"That's next level effort."
"Do you not want me to cook for you?"
"No." She gives me a quick once-over. Not like the one in the bedroom. Not like she's savoring the lines of my body. Like she's trying to find a missing piece of a puzzle. "I appreciate it. And I know you appreciate my help."
"I do. Thanks."
"You're welcome. And thank you." Her smile gets easier. "I just… fresh garlic is serious cooking."
"Everyone needs a hobby."
"True." She finishes slicing the tomatoes. Moves on to peeling Parmesan. Thick slices tumble into a clean white bowl. "I miss Daisy too."
It is hard, having my sister hundreds of miles away. Worrying about her. Not being able to protect her. Not being able to make her dinner, help her study, warn her about guys with bad intentions. "She loves Berkeley. And she's doing great. Thriving."
Luna nods right. "And you?" She looks up from her work for a second, then her eyes are on the bowl. The cheese is so light it nearly blends into the ceramic.
"And I…"
"Are you good?"
"Good enough. You?"
"Uh… I think I need wine before I answer that."
"You don't drink wine." And she doesn't lust for booze either. Why does she keep bringing it up? Does she know?
"Pasta. Wine. It goes."
"Dad got rid of everything."
She nods, accepting the explanation.
But the question refuses to leave my head.
How could she possibly know?
We make small talk. The weather, to start. Then the Dodgers. The state of things at Inked Love.
The shop is buzzing. Plenty of clients. Some famous. Some rich. Some incredibly hot.
Under different circumstances, I'd take some home. Share dirty stories with my friends until I find better dirty stories.
Right now, I can't.
Sex and booze are tangled in my head. Not drinking means not fucking.
Mostly it means keeping to myself. Since all my friends are soaked in booze.
It fucking sucks. But I'm not sharing that with Luna.
It's hard enough not touching her.
I'm already picturing her naked. I'm already buzzing from the proximity of her body, the smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin.
She always smells like sunscreen. All those years on the swim team. They give her those sculpted shoulders, those strong legs, the tan limbs—
I push past mental images of her in a tiny practice suit long enough to finish dinner.
We bring everything to the table as Dad strolls into the house.
He looks at the scene with a curious expression. Unsure what to make of it.
"Luna, hello." He sets his messenger bag on the coffee table. Then his keys. "How are you?"
"Good. Thanks." She looks from me to him. "Did Ollie text you? I'm hoping to stay here a few days."
"Of course." He gives me that look that says we're going to talk about this. "And you helped with dinner. Thank you. Give me five minutes to change."
She nods. More polite than normal. No mention of my dad's hotness. She brings it up to tease Daisy. Sometimes to tease me.
All the women who meet my dad bring it up. I guess he's an attractive guy. Tall, built, well-dressed.
I can't look at him without seeing his bullshit orders. But I have to admit: good looks run in the family.
If I grow up to act like him, shoot me.
But if I grow up to look like him, minus the slacks, I won't complain.
Luna takes a seat. Smooths her pants. Stares at the fancy balsamic vinegar.
True to his word, Dad returns a few minutes later, in jeans and a grey t-shirt. Casual in his clothes but not his manner.
Luna smiles. Nods to the Latin quote on his right arm. "You really rock the ink, Mr. Flynn. I can see it runs in the family."
He laughs. "You know I prefer Gabe, Luna."
"Right. Gabe. It looks good on you. That's all," she says.
I shoot her a what the fuck look.
She ignores it. "Oliver made dinner."
"We made it," I say.
"Thank you. Both of you." Dad takes a seat at the table. Motions for me to follow.
I do.
He eyes the glasses on the table. Water. Plus the carafe. He looks at me for a moment, but he doesn't say anything. "This smells great." He picks up his fork. "Shall we?"
"Yeah. Right." Luna nods. She shifts in her seat. Uncomfortable.
I guess this is weird. Sure, Luna's here all the time. But not by herself. Not with Daisy hundreds of miles away.
"I haven't seen much of you, Luna. Is school keeping you busy?" he asks.
"Yeah. It's a lot. My chem class is moving really fast. And the ones in the humanities"—she sticks her tongue out—"why is there so much reading? I don't know how people can say math is hard then read three hundred pages on European History like it's nothing."
He lets out an easy chuckle. "Those textbooks can be dry."
She nods. Goes quiet as she takes a bite. Then she lets out a small groan. That fuck this is good groan.
It's about the food, I know. But my head goes other places.
He asks about dinner. How we made it. She launches into an explanation. Then they're talking about Daisy's favorite TV show, makeup, fashion, all sorts of shit that isn't in my wheelhouse.
Her posture softens. Her tension fades.
By the time she's finished with dinner, her smile is warm. "Are you sure it's okay for me to stay?"
Dad nods of course. "I'll have to talk to your parents. To make sure they know you’re safe."
In an instant, the ease disappears. She shakes it off. "Of course. They… uh… they're separating."
Fuck.
"That's why I don't want to be there," she says.
"I'm sorry, Luna." Guilt streaks Dad's expression. "I won't give you the lecture about how it's not you. I'll just say… I'm sure they love you and want you to be okay."
"Yeah. I'm sure. I just… can't really look at Mom right now. Allison. She's the one… it's, uh… do you mind if I go up to Daisy's room? I'll text. Make sure it's okay with her."
"You can take the spare," he says. "It's fine."
"You sure?" She looks to me. "And it's okay with Oliver?"
He doesn't let me answer. "Yes. It will be good for Oliver. To have company. In fact, we need to talk." He offers her a sincere smile. "Make yourself at home. I'll bring towels and blankets in a little while."
"Sure, yeah." She offers him a weak smile, then she moves away from the table.
Dad waits until she's all the way up the stairs to speak. "Are you going to say it? Or should I?"
Chapter Four
Oliver
Are you going to say it or should I?
Which of my fuckups does he want to discuss? I never know with Dad.
The drinking? The screwing? Some other sin I need to confess?
He places his hands on the table. Looks me in the eyes. Adopts a paternal tone. "You've barely left your room."