Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

16. Lana

Chapter 16

Lana

A fter The Talk, we fall into a routine, and the next few days go by uneventfully.

Disappointingly uneventfully.

Each morning, Raphael shows up big and smiling for the kids and gives me a pleasant good morning as I tie up my laces ready to head for work. The girls talk to him about what they did the night before and their plans for the day, and I find myself making excuses to stick around just a little bit longer. I tell myself it’s because I have FOMO—they get to spend the day together having fun while I’m off to work. But that’s not all of it. I find myself hoping Raphael will crack. That he’ll make an offhand comment about me like he did that first week, something I can roll around on my tongue as I’m serving eggs and hash browns to tourists.

“I’ve never seen someone look so pretty wearing neon orange.”

“You tell me if anyone looks at you sideways. Want us to hang out outside all day? We will. ”

Every time I walk by the bar at work I replay what he said in my kitchen.

“I have exceptional self-control.”

“Oh really? I haven’t exactly seen that.”

“Yes you have, Lana.”

Every time I repeat it the words land like a thud in my stomach. What has he been controlling, exactly?

All week I found myself hanging out in the kitchen every night after the kids were in bed, working on my book. It’s a ridiculous thing, borne out of an argument with Mike years ago about my love for romance books. I’ve been chipping away at it ever since, writing and rewriting whole sections, then scrapping the whole thing and starting over almost every time I read another of my favorite series of duke books. At this point, I don’t think I’ll ever finish it. But I keep going, because I hate thinking Mike will have won if I give up. And because in some ways, working on it feels therapeutic the same way reading does. The idea of women experiencing love on their terms fuels me. As cynical as I am about so many things, I’m convinced well-loved people can change the world. It’s why I don’t shy away from showering it on my girls, just like my mom did for me. Just like some silly na?ve part of me hasn’t given up on finding love of my own, even if it’s in the pages of this book. I know I’m not destined to become an author—I don’t think that’s even what I really want. But putting love out there—and creating output of some kind—feels good, so I keep doing it.

Raphael came in once this week to do his laundry. It’s the only thing he comes in for after hours, since his suite has a little kitchenette. He gave me a polite smile, said hello, then did his thing. He didn’t give me long enough to make small talk. He didn’t ask what I was doing. And I just sat there, heart pounding, remembering how he looked sitting across from me. I typed nonsense words while I peered over the top of my laptop, waiting for a glimpse of him, just to see the way the curl of his hair falls against his collar. Worst of all was the last little smile he gave me over his shoulder as he reached for the front door to leave me alone again. I felt that one in my knees.

After he left last night, I found myself imagining him walking around in my house like he lives here. Then I reminded myself what I told him. Just over a month from now, summer will be over and he’ll be gone.

The thought makes me feel scraped out inside. Almost as much as when I try to fall asleep seeing the glow of his window through my curtains as I lie in bed. His suite over the garage is directly across from my bedroom, a fact I’ve tried very, very hard to forget. But each night as I go to bed, I leave my curtains open just a crack. Just enough to let the light from his window—the blinds always closed, thank God—to fall onto the empty space next to me on the bed. Each night I splay my fingers over the cotton of the bedsheets as if some cosmic piece of him is there.

It’s truly pathetic. Worrisome, given our situation. Probably prosecutable.

This morning I woke up with the absurd idea that I want to tell Raphael he’s taking our talk way too seriously. That I’m losing my mind and that he needs to loosen up .

Which is exactly what he would have told me before I put my foot down.

I come downstairs early, before the kids wake up, checking the fridge. I always tell Raphael he can eat whatever he wants in the fridge. At first he didn’t eat much—I figured he was packing his own lunch from his place. He never touched the dinner leftovers I put into containers. But a week or so ago I put a sticky note on a sausage and sage pasta I was particularly proud of, saying “eat me”.

Maybe. But it worked—the eating part, anyway. That night when I got home, I found the sticky note was on the fridge with a little drooly face drawn under my words.

I only realized then how suggestive the note was. I felt my pulse skip. When I found the empty container in the drying rack, I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that he clearly meant the food. But that was quickly outweighed by pride. He’d clearly liked the food.

