “Geez, you don’t have to be such a bitch. It’s not like you were saving this seat for anyone.”
I open my mouth to show him what a bitch I can be when another stranger joins us.
“Sorry I’m late,” the new stranger says. He rests his hand on the back of my chair in feigned familiarity.
I look up to tell him I do not need his help, however well-intentioned it may be, and find my voice caught in my throat and my belly suddenly feeling like I missed the final step on a staircase.
His eyes are the bluest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m falling into the crystal pools before I even realize I’ve tripped. His easy smile hooks me like a hand before I drown and makes me want to join in his game.
“That’s fine,” I manage to say.
He holds my gaze for a few more heart-stuttering beats and then expectantly turns to the unwelcome squatter. They don’t say anything out loud, but some nonverbal territorial male language gets the job done. The first stranger departs with an annoyed huff.
Even if it’s for temporary show, I find myself pleased when the new stranger assumes the seat across from me.
“Thank you,” I tell his dizzying smile. “But for the record, I didn’t need saving.”
“You’re welcome. But maybe you needed a little bit of saving?” he asks as he holds up an empty inch between his fingers. “Just a tiny bit?”
I can’t help but smile back. “Maybe a little bit.”
“God, what a creep,” he mumbles with a glance over his shoulder.
“Says the creep who had to have been spying on me to know I needed saving from the other creep.”
“Hey, I’m a good creep.” He holds up his hands in defense. “Just a concerned citizen who saw something and said something.”
“Well, good creep or bad creep, thank you for your chivalry. I’m Diana.”
“I’m Luke. This looks like some heavy lifting here,” he says and nods at my splayed books. He raises the corner of one, and it clatters back down, as if to emphasize how heavy it is. “So, which one do you belong to: UMass? BU? MIT? Harvard?” He says them all in a forced Boston accent, especially the last.
I lift my notebook and show him the seal emblazoned on its front.
“A Hah-vud Woman she is.” He nods in approval. “And you ah studyin’ . . .” He trails off, not dropping his accent and trying to make out the text in my open book. “Civil law,” he slowly says as he reads it upside down. “Oh, no. You’re a loy-yah?”
I find myself laughing again and guiltily nod. “Trying to be anyway.”
“Oh, that won’t do. Nah, we can’t have that.” He shakes his head.
“What’s wrong with lawyers?” I ask and cross my arms.
“What’s wrong wit loy-yahs?! Wuddya mean, what’s wrong wit loy-yahs? All ya wanna do is argue. I mean, look at cha now. Ya got ya arms all crossed and ya a’ready gettin’ all defensive on me.”
I uncross my arms with another laugh. “All right, wise guy, which one do you belong to? Don’t tell me you’re a doc-ta.” I do my best to match his accent.
“It’s DOC-tah. You kinda lost it there on the DOC part,” he instructs. “You really gotta emphasize it. Really punch it.”
“DOC-tah,” I make another attempt.
“There, you got it now!” he cheers me on. His spirit is contagious. Whether I needed saving or not, I’m certainly glad he found his way to my table.
“So, which is it?” I ask again.
He sighs with a hand through his sandy hair. It’s messy, but he wears it perfectly. “Uh, none of them,” he says accent-free as he drapes a green apron over his head with its own emblazoned logo. “I hold a degree from the University of Joe’s Coffee.”
“Wait, you work here?”
“Yeah.” He shyly laughs. “I took your order, actually.”
My face heats with embarrassment. I don’t even remember seeing his face. “Sorry, I’m distracted today.”
“I’d say so.” He gives my books another flop. “That’s okay, though. You schoolies never pay much attention to us underlings.”
“Schoolies?” I ask with a curious frown. “Is that an official term?”
“I use it,” he says with a shrug. “It’s as accurate as townies, and that’s in the Boston dictionary.”
Another laugh freely springs from me. “So, if you’re not a townie, what brings you here?”
