The Love Story (The Things We Can't Change Book 4) (4 page)

Maybe it’s because I know Zeke would never, ever hurt me. I just know that. I have watched his hands do so many beautiful things: hold his little sister, wipe away my tears, gently plant flowers with the utmost care and create drawings so full of emotion they can make you cry. But never, not once, have I seen them hurt or destroy something. Never.

He’s not capable of it. The tough demeanor is all a shield, concealing and protecting the wonderful soul inside.

It could be all that. Or it could simply be the fact that I want Zeke. I want him so badly that I’m willing to forgo fear just so I don’t lose my chance.

I’ve been trying to figure it out all week and as we walk down the porch steps and Zeke holds the car door open for me, I realize that it doesn’t matter. I want Zeke and apparently, he wants me. And both of us are willing to throw our fears to the wind in order to try it out. It doesn’t have to be understood any more than that.

Zeke and I decide on a movie first, though to this day I don’t remember what it was. We hold hands cautiously, carefully, the whole time, Zeke’s thumb occasionally stroking my skin. That’s all I remember about it.

Then we walk next door to Applebee’s and sit in a booth, spending a long moment staring into each other’s eyes. I had expected it to be awkward, to have moments of tension or uncertainty.

But Zeke makes a joke about the serious faces of the football players in the picture next to us and we’re both cracking up. That heavy chemistry, the tingling awareness and anticipation, is still hanging in the air but we suddenly just start talking as we never have before and just can’t seem to stop.

It feels like we talk about everything under the sun. Casual, everyday things that we never really had time for over the summer. Our favorite and hated movies, silly memories of elementary and middle school before our lives became so complicated. Embarrassing and proud moments.

Zeke tells me about winning the art show with his painting of Cindy and I tell him about wanting to be a writer and my first story from when I was ten years old about inchworms called
Measuring Marigolds
. He gets a good laugh out of that one.

“What other stories have you written since then?” he asks as they clear away our dinner plates and we wait for dessert. “I’m sure you improved as time went on. I didn’t even realize it was fiction writing that you wanted to do.”

I shrug, wanting to change the subject but knowing Zeke will notice and also sort of wanting to tell him the truth. Just maybe not in a crowded restaurant.

You’re different now,
I remind myself forcefully.
You’re strong. You’re healed—for the most part. You can tell Zeke these things anytime, anyplace. You don’t need the cover of darkness anymore.

“I’m not sure that fiction writing
is
what I want to do,” I confess, tracing a scratch in the tabletop. “There are really so many roads to take with an interest in writing. I, um, haven’t written any actual stories since Tony… since he…”

“Since he hit you?” Zeke supplies softly.

“Yes.” The word is a whisper and I clear my throat and force myself to look into Zeke’s eyes. No pity there, just pure understanding and regret. And deep below, a simmering anger. “That has a way of putting a roadblock in your creativity,” I continue. “That’s when I started that blog. The darkness stuff that you read in my notebook? It was a post for that blog. That was mostly personal reflections, maybe a very short story bit here and there. Mostly a way to let out or even confess what was happening to me without actually saying it. But it all got really good responses. It was just a little dark.”

“Writing is writing,” Zeke points out with a crooked smile. “I’d say you kept at it better than I did with art over the past few years.”

“Maybe so,” I allow. “But after the first time Tony… raped me, I couldn’t write anything at all. Nothing. The darkness piece was the first thing I wrote afterward and it took me months. Now I’m just not so sure I even want to write at all. My, uh, dad was the one that always encouraged me. People always expected me to go into medicine so I could take over his practice but he never pressured me to do that. He always said he worked so hard so I could have the freedom to do whatever I wanted with my life.”

“Your dad was a cool guy,” Zeke says as dessert is set before us. Apple pie for him and chocolate lava cake for me.

“He was,” I agree, hating the past tense.

“So why don’t you start trying to write again?” Zeke asks. “Hey, you could write a children’s book and I’ll illustrate it for you!”

I roll my eyes at him as he laughs but the idea has surprising merit. It would be worth forcing a story out of myself to have a whole book full of Zeke’s work. It would be beautifully done, too. I can’t hold back a huge smile at the idea of tall, tattooed, tough Zeke Quain making a name for himself as a children’s book illustrator. Then again, I don’t think I could ever write a story that would be worthy of the art he would draw for it.

“I’ll… give it a try,” I promise as I dig into my cake. The warm, gooey chocolate hits my tongue and I give a sigh of ecstasy.

Zeke is already done with his pie, having practically inhaled it. He’s watching me as I eat and suddenly I become aware of how I’m savoring each bite.

“What?” I mumble.

He leans forward, looking at me intently. “I never thought we’d be doing this,” he admits quietly.

“Doing what?” I ask, curious.

He waves a hand at the scant space between us. “
This
. Going on a date. Dating. If someone had told me that first day in the dance studio that I would be going on a date with Evangeline Parker in six months, I would have said they were crazier than Tony. I’d have even said it if they’d told me just a month ago.”

“Why?” I ask. Problems, personal issues aside, I’m not sure why he finds the idea so incredulous. But then again, maybe I do.

He shrugs. “Because you’re Evangeline Parker and I’m Ezekiel Quain. You’re the country club member and I’m the waiter.”