Mike always fancied himself a chef, and was sparse with his compliments. Mostly, he’d tried to outdo me in the kitchen. He was good, but not as good as he thought he was. I’ve loved experimenting over the past few years, mostly getting inspired by the menu at work. Mac’s an incredible chef, and Chris and I have insisted he show us how to make our favorites. But my kids would just as happily eat boxed macaroni as a homemade crispy pork belly ramen, and it’s always been too much work to try to make a big fancy meal for myself.

The next night, I left a container of steak frites in the fridge, with instructions on the sticky note to air fry the fries to get them crispy again. The next, eggplant parmesan.

I’ve started casually asking the girls what kind of food Raph likes, and it takes them some thinking, but they’ve given me ideas.

I tell myself I’m not making food specifically for Raph—I need to eat, too.

Still, seeing that empty container in the rack gives me a little dopamine hit I’ve started to love when I come home each night.

It almost makes up for how polite Raphael is as he leaves. And how much I wish that five minute transition before he does would stretch out just a little bit longer.

But that empty container is nothing compared to the hit I get each morning when he walks in the door.

By the time I have everything prepped and ready for the day ahead, the girls are already awake but still in their PJs, finishing up the last of their Cheerios. I managed to squeeze in a shower and put on my new workout outfit before they got down here. The top is pale blue, and a little more revealing in the chest area than I’d normally choose. I swear I didn’t think of Raphael when I picked it up at the store on my lunch break the other day. I’m not trying to tempt him, not after I specifically told him to lay off.

Still, when the door opens, my stomach does an even bigger flip than it does every other morning.

The girls squeal, jumping off their stools to the clatter of spoons and splash of milk and cereal on the counter. “Raph!”

I don’t even care about the little messes they make. My heart squeezes as Raphael drops to his knees, arms wide. I’m pretty sure this morning ritual has become my favorite part of every day. The way Aurora leaps at him like a flying monkey and Nova appears next to him, chattering about all the cool things she read in the book I guess they’ve been reading together. She read ahead last night, she tells him this morning. The dragon really was in that cave!

When his eyes meet mine, I quickly resume wiping the counter like I wasn’t staring, heart melting into goo.

He smiles at me. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I say briskly, shaking out the cloth and hanging it on the sink.

“Is that a new shirt?”

My cheeks flush. “This? Oh, yeah. I guess.”

I guess?

He presses his lips together as if needing to physically prevent himself from commenting. I very much want to hear what he thinks, but I can’t do that. That would be a step backward, right?

His eyes linger just a moment too long. Long enough that Aurora has to poke him to get his attention.

“You didn’t say it yet!” she says.

“Right,” Raph says, dragging his eyes from mine and focusing his full attention on the girls.

I let out the breath I’d been holding, surprised to find my hands slightly jittery as I return to packing my bag.

Raph props his hands on his hips. “Okay. Who’s ready to make the day our…”

“Bunny!” shouts Aurora .

“Sea cucumber,” says Nova drily, though she’s grinning too.

This is their game, spurred from a day last week when Raphael asked them who was ready to make the day their oyster, and Aurora asked why it had to be an oyster, and Raphael said it didn’t—what should it be? I love this game.

“Oooh, tough one. Mom? Who’s the winner today?” Raphael asks.

But I frown, holding my phone in my hand. I’d just picked it up to choose my running playlist. But there’s a text there. One that has a dark cloud swallowing all the feel-good nerves of the morning.

“Everything okay?” Raphael asks.

“Mom?” Aurora asks. “Is it a bunny or a coo-cumber?”

I stuff the phone in my bag, my mood dampened considerably. “It’s your father.”

“That’s not one of the options,” Nova says.

I buckle my bag, already feeling a headache springing at my temples. Then I force a smile. “He’s coming up for the weekend.”

Raphael studies me intently. “Is that… okay?”

He looks ready to defend my honor. But it’s the words that soften the sharpness at my temple.

Mike used to ask that constantly, when our marriage was on its downward slide. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s fine.”

The thing is, my ex used a completely different tone when he asked that. It wasn’t checking in. It inferred I was losing it. There’s a world of difference in those two tones. Raphael may have been signing up for his learner’s permit around the time I said my vows to Mike, but in two words—on top of his completely respectful and annoyingly firm adherence to my boundaries—he’s shown he’s miles ahead of my ex-husband in emotional maturity.

