Kept (9 page)

“And you’re still waiting? To have sex?” The words squeaked out, but Miska didn’t care. Garrett and Tracy were already committed to each other. They loved each other. Why wait? “How do you know if you’re even compatible? I mean, what if you get married and find out—” She grimaced and shook her head.

Tracy laughed. “I’m not worried. I adore Garrett. He’s funny, he’s handsome, he takes care of me. It’s hard to wait, as it is. I’m not worried about—” She waved a hand in the air. “Yeah. Not happening.”

“So Garrett’s waited too? You’ve both waited all this time?”

Tracy’s smile vanished.

Oh no. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s okay. Garrett and I—we both have our pasts. Mine’s just a lot longer ago than his. He hasn’t waited.
I
haven’t waited. I can’t tell you how much I wish I had.”

“Would you really want to come to him as a clueless virgin when he wasn’t?”

Her nod was solemn. “I would love that.”

It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. The concepts struggled in her mind, one part of her justifying her needs, the other reminding her of guys who’d manipulated her.

Jared, the first. The junior who’d pressured her to prove she loved him—when she was fourteen. Then Gordon. Thad. Guys who’d gotten her drunk enough to not think straight.

She’d been careful after that, waiting until she knew she loved them. But she ran through five more names, men—boys—who’d said they loved her, then got bored.

“How do you know it’ll last? It always seems like it will, but you were just on the mountaintop, you know? Mountaintops fall into valleys.”

“That’s where doing it God’s way comes in. Feelings never last. Life takes over. Marriage has to be based on commitment, on decision, on vows to neglect all others and remain true to that one person. No matter what happens.”

“What about when that person isn’t faithful to you? What happens when you find out things you didn’t know about them?”

“Divorce can’t be an option.”

Oh, really? “If divorce weren’t an option, I wouldn’t be here. People should be allowed to do what makes them happy. If a marriage isn’t working, it’s wrong to make someone stay in it. Mark’s wife hasn’t been faithful to him. Why should he pay for that?”

Tracy said nothing.

“I think it’s cool that God works for you, but I see too many holes. There’s too much—too much—” What was the word? Her breath came faster. Everything Tracy said felt so wrong. “There’s too much bondage. Why should people remain faithful to someone who’s not faithful to them?”

“But wouldn’t it make a great story? Imagine being the unfaithful person and finding that the person you hurt, the person you rejected, still loved you. Still remained true to you.”

“They’re an idiot. That’s an awful story.”

“But imagine being loved like that, Miska. Isn’t that the kind of love we long for in a man? A love that remains, no matter what?”

A love that remains.

The phrase flitted through Miska’s head all night, woke her gently with the sun. It was different. Unique. Something of substance.

What if the one man a woman longed for
was
in her past? And what if all that time he’d waited as she went from one man to another?

Wow, that could make an amazing story.

Love That Remains.
She wrote it on a piece of paper, added some notes, and slipped it into her idea file.

The phrase bounced along in her head as she ran through Grant Park and down the lakefront running path. Boats bobbed on the harbor’s choppy waters. The wind whipped through hair she’d forgotten to put up, flinging curly wisps into her face, but she smiled anyway at each person she passed. Today was a beautiful day, a wonderfully cold, gray, overcast day.

Her book idea had come.

Beside Buckingham Fountain, her phone chimed.

A text.

She read it as she jogged.
Sorry about yesterday. Forgive me?

It was a beautiful, gorgeous, perfect day.

What a rotten, rotten, rotten day.

Dillan tossed the can opener onto the counter and glared at the can of tuna that rolled to a stop in the hallway. Twice it had slipped from between his upper arm and his chest and made him chase it. He should be glad he hadn’t gotten it open or his splint would smell like tuna.

He flopped onto the couch. His wrist ached, and his stomach growled. He had to eat something so he could take pain meds, but there was nothing in the place that didn’t require two hands to make.

The only two hands available were next door. Miska.

His stomach growled again, his insides prodding him. All right, already. He’d ask her.

He took the can and opener next door and knocked.

