Chapter 18: The Kitchen

Luca stood at the steel counter with a dish towel over his shoulder.

He had put a pot of water on, for nothing, so his hands would have a job.

He heard the door and turned around.

"I followed you," I said.

"I saw your headlights."

"I'm still angry."

"I know."

"I'm going to be angry for a long time. This isn't me forgiving you."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Good."

I crossed the kitchen.

The tile was cold through my shoes, and the pot hissed on the burner.

He didn't move, and he kept his hands at his sides, because he had been told once what he was allowed.

I stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the onions in his shirt.

"I thought about it all week," I said. "Every time I checked my phone, I thought about it."

"About what?"

"Not tonight. The thing you said in the car."

His throat moved.

"It's tonight," I said. "I'm saying it's tonight. Can you say something in English that I'd want to hear?"

"Yes."

"Then say it."

"I want you," Luca said. "I've wanted you for a year, and I hated myself every day I wanted it."

"Okay."

"I don't want you because I owe you something."

"Then don't touch me like you owe me."

I took the towel off his shoulder and dropped it on the floor.

Then I put my hands on his chest and pulled him down.

His mouth was warm and tasted like the mints he kept in his pocket.

He made a low sound against my lips, and his hands came up, finally, and closed on my waist.

He kissed me slowly at first.

I opened his mouth with mine.

He stopped being careful.

He walked me back until the counter hit my hips.

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