“I thought you hated cooking,” Rafe says from the kitchen door, almost giving me a heart attack.
“You’re up.” I spin around to face him. “Good morning.”
My throat closes. It’s so good to see him awake and lucid.
He’s standing stiffly, a hand braced on the door frame. His face’s haggard, covered in golden stubble, his jaw still swollen and bruised. It’s been two days since he was released from the hospital, and he spent most of that time sleeping, only waking to piss. Even then I hovered by his side, unsure of his balance.
Two days during which he battled nightmares and thrashed on the bed, woken by the pain in his ribs, only to be drawn down again. The doctors said they wouldn’t give him sleeping pills, due to his history with drugs, only painkillers, but his body and his mind have been pushed so far beyond the limits of their endurance, they’ve taken care of that.
He staggers into the kitchen and pulls a chair. He sinks in it gingerly, his arm automatically going around his ribs. “Smells good.”
“It’s a, uh, family recipe.” I cast a dubious look at the ingredients I’ve been mixing in the bowl. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
His appetite is returning. That’s great news. He hasn’t eaten anything apart from two crackers last night. But…
“Not sure if this will be edible.” I press my lips together, shift from foot to foot. “Never tried this recipe before.”
“What is it?” He places his bandaged hands on the table, and it’s hard to look away from them. From the bruises on his face, his cut lip, the evidence of how hurt he was. “Meg?”
“Oh sorry.” I quickly look away. “It’s a Greek recipe. Apparently my douchebag of a dad, the restaurant owner, left me a hand-written notebook with recipes from his mother. I’ve tried cooking a few in the past, and this one looked…intriguing.” I push the spoon into the mixture, stir it absently. “Fried zucchini balls.”
“Sounds good.” His stomach actually growls, and I laugh. I glance at him over my shoulder, and find a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Fried zucchini balls it is, then.” I wave my spoon in the air. “See, I’m Greek, and black, and even have some Spanish blood in me, if rumors are to be trusted. I belong nowhere.”
“You belong here, with me,” he whispers, and I turn around, lean back on the counter. I’d rush and hug him on the spot if I wasn’t covered in grated zucchini and flour. “Plus,” he continues, “I know exactly where my parents were from. My dad’s family is Sicilian. My mom’s German. What good did it do? What does blood matter?”
Seen that way... “German, huh? That why you’re so blond?”
“I don’t look like a Sicilian mobster’s son, do I?” The bitterness in his voice cuts like a knife. “You can’t see the tainted blood, not on the surface.”
I walk around the table, behind him, and give his shoulder a light squeeze. “There’s no taint in you, Rafe. You’re the best person I know.”
He reaches up, wraps an arm around my waist. “Thank you.”
Not shooting me down outright, not saying I don’t know him, that he’s bad news. I smile, knowing he can’t see it, but this is progress.
I’ll put your broken pieces back together, Rafe Vestri, just you wait and see.
His blond hair curls at his neck, soft and silky. I itch to touch it. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I still.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Maybe because you were held at gunpoint by a madman? Because you almost died?”
He’s right. I should be a wreck. My worst fears confirmed. Carson did come after me and put a gun to my head. Strange, come to think of it, how I now feel better than ever.
“For years,” I whisper, “since I can remember, I’ve felt guilty. Felt I wasn’t taking good care of my mom. Every time a boyfriend beat her up, every time I had to call the doctor to patch her up, every time I found her passed out drunk… I was sure I wasn’t worthy of her love. But now…”
I give in to the urge and stroke his hair. Soft like down feathers. I want to tell him about the baby but I can’t, not yet. “Now I don’t feel so guilty anymore. Mom gave my address to the man who kicked her until she almost bled to death. She gave me up. She chose to be with men like Carson. Chose to lead the life she does, and I’m not her caretaker. Never was. She was the one who was supposed to look after me, and I…” I swallow hard, a lump in my throat. “I decided to forgive myself.”
He makes a small noise, like a hiccup, and turns in his chair. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.” He wraps his arms around me and holds me for a long, long time.
And later, after I have fried the zucchini balls and we have eaten, after I prepare coffee and we sit in the living room to drink it, the kitty jumping in a ray of sunshine cutting through the window, he takes my hand in his.
“Move in with me, Meg. I want you with me every day and every night. Bring the kitty, too.” His eyes are solemn, pools of gold. “Please, move in with me?”