When she opened the door, her natural beauty hit him. Her glossy, black hair—straight today—draped over her shoulders. Her makeup was minimal, much lighter than yesterday, and she wore looser jeans and a flowy, silky white shirt. She smiled, her teeth brilliant against her skin and lips. “Hi, Dillan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Miska.” Had a woman ever appealed like she did? Yesterday was nothing compared to her innocent look today. She even smelled good— He sniffed. No, that was whatever she was cooking. Smelled… Mexicany.

“Oh, you brought me tuna. You shouldn’t have. Really.”

He held out the can and opener, forcing a chuckle over his stomach’s gurgle. “This is for me. But I can get you a can.”

“I hate tuna. It stinks.”

“Tastes good.”

“How can that be? Taste is linked to our nose. If it smells bad, it shouldn’t taste good.”

Did she hear his stomach? “Something to think about.”

She waved him in. “I bet you love the smell of coffee and hate the taste.”

“Guilty.”

“You’ve got major taste bud issues.” At the stove she picked up a wooden spatula and stirred something in a pan. “I’d get that checked out.”

“Costs money. I’ll live with my stinky tuna.”

“Hope you enjoy living alone then.” She softened the words with a smile. “What do you need?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I need to hire a new can opener and wondered if you’d be interested in the position.”

She looked at the can, an eyebrow raised in painful contemplation. “That’s your lunch?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation? I like tuna.”

She took the can and opener and set them aside. “And I already told you it smells bad. We won’t be opening this in my house.”

His stomach was about to eat him, he knew it. “Fine. Open it in my place.”

“Do you know that the smell of tuna can linger on someone’s hands, even after they wash them? I can’t take that risk.”

She wasn’t so pretty anymore. “Will you just open it already so I can leave and we can pretend this never happened?”

“Wow. You’re grumpy when you’re hungry.”

“I’m also grumpy when my arm hurts because my stomach’s empty which means I can’t take my pain killer.”

“So irritable.” She turned back to the stove.

He lifted his good hand from the counter, palm up. What was this?

“Here.” She picked up the skillet, filled with some reddish, brownish, meatish stuff. “Follow me.”

Follow her? He watched her walk around the island to the table behind him where a single plate and glass sat with a few other bowls. One held chopped green onions, another some leafy stuff. Parsley maybe? Another held lime quarters. Next to that sat a small container of Greek yogurt and a plate of taco shells.

Miska set the skillet on a hot pad. She headed back to the kitchen but pointed at the chair in front of the plate. “Sit.”

She was feeding him? “Miska—”

“A can of tuna is a pathetic lunch.”

“I have an apple. Pretty sure I can wash that myself.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“And mayonnaise and bread. It was going to be a sandwich.”

She returned with another plate and glass. “Do you see how much chicken is in that pan? There’s enough to feed both of us for a couple days.”

He peered at the skillet. “That’s chicken?”

“It’s chipotle chicken, one of my favorite meals. Humor me and let me feed you something decent.”

He eyed her.

She eyed him back. “I’m not opening that awful tuna. Eat here or starve.”

“So you’re saying this tastes better than tuna?”

She arched her eyebrows as she set four tacos on his plate. “I did not just hear that.”

“Kidding. It’s nice of you to feed me, but I feel bad. You don’t need to.”

“I know, but I enjoy cooking. And sharing what you cook is… nice.”

“Well. Thank you.” Man, the words were hard to say. She seated herself, and he sat across from her. “What kind of tacos are these?”

“Only the best tacos ever. I cook the chicken in a chipotle sauce, then shred it. You put green onions and cilantro on it with some Greek yogurt and squeeze lime over it. Delish.”

Sounded good. And the smell of the chicken wafting up at him… He propped his shells against his lime quarter and followed her lead, dishing chicken into the shells and adding the toppings. He paused and closed his eyes.
God, help me figure out what to do here. Kind of in over my head.

“Are you praying?”

He opened his eyes and winked at her, a finger over his mouth. “Don’t interrupt.” Stink.
Help me not flirt with her, either.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go ahead.”

He lowered his head again.
God, this isn’t good. She’s too pretty. I get distracted—

“Aren’t you supposed to pray out loud?”

He kept his head down but sent her an evil glare.