“Who said I’m not a townie?” He slips back into his accent with a facetious frown. “Nah, I grew up in Vermont,” he says back in his normal voice. “I was a schoolie in this fine town for a few years, but I decided college wasn’t my thing. Instead of disappointing my parents after wasting their money for four years, I figured I’d save them some cash and move straight on to the disappointment.” He glides his hand through the air is if it were a smooth transition.
“Considerate of you. So, what do you do when you’re not making coffee?”
He watches me for a moment, smiling. As if he’s seeing something he didn’t expect that he rather likes. “I take photos.”
“Photos?” I ask with a sip of my drink. My question echoes into the half-empty ceramic. “Of what?”
“Beautiful things,” he says with an easy shrug. “Nature mostly.”
“Hmmm, a nature photographer. Sounds romantic.”
A warm laugh pops out of him. “It’d be more romantic if it paid the bills.”
“Luke! We need you at the counter,” someone shouts from behind us, slicing into our bubble with a blade of reality.
Luke looks back like he’s considering ignoring it. “Looks like the break is over.” He frowns as he stands and ties his apron. “It was nice meeting you, Diana. Good luck with your studying.”
“It was nice to meet you too, Luke.” I don’t want him to go, but I don’t know how to make him stay. “Can I have another coffee?” I blurt.
He grins at my mug. “Your cup is still half-full.”
“It’s cold,” I justify.
“Well, we can’t have that,” he says as if such a thing is offensive.
“When do you get off?”
“My shift ends in two hours,” he says with an irresistible and knowing grin.
I check my watch. “Well, it looks like I have about two more hours of studying to do.”
He watches me for a moment more, as if he’s trying to memorize my face.
“My coffee,” I remind him.
“Oh! Right.” He shakes himself. He takes one step and pivots back. “No more creeps,” he mutters and hitches the empty chair beneath his arm.
I smile at his retreating back as he carries it away along with my half-full, and still warm, mug.
…
Two hours later, I’m watching the sun sink and take what little heat it provided during the day with it. My books are still open, and thankfully I’ve already learned most of their content because I’ve spent most of the past two hours paying more attention to Luke. He has continued taking orders and serving drinks, but his eyes have been on me. I had to stifle a laugh when he nearly tripped and sloshed hot coffee down his front because he was looking at me and not someone’s bookbag bulging out into the walkway. His cheeks burned pink as he apologized to his customer, and an impatient warmth fizzed through my veins.
Finally, I see him removing his apron.
Like someone shot a starting pistol, I flip all my books shut and stuff them into my bag. Other patrons watch my sudden movement with curious eyes, frowning at the repetitive thumping and shuffling of note papers.
Luke has donned a wool coat, and he’s coming closer. Each step makes my heart beat faster.
“Did you learn it all?”
“Every bit.”
He stares at me again, memorizing my face. It puts a hot flush in my cheeks. “Want to go for a walk?”
I nod.
In keeping with the chivalrous trend, he bends to grab my book bag. “Good lord,” he says with a gasp. “You carry this thing around with you? It probably weighs more than you do!”
“I know. You don’t have to carry it,” I say and reach for it.
“No, no,” he denies with a stiff arm. “Allow me, please.”
I can’t help but laugh. “If you insist.”
“I do insist. But I also might have to insist our walk take us past a chiropractor. Jesus.” He huffs as he loops it onto his shoulder. “You Hah-vud women must be smaht and strahng.”
“Yes, that’s how they make us. Where are we headed?”
He gives another easy shrug. “Let’s see where we end up.”
We stroll the sidewalk, making our way up and down busy streets and chatting all the while. Daytime businesses are closing to make room for nightlife. We pass a few happy hours judging by the sounds of joyful debauchery coming from open doorways, and soon, it’s fully dark.
“Are you hungry?” Luke asks.
“Yes, I think I am,” I say as I realize it. Our conversation has carried on thick enough I didn’t even notice the growls coming from my belly.
“What street is this?” he asks himself more than me. I can see his breath when he turns to find a sign and realize I’ve also lost track of being cold. Luke’s presence—his smile, his laugh, the easy comfort I feel—has become my own personal space heater. “Perfect,” he says when he finds the street sign. “I know this really good Italian place a few blocks over. Do you like pasta?”
