Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2) (18 page)

“I, uh, wanted to check on you. We didn’t get the chance to talk once—”

“Once I was dismissed because you were there to see Cherri.”

He looked stunned at the bite in my words, and I was more than embarrassed for coming off as a jealous (non) girlfriend, but I didn’t back down. I gave him an expectant smirk, daring him to lie about last night, yet secretly praying that he’d say it wasn’t true. That he didn’t give Cherri more ammunition to deem me weak and hopeless. That he wouldn’t confirm that he had zero interest in me. I mean, I wouldn’t care anyway. He had a girlfriend. Girl
friends,
for Christ’s sake. I just wanted him to want me for the sole pleasure of being able to shoot him down.

I watched a million shades of discomfort and regret flash across his face before Toby put him out of his misery and handed him a note scribbled on one of the dozens of notepads we kept around the apartment.

“Oh, um, sorry, man. I don’t think . . .”

Toby snatched the notepad out of Dom’s hands before he could think of a good reason and quickly started writing another one. He tore it off and handed it to him, his pen ready to shoot down any further excuses.

“Sure, I do. It’s just . . .”

“No. Not yet.”

Dominic looked to me for help, but I had none to offer him. Toby wanted this. Maybe he needed this. It had been hard for him to bond with anyone, and God only knew how lonely he had been before our mother died. I couldn’t deny him this one wish, especially since he never asked for anything.

“Fine,” I huffed. “Dinner’s almost ready. You two can set the table while I finish up. I’m about to burn the rolls.”

Dom nodded his thanks. It seemed like he was just as adamant about making the kid happy.

As I pulled the bread out of the oven, I watched with stunned eyes as Toby grabbed Dominic’s hand and pulled him toward the drawer where kept the silverware. He rarely touched anybody, even me. The first few times I tried to hug him, he clammed up and his body went rigid. I had made it a point not to invade his space since then. But here he was, casually touching this guy that he barely knew. Shit, Dominic was a stranger to him! I didn’t know whether to be suspicious or grateful that he had finally bonded with someone.

I decided to let go of my skepticism just for one night. Tomorrow I could be a nagging harpy. Tonight, I would be what Toby deserved.

“Four plates?” Dom questioned, looking at the dishes in Toby’s hands. He looked around warily. “Are you expecting someone else?”

I shook my head. “No. The fourth is for Mrs. Ralston in the unit next door. She keeps an eye on Toby while I’m at work. In return, I cook for her a couple nights a week and help her around her apartment. Toby can take care of himself, and he has . . . before. But she’s an elderly widow, and I think she just enjoys the company.”

He nodded at my unintentionally long explanation and watched in silence as I made Mrs. Ralston’s plate. Then Toby got her key from the hook and took it over to her while I watched him.

“He’s a great kid. Thanks for letting me stay,” Dom whispered, sending a shiver down my spine. I hadn’t noticed how close he was to me. He was also watching Toby, leaving a mere hairsbreadth of space between us. I could sneeze and be in his arms.

“Yeah, he is. So I appreciate that you’re decent to him. I’m sure this is the last place you want to be.”

Dom snorted a chuckle, causing the hardness of his chest to press against my back. Oh dear Lord. “Actually, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”

I turned to look at him over my shoulder, searching his face for any sign that I had misheard those words. But he just stared back, those hazel-green eyes completely clear and sober. As if he actually
meant
it.

The closing of Mrs. Ralston’s door brought us both back to reality, and Dom quickly stepped aside, giving Toby room to reenter, and putting a full three feet of space between us. I hated that I noticed. I hated that it bugged me even more.

“Ok, let’s eat,” I announced, brushing past him to tend to the pot of spaghetti. No more doe-eyed looks. No more talk about his reasons for being here. I needed to keep my hands busy and my focus on hating him. Or pretending to hate him.

The three of us sat down at the rickety, old table that I’d scored at a yard sale, and dug in. After a few minutes of silent chewing, Dom made a sound in his throat and said, “This is really good, Raven.”

“Thanks. Old family recipe.” I shot Toby a wink, and he replied with a small smile. Huh. He was on a roll.