She bit her lip, a smile escaping.

“God, thank you for the food you’ve given us. Bless Miska for sharing with me. In Jesus’s name, amen.” He cleared his throat, eyes on his plate. “Why’d you cook so much? Did you know I was coming?” He took a bite of his taco, the paper-thin shell almost melting in his mouth. The flavors of smoky chipotle and cilantro, green onion and sour-cream-like yogurt blended with the lime juice. He groaned before he could catch himself. “Oh, man, is this good.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Wow, Miska. No need to answer my question. I could eat this every day.”

“I know. The meat is the most work so I make a lot and freeze it. Then I can have it whenever I want. I’ll send some home with you.”

He shook his head, his mouth full.

“Are you arguing again?”

He swallowed. “That’s taking days of chicken tacos from you. What kind of guy does that?”

“A starving guy who’s fortunate to fall into my good graces. Eat. There’s plenty.”

First taco gone, he squeezed the lime over the second. The tart scent tingled in his nose. He hadn’t eaten this good since Thanksgiving, just before Mom and Dad went south for the winter. “This tastes like something I’d get at a nice Mexican restaurant.”

Her smile warmed him. “Thanks.”

He finished the taco and started on the third. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

“My mom. She loved cooking. We usually tried a new recipe each weekend.”

“What was your favorite?”

“We came up with a great beef stew recipe, one that’s creamy and not so strong on the beef flavor.”

Sounded wonderful.

“There was this massive lasagna we made when my brothers had their team over after a game. Forgot all about that one. Haven’t made it in years.”

She studied the tabletop, probably trying to remember the recipe. Someone lucky was going to eat that one of these days.

Hopefully not Mark.

Not that it mattered if she made it for Mark. Why did he even care? He drank his water, watching her force an escaping cilantro leaf back into the taco. Her hair slipped over her shoulder as she took a bite.

A beautiful woman who took neighbors to the ER, then cooked for them. Could he really blame Mark? “How’d you meet Mark?”

She jerked her face up from the taco, smearing a little yogurt on the edge of her mouth. She dabbed at it with her napkin. “Mark,” she said, a whole lot of wistfulness in her voice.

What did that mean?

“I met him at a club two Aprils ago. I was there with my girlfriends, and he was with a few teammates. We hit it off.” She toyed with her taco. “He was really good to me, you know? Sent me flowers, bought me stuff. He treated me like…”

Like?

“I had no idea he was married until he threw that perfect game. One of my girlfriends called me before the game was over, told me to watch it. I was so thrilled for him. Then after his team gets done dogpiling him, they show him kissing this woman.”

He shouldn’t have asked. Where was his brain?

“Her name’s Darcie. She’s a local news anchor in Milwaukee. Monday through Friday. I found it ironic that his perfect game was on a Saturday when she wasn’t at work. Imagine if it had happened a day earlier.” She smiled, some contrary emotion twisting it. “I still might not know.”

A guy couldn’t keep a secret like that. Not for long. “You wouldn’t want to not know.”

“True, but I wish I’d known right away. I wish one of the guys had let it slip. I wish he’d been wearing his ring. Something.”

“You sound like you want out. He isn’t—isn’t forcing you, is he?”

She cocked her head and smiled at him. “You’re sweet, Dillan. Someday a girl’s going to get very lucky with you.”

His skin warmed. “Yeah, well, not today.” Yikes. That was even worse. Time to shut up.

“Let me turn the question on you. Why aren’t
you
with someone?”

God? Got an answer for that?
He shrugged. “Just not the right time yet.”

She leaned back in her chair.

He took another taco bite.

“So you can ask a personal question which I answer, but I don’t get the same from you.”

He rearranged the crumbs on his plate as he chewed and swallowed.

“You’ve got a little yogurt on your mouth.”

“Yep. Did that on purpose.”

She chuckled.

He wiped his mouth and blew out a sigh.

“So?”

“I’d like to find the right someone. It’d be nice to know whether she’s right around the corner or three years out or ten.”

“So you’re… what? Looking for the right girl? Not looking? It’s a big city, you know. Are you coming out of a relationship?”