Yes, and she wished she knew why. Wished she knew a lot of things—like why her hands were clammy and how to be a normal person around her friend. Her friend.
She moved to the fridge. “I wonder if Mara has any chocolate syrup or caram—” She shrieked when she opened the door. A porcelain doll stared back at her from the top shelf—one of many that used to decorate a guestroom upstairs. They’d been boxed up months ago, but Marshall had kept a few out. He loved pranking Mara with them.
She pulled the doll from the fridge and turned to Lucas. He lifted one brow and smirked. “Those two have a weird way of flirting.”
She closed the fridge and returned to Lucas’s side. “Why did you think I’d want an excuse to leave the dining room just because I was getting a little emotional?”
He propped one hand on the back of a chair, the edges of his scars peeking out from beneath his sleeve at his wrist. “Because I’ve figured out something about you in the past week, Jen. You’re one of the most upbeat, bubbly people I know. I always sort of thought nothing could faze you. But then I saw you nearly fall apart over that burnt lasagna the other night—”
“It wasn’t just the lasagna.”
“I know. It was a whole host of things. And last night I saw you panic at the hospital. And all week, I’ve watched the number those kids are doing on you. What I’ve figured out is that, for all your cheerful ways, you’re someone with really deep emotions. Only you don’t necessarily love showing them.”
She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard Lucas say so much at once. He’d noticed all that about her? “You say that like it’s a good thing. Having deep emotions, I mean.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Maybe it was the way he was looking at her—as if whatever she was about to say was deserving of his full concentration. Or maybe it was how close he stood—distracting and inviting, all at once. Whatever it was, it made her want to tell him . . . everything.
“My aunt—you know the one I told you about? She felt things really deeply. My mom complained about it a lot—called her sensitive and moody and overly emotional. And then, when she left . . .” Her gaze roamed to the window over the kitchen sink. “I lost it, Luke. Like, really lost it. I cried for days. And the worst was when I embarrassed my dad at one of his campaign events. I was twelve—old enough to be on my best behavior, but it was my birthday and I’d been so sure Aunt Lauren would come back for it. I ended up breaking down, crying, and humiliating both of my parents in front of all their important friends.”
She rarely let herself return there in her memories. To that stage and the heat of the spotlights. To that one heady, hopeful moment when she’d thought she’d spotted Aunt Lauren in the crowd.
To the moment just after when she’d realized it wasn’t Aunt Lauren. When she’d burst into tears right in the middle of Dad’s speech.
She hated remembering it, because whenever she did, she felt the same stab of mortification. Worse, the utter abandonment. Not just by Aunt Lauren, but Mom and Dad, too. They hadn’t comforted her after that incident. They’d berated her. She’d been in such pain and they’d just pushed it aside.
Like they’d pushed aside any mention of her aunt in the days after her disappearance.
Was that why Aunt Lauren had gone? Had she known how her own sister viewed her? Had she had that same awful sense of simply being too much for the people who were supposed to love her?
“He lost that election,” she finished the story flatly.
First one he’d ever failed to win. Dad had ended up insisting she see a counselor for a time, which had taken Mom away from the campaign trail, which had caused reporters to question why his family no longer accompanied him.
Her logical, adult brain knew she wasn’t at fault for the results of the race, but the facts of it hadn’t erased the feelings.
She wet her lips and found her voice once more. “Anyway, you’re right. I don’t like to show all my emotions. I don’t like to cry in front of people. I like to be put together and in control. That’s the version of me I like for people to see.”
Which, she supposed, made her more like her parents than she’d previously thought. She’d always compared herself to Aunt Lauren. But really, just like Dad on the campaign trail and Mom with all her social connections, she was more comfortable pretending to be happy than presenting her full self, emotions and all, even to the people closest to her.
Except, lately, around Lucas.
She made herself look up. Something in her needed to know how he would react. Certainly he hadn’t expected that long of an explanation. That personal of a story. Did it make her sound pathetic?
He must not think so. Not if he was looking at her like that. With such intensity that she’d probably still feel its warmth when she tried to sleep tonight, and oh, she was a fool for ever thinking this man was just a casual friend.
“Well, I think it would be good for you to know that some of us see the other versions of you, too. And we really like those versions. We like every version.”
“I . . .” She swallowed. “I think the ice cream’s melting.” Why was she whispering?
He didn’t move a muscle.
Until a clatter of footsteps and laughter came barging in, voices she didn’t recognize. And a woman she didn’t know threw herself into Lucas’s arms.
11
Lucas could appreciate what his teammates from Bridgewell were trying to do.
But darn if they didn’t have some remarkably bad timing.
Doug’s snores rumbled from the bedroom floor, practically rattling the walls of the cottage.
“I really want to know how the heck that guy can legit sleep anywhere.” Jamar lifted the cast-iron griddle he refused to leave home without. Seriously, Lucas had seen him whip the thing out at a campsite in Mexico, the night before a raid on a suspected storehouse of weapons. What was that? Two, three missions ago?
It was the one time Lucas actually hadn’t lied about being in Mexico when he wasn’t in Maple Valley.
“He was asleep on the plane yesterday before the flight attendant even finished the safety talk.” Courtney had squeezed into place near Jamar and was currently chopping up a tomato.
Courtney had hugged him last night—boisterously. How in the world was he supposed to take that considering their last conversation? That is, their last conversation up until the previous evening, when the whole group had stayed up past midnight, telling stories to Noah about all their exploits over the years.
And then they’d crashed throughout the house, Court and Mariana taking Noah’s bedroom, the guys spreading out wherever they could find floor space in the rest of the cottage. The close quarters hadn’t bothered any of them. They’d certainly slept in tighter confines before.
Difference was, Lucas hadn’t slept last night. At least, not more than a restless hour here and there. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the look on Jenessa’s face when Courtney had embraced him.
Or the utter aggravation on Sam’s when Lucas had introduced the team as “old soldier buddies.” That it was the truth, vague or not, didn’t stop the guilt.