I thank him all the way to his car: with the actual words; by how tightly I grasp his hand; with the way I can’t stop beaming or talking about how amazing it was to be in the air, drinking in the stunning beauty of this island—I never would’ve done it without his help; I never would’ve even attempted it.
“Hey,” I say as we stop in front of his car, “what is it with you wanting to cure me of my fear of heights so badly, anyway?”
He places his hand on the car door and pulls it open for me. The vanilla-scented surfboard hanging from the rearview mirror tickles my nostrils as I hop inside.
“I dunno,” he says. “Maybe I just can’t help it.” He smiles and starts to close the door.
I stop it with my hand.
“No, seriously,” I tell him, looking up at him from the seat with intense eyes. “There’s gotta be something more to it than that.” That’s certainly not a generalized assumption—some people are just that way, ready and willing to help anyone at the drop of a hat, but with Luke, I feel like there’s definitely more to it.
He looks out at nothing, one arm propped on the top of the open window.
Then he peers in at me and says, “I guess I’m just passing along something I learned from someone very special.” Then he leans into the car toward me, the inviting smell of his clean skin and the heat of his body wrapping around my senses, and then his lips touch mine. “It’s not bothering you, is it?” he asks when he pulls only inches away.
But his face is still right there, his warm lips so close I can still taste them—how could I ever say anything but no?
I shake my head slowly. “No …” and am now left wondering if Luke just bewitched me, made me lose my train of thought so I wouldn’t press him further for a more detailed answer.
I start to tell myself, No, I can’t be bewitched!
Until much later I realize I had forgotten all about it.
Two days later, we go back and I can’t get on the helicopter fast enough.
Every day that passes, it’s a day closer to when my time will be up here. And already I can’t imagine a life without Luke in it in some way. I would love to pursue a future with him. I want that, actually, but he has become so special to me, rare like my stupid poetic freckles—his word, not mine—that even if I couldn’t be with him, I would be happy just to always have him as my friend.
It rains a lot on Kauai—at least since I’ve been here it has. Today it rained for an hour straight. We planned to go hiking, but ended up hanging around the house instead.
Luke has been in the kitchen cooking burgers, leaving all the windows and doors open to let out the heat from the stove and let in the breeze. The burgers smell awesome, but I’m worried about having to pretend how good they taste. Turns out that Luke isn’t all that perfect, after all. Ha! That stuff he told me about how well he could cook—well, he did cook me breakfast on the second day: eggs, biscuits smothered in gravy, and bacon on the side. I give him points for the presentation, but the eggs were bland, the bacon was overcooked, the biscuits undercooked, and the gravy was kinda runny. “What do you think?” he said, sitting on the couch next to me that day with a big, proud smile, his cheeks moving around and around as he chewed.
I smiled back as I chewed more slowly, swallowed carefully, and replied, “Oh, it’s … really good!”
I was lying through my teeth, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth. He really did spend a lot of time on that breakfast for me, messing up his kitchen, and he put a lot of effort into strategically placing everything on my plate as if he were in front of one of his canvases, creating a masterpiece. But I admit, I’d still take his cooking over the hotel’s complimentary breakfast and even the steaks at four-star restaurants. Because no matter how bland or bad it is, Luke cooked it just for me and that somehow makes it taste better.
“I usually cook burgers out on the grill,” he says, walking out onto the lanai with a plate balanced on each hand, “but it’s gonna rain all damn day it looks like.”
He sets my plate in front of me on the table.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself; it’s almost like that day when I prepared myself mentally to get on that helicopter. I can do this. It’s OK if blood runs out the side of the meat. Just take a deep breath, bite down, chew with a smile, make an mmmmm sound, flutter my eyes, and then swallow. Wash it down quickly with soda and then repeat.
“You don’t like my cooking, do you?”
Shit! Was that whole scenario on my face just now where he could actually see it?
“What?” My mouth falls open and my eyebrows crinkle in my forehead. “No, Luke. Why would you say that?”
He shakes his head, laughing on the inside, and then takes an enormous bite from his burger; the lettuce makes a crunching sound between his teeth.
“Because,” he says with his mouth full and then swallows, “you reminded me of my mom when she was driving and a spider crawled across the dashboard. She tried to keep from freaking out and wrecking the car until she could pull over somewhere and deal with it.” He laughs.
“I did not look like that,” I defend, but I know I probably did. “And your cooking is … all right.”
He raises a brow. “Oh, so now it’s just all right? You’ve been faking it with me since you got here?”
I take a huge bite so I don’t have to answer.
Luke smiles. “Well, then I guess you’ll have to cook for me tomorrow.”