“I do.”
Simona’s, the awning tells us when we arrive. “Have you been here before?” he eagerly asks.
I shake my head no.
“You’re going to love it. They have the best cannoli. Come on.” He grabs my hand to pull me inside and I find myself not wanting him to let go.
We step into red and white checkers, artificial ivy, and paintings of Italian landmarks. There is no hostess, so we seat ourselves beneath the Rialto Bridge. My sleeves stick to the plastic tablecloth, but I find myself not minding. I somehow already know I’d be content to eat fast food in a parking lot with Luke.
“I highly recommend the lasagna. The raviolis are delicious too,” Luke tells me with bright eyes.
A waitress smacking gum drops two menus on the table. “Drinks?” she asks like she doesn’t care.
Luke nods at me to go first. “Water please,” I tell the waitress. I downed enough caffeine to last me the rest of the week while I was waiting for Luke, and I’m not about to top it off with wine.
“Two waters please,” Luke says with a grin.
The waitress sighs in indifference.
“Do you need to look at the menu?” I ask him in an effort to get rid of her faster.
“No, but you should,” he says and opens it for me.
“You already told me what to order,” I remind him. “This is your place, so I trust your judgement.”
“In that case, we’ll take the lasagna and raviolis please,” he says to the waitress.
“Cheese raviolis, please. And no meat in the sauce,” I politely add on.
The waitress sighs like she couldn’t care less about our patronage and collects the menus.
“Is everyone around here that friendly?” I ask once she’s gone.
“Yeah, isn’t it great? They don’t force any small talk. They’re all so rude. It’s awesome,” Luke says and grins like he really enjoys it. “Are all Californians vegetarian?”
“Yes, it’s state law.” I nod like it’s true.
The topic of my hometown came up along the way here. He gets it now, he says. The ease about me. I don’t see it, but maybe it takes an East Coast native to recognize something a little more relaxed.
“Shame. Their lasagna might convert you, but then you’d never be let back in,” he says with a melodramatic sigh.
“Better not chance it, then.”
The waitress returns with two glasses of water and a basket of garlic bread. Luke immediately rips off a piece and pushes the basket toward me.
“Meat-free.”
I join him and easily understand his enthusiasm for this place. An appreciative moan escapes my throat at the buttery garlic melting on my tongue.
“See, I told you,” he says, reading my reaction.
“I get it now. Thank you.”
We chew in silence for a few moments, but only because we can’t resist the butter-soaked bread. I’m on my second piece when I realize this is the first time we’ve stopped talking since we left the coffee shop.
“So, when’s this big test you’ve got me lugging these books around for?” he asks.
“Friday. It’s my last final for this semester.”
“Well then, we have to celebrate!” he says like it couldn’t be more obvious. “What are you doing Friday night?”
“Sleeping.”
“What? No, you can’t sleep. Not after finishing your last final of the semester. And especially not after making me carry these books halfway across this city.”
“I didn’t make you do anything. You offered.”
“Fine. But we should celebrate.”
In truth, I do have plans for Friday night. My classmates and I planned to go for drinks once the pencils are down. I probably would have come up with an excuse and bailed on them anyway, but now, staring at Luke’s smile, I wouldn’t mind if he was the excuse.
“Maybe,” I permit.
“I can work with maybe.”
By the time our food arrives, we’re on the topic of family. We’re both only children, oddly. But maybe not so oddly, based on how well we get along. My mom is a seamstress and my father a lawyer. His dad is an engineer and his mother a teacher.
“Did you want to be a lawyer because of your dad?” he asks.
“At least partly. We had a library in our house when I was growing up. I loved all the books, and I always thought being a lawyer meant you got to have lots of books.”
He smiles at the innocence of my childhood mind. “Defense or prosecution?”
‘“The Clarks are prosecutors,”’ I mimic my father’s voice. “I guess it runs in my blood, but I like it more, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because your side is always the good guy. I don’t think I could defend someone if I knew they committed a crime.”