“Really?” Dom mused, twirling a bite around his fork. “I didn’t know your family’s name was Ragu.”

“Prego. Get it right.”

We shared a chuckle, shifting the mood into something much less suffocating. I could do this. I could be casual. No sweat.

“It’s Spaghetti Tuesday. Toby and I always make spaghetti on Tuesdays.”

“Why spaghetti?” he replied, stabbing a deformed meatball. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Never got into Taco Tuesday. Hate tacos.”

“You hate tacos?”
he grumbled around a mouthful of ground meat and sauce. He quickly grabbed his soda to wash it down, and tried again. “You hate tacos? How can anybody hate tacos?”

I shrugged. “I just do.”

“Like, is there a specific type of taco you hate? Or you hate them all?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just hate the whole meat and veggies and condiments thrown inside a tortilla mechanism. It’s like handheld chaos.”

“Dear God, woman,” he said shaking his head. “It’s like you aren’t even human. Soon you’re going to tell me that you go around kicking kittens for sport.”

“You never know. The night’s still young,” I jibed, smiling genuinely. Oh yeah. I could totally do this. I was
killing
casual.

We finished our plates, Dom quizzing me on all the stuff I liked versus all the stuff I hated. Then he would ask Toby his opinion on things, who watched us with rapt attention, so intrigued by the exchange that one would think he was viewing a tennis match. After he and Dom cleared the table—Dom’s idea—I told Toby to go get his shower and get ready for bed. This left me alone with Dominic Trevino, the one person I
shouldn’t
be alone with.

“These are great,” he said studying the framed prints situated on almost every flat surface and wall. He picked up one of my favorites—a black and white picture of a homeless man huddled in the corner of a storefront, sharing his meager meal with his dog. He was covered in grime, his clothing mere shreds. Yet he was giving what little he had for the sake of love and companionship. I envied that.

“Local photographer?”

“Yup,” I answered, grinning. Oh God, I was grinning.

“Really? Who? This artist has an incredible eye.”

“Me.”

The look of utter disbelief and admiration on his face was one I wished I could capture and hang on my wall. “Seriously? You’re a photographer?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, moving beside him to get a better look at the photo in his hands. “I used to wish to be one a long time ago. But life has a funny way of happening.”

“That’s crazy. My best friend says that.
Life happens.”

“It does.”

He nodded, but his expression turned somber. “Sometimes I wish it would happen less.”

“But isn’t that what we wish for? To live in the moment? To seize the unknown? If everything happened as we planned, our experiences wouldn’t define us. We wouldn’t know how to embrace the good, because we would never know the bad. We would never be able to accept true happiness, because pain would be foreign. And I want to know happiness one day. Don’t you?”

I didn’t know how we came here. How we found ourselves at this juncture, sharing a piece of honesty just as that homeless man shared his sandwich. Dom had revealed just a shard of himself to me, and, in return, I did the same. Now we were even. Now we were connected.

Needing the space and the time to think, I excused myself to check on Toby, who was already in his tiny, twin bed. The ghost of a smile remained on his face as he closed his eyes and turned on his side. He’d had a happy day. He would wake up tomorrow morning, and the sun would shine a little brighter, and his cereal would taste a little better. And maybe, he would begin to believe that life, in general, could be better.

When I returned to our small living room, I allowed myself a moment to watch Dom gaze at the photo that meant the most to me. I had kept it all this time, and no matter what it represented, I refused to see anything but beauty and innocence.

“Cute kids,” he remarked when I stepped beside him. “Who are they?”

“Me and the kid.” I had a devastating haircut with a severe bang and wore fuchsia overalls. Toby was just a plump, roly poly bundle of baby, his gummy grin almost too cute to stand. I kept it to remind us both that he was happy once, and to give him hope that he could be happy again.

“Who shot the picture?” I knew the question was coming. I had armed myself with the answer the moment I saw him looking at the photo. That way, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“My mother.”

There. One more little thread of truth. I just wasn’t sure if I was done giving them away, offering these fragments of me that would eventually reveal who I was and ruin everything.

Tonight, I can be free.
I told myself.
Tomorrow . . . back in the cage I go.

“You mind if I show you something?”

I was already grabbing my camera bag before he could respond.