The girls are looking at me as if unsure what the best reaction is.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, guilt splashing through me at how they’re guarding their reactions to protect me. They shouldn’t have to do that. “You can be excited to see your dad.”

They normally are. Mostly because their dad brings them ridiculous presents I beg him not to. He’s the definition of absent father who swoops in after weeks of radio silence with shiny new toys to buy their forgiveness.

But this time, their reactions are decidedly tempered. “Yay,” says Aurora. I almost laugh.

“Come on, Aurora,” Nova says, “let’s get dressed.”

I’m impressed at her initiative.

I glance at Raphael, considering what this means. I’d hoped Mike wouldn’t come to town at all this summer. He’d warned me things were busy with work when I’d asked him for help after the nanny quit. Now I wish I’d never said anything at all. What’s he going to say about my extremely attractive male nanny? Nothing good I’m sure.

I rub my temples. “I’d recommend making yourself scarce this weekend,” I tell Raphael, and not just to spare myself .

“I’ll make myself a leech if that would help you,” he says.

His expression is so earnest, and his words so unexpectedly funny to me, I laugh. But to my horror, right on the heels of that little release is a prickling in my nose.

I whip around and stuff my water bottle into my bag. I’ve been keeping my emotions in check for so long that the minute he says something nice to me, I feel like I want to cry.

I swallow the feeling down as he comes up close behind me. How is it I can feel his presence as much as hear it?

“Lana?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll be fine.” I pull my backpack on, then wonder if the water bottle I just put in my bag is empty. Mike’s text is throwing me off. I let out a frustrated breath as I dig it out again. It’s half full. “We’ll all be fine.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

I grit my teeth. “No one. The girls like being with him. Mostly.”

“Lana, I can be here,” he says, his voice so kind and soft I nearly tear up again. I keep my back to him, opening the bottle and bringing it to the sink.

“Seriously,” I say over the rush of water. “We’ll be fine. Just go have fun this weekend.” Without us. I shut off the tap, hesitate, then even though it feels like sour milk in my mouth, turn and say casually, “Maybe you could call that girl from the beach?”

Raphael’s eyebrows knit together.

I instantly want to suck the words back in. Fuck .

“Which girl?”

Which girl? I want to gape. Instead, I screw the lid on my water bottle. Over my humiliation. Because of course it’s which girl . There have to be so many.

I feel so stupid. So naive to think all those nights he’s been out he’s what, at the library? He’s gone every weekend, too. Did I really think a man in the prime of his twenties who looks the way he does—who talks the way he does—would be a monk?

The more I dwell on it, the deeper I sink into mortification. It slips over my head now, like a winter wave, wet and cold.

I need to get out of here. “Never mind.”

But Raphael still looks like he’s trying to sort through his giant binder of women to figure out who I might be talking about. Because yes, I was talking about one. The only one I know of, because I’m an idiot.

I’m so deeply ashamed that I’m still hung up on that girl who was there when Aurora was throwing up donuts. She was so young and so pretty, and worst of all, she looked very nice and genuinely concerned about my daughter. I remember thinking, even through my panic and anger, that she was exactly the type of woman Raphael should be with.

Someone his own age.

“Oh,” Raphael says. “You mean Jenna, from the beach.” Because of course he fully reads my mind. I might as well have spelled it out for him. Described her, and then my seething, irrational jealousy.

Sweat slicks the inside of my sports bra. “No,” I say, making it worse. Yes . “I don’t know.” I jam the water bottle in my bag and force myself to look at him. Might as well say it, since now it’s out there, and it’s the right thing to say. “I don’t want this job to keep you from living your life, Raphael.”

Raphael’s eyes examine me, his jaw doing this weird quirking thing. It’s like he’s trying to sort out what I’m really saying. Which is what? I don’t want you even looking at another woman.

I want you looking only at me.

But after a moment, Raphael nods. “Sure.”

Sure? What does that mean?

It doesn’t matter. I need out of this conversation. I also need to get going if I don’t want to be late for work. I head for the door. “Don’t forget dance lessons start this week,” I say as I reach for my shoes. “Thursday nights, over at the community center. I’ll be taking them, but they keep asking about them, so it’s just so you know.”

I feel like an idiot. Why am I telling him this?

“Okay,” he says simply.

Okay. Everything’s totally okay.