“Not all defendants are guilty though,” he argues. “So, what comes after law school?”
“Internships, assisting with cases, joining a firm. Basically, working my way up to where I want to be.”
“And where is that?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe DDA or even DA, eventually. What’s with all the life goal questions?”
“Sorry.” He sweetly laughs. “I think it’s fascinating you have a plan for everything.”
“And you don’t?”
He frowns at my question. “Diana, I work in a coffee shop and take photos on weekends. My plan doesn’t exist beyond the end of the day.”
I poke a glob of ricotta cheese with my fork and feel the difference between us for the first time. We live in two different worlds: mine rigid and structured, and his free and open.
I like it.
“What about today?” I ask. “Did you plan on meeting me? Do you survey for damsels in need and spend every evening wining and dining them?”
He smirks like I’ve insulted him. “I did not, and I do not, I’ll have you know. Today was completely unexpected. But I will also have you know I am beside myself with excitement to see what tomorrow brings because of it.”
I skewer another ravioli with a coy grin. “Me too.”
Once we finish more cannolis than are reasonable for two people to eat, we find ourselves back on the sidewalk, following our conversation wherever it takes us. We move through childhood, family traditions, favorite movies, and even embarrassing tell-alls. Eventually, we end up in the park across from my apartment. It’s after two in the morning and well below freezing outside.
“So, am I going to see you on Friday?” he asks.
I really do need to spend the next day studying, but I don’t see any harm in meeting him once exams are over.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “Well, can I maybe get your number?”
“Maybe,” I repeat, just to annoy him. “Are you going to remember if I tell you?”
“You’ve got a pen in here, don’t you? Write it down!” he excitedly shouts into my book bag.
“Shhh!” I scold with a laugh when his voice bounces off the quiet buildings. “Yes, I have a pen.” I rummage through the bag to pull off a piece of notepaper.
“I can’t believe I’m gettin’ a Hah-vud Woman’s numbah,” he says as I scribble. He’s blowing into his hands as he speaks. “I’m freezin’ to death, but at least I’m gettin’ a Hah-vud Woman’s numbah outta the deal.”
I hand him my piece and a blank one. “Give me yours.”
“Why? Ya gonna call me, Hah-vud Woman?” he says with a cheeky grin.
“Maybe.” I smile as I shiver. “Hurry up, I’m freezing.”
“Pushy, pushy,” he jokes as he scribbles. “Hey look,” he says and huffs with his mouth in an open O. “I can see my breath.”
I mimic him and add my own puff of exhale to the air between us. My body is gravitating toward his. Possibly out of survival instinct, seeing as I’m moments away from hypothermia, but more likely because he’s been drawing me closer and closer every minute of this night. We keep blowing rings of visible air until we’re close enough I pick up the scent of dinner.
“I can smell your garlic breath!” I say with a cackle.
“I can smell yours too.”
We’re both huffing and laughing until our mouths find each other. The silence of our kiss lifts my heart and my head. His mouth is warm and gentle, but a hot longing beats beneath the surface. I feel it too. Something larger than us takes hold and reorganizes the chambers of my heart. He has me spinning like I’ve never spun before, and I don’t want it to stop. It doesn’t stop for what feels like forever, but it still isn’t long enough.
When we pull apart, he’s staring at my face again, memorizing it. I stare back, wondering how this day became what it has.
Something soft and wet lands on my cheek. It’s cold, like a tiny frozen kiss. I look up into the night sky to see powder sprinkling down on us.
“It’s snowing,” I whisper.
We watch it together, trying to pick out individual flakes. It begins falling harder, sticking around our feet, and coating us in a gentle dust. I look at his face tilted toward the sky. The way he’s watching it, I can tell he’s seeing something I can’t. Some kind of beauty beyond me.
“Hey,” I say, calling his attention back.
He looks down at me and shakes a coat of powder from his hair. His eyes sparkle, even in the dark.
“I’ll see you on Friday.”