I arch an eyebrow at him because none of this has ever mattered to me. “You know, this isn’t nineteen fifty-four. I don’t look down on your because your skin is a different color or because you have a job. Even if it is at a place where you need money to become a member.”

“All the other people at the club do,” Zeke points out. “And the concept of marrying beneath you is still very much alive. It just doesn’t always have to do with skin color anymore. Besides. You always shied away from me at first.”

I bristle at the accusation. “Because you
scared
me,” I say, annoyed. “You wanted people to shy away from you. There were all these rumors about you and Dominic and Cameron Fuller and they made me nervous. I didn’t know if they were true or not. Or if you could be like Tony or not. It wasn’t until I saw you with Cindy that I realized everything I thought I knew about you was wrong.”

“Hmm,” is all Zeke says, still staring at me.

I begin to feel annoyed at his apparent lack of belief in what I’m saying. “Believe what you want,” I say airily, determined to turn the tables on him. I pretend to be wholly focused on my dessert. “But I know you’ve always had a thing for my hair.”

Zeke sits bolt upright. “I do not!”

“Do too,” I insist calmly, daintily spooning chocolate into my mouth.

“How would you know?” he asks snidely.

“Because when I was drunk at that party you touched it and freaked out when I said I wanted to cut it,” I say, still calm and nonchalant. “And right after, when you thought I wasn’t looking, you smelled your hands.”

There’s complete silence as Zeke stares at me, his eyes wide. I smile at him as I push back my empty plate.

“Hey. Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t handle my liquor.”

He stares at me some more and then finally shakes his head and laughs. And laughs some more. Finally he stands up from the booth and holds out a dark hand to me, his eyes bright with emotion and laughter.

“Nothing ever gets past Evie Parker,” he says with a shake of his head. “Ready to go? It’s getting late.”

“Of course.” I slide out of the booth, taking his hand and using it to help me get onto my feet. Zeke doesn’t let go as we walk through the crowded restaurant and out to the car.

When Zeke moves to let go and open the car door for me, I hold onto his hand until he finally turns to look at me.

“Do you remember the first time in the dance studio? When we didn’t even talk? And Koby and Jenny were there too? Do you know what Jenny and I were talking about?”

Slowly, taking a step closer so he can look down into my face, Zeke shakes his head.

“We were talking about you and Koby. I told Jenny I thought Koby had a crush on her and she was telling me that it would never work out, because her parents would disapprove and she was a member while Koby worked at the club. I kept telling her none of that should really matter. And I remember looking at you and Koby and thinking to myself that even though Koby was nicer, less scary, friendly,
you
were the one that I couldn’t stop staring at.”

I look down at the ground for a long moment, trying to ignore my furiously pounding heart. Even for me, this moment and admission feels raw and hard. I force myself to look up into Zeke’s eyes once more.

“All everyone around us sees in our relationship are the differences. Our skin color, our money, our ‘classes,’ our jobs and the way we talk or act. But ever since we really started talking, all I’ve ever been able to see is how much we’re alike. All the similarities between us and our lives. Between everything that has happened to us. And the way we found each other not when we wanted to, but when we needed each other the most. I don’t think anyone will ever understand that. What we’ve gone through together and how that happened. I don’t know if we understand it. But I know I wouldn’t want anyone else to. And I know that it’s one thing, out of everything that has happened, that I wouldn’t ever want to change.”

Zeke doesn’t say anything for a long time. At first I worry that I’ve scared him away. That this is too deep and too soon for him. I need to remember that this is all still new to Zeke, that I need to tread carefully around his feelings. Just as he does around me, easing into gentle touches and always breaking into my personal space with the utmost care.

But then all my worried thoughts flee as he does just that right now, leaning slowly forward. Feather light, his lips touch my forehead. It’s sweet and careful and achingly beautiful. A gentle move completely at odds with such a big, strong man. My heart aches at the perfection of the moment.

Zeke pulls back and I finally release his hand. Neither of us speaks as he opens the car door, afraid of breaking the moment. We just get into the car and Zeke heads for home.

Evangeline

87

By the time we’re halfway home, the moment has peacefully faded and it feels safe to talk again. Zeke asks me about my plans for the rest of the weekend, carefully picking my hand up from my lap and holding it over the console as he talks.

“Not much,” I admit. “My social life has taken a bit of dive lately. Maybe you’ve heard about it the past week?”

We both chuckle.

“Cleaning, mostly,” I finally say truthfully, unglamorous as it is. “The house has kind of been let go lately. Working on my new bedroom, too. I bought closet organizers but haven’t actually set them up. And homework, of course.”

“Back to the daily grind,” Zeke agrees. “Work tomorrow and a wedding on Sunday night. And a cramp in my arm from all the sketching I’ll be doing. Mr. Bryant wants rough proposals of potential portfolio pieces, and for the fall art show.”

I squeeze his hand reassuringly as he pulls up the long driveway to my house. “I’m sure they’ll all be fantastic.”

He gives a small laugh as he opens the car door. “I’m surprised at how much I missed it. Come on, I’ll walk you up. We need to make sure Clarissa didn’t lock you out again.”

“Very funny,” I mutter sourly, exiting the car and walking up to the front porch beside him.

I test the door and it swings right open. I give Zeke a winning smile. “Look, she left the door unlocked for me. How maternal and sweet of her.”

Zeke gives a huff of laughter but leans forward, so close our chests are almost touching. One of his long, lean arms reaches past me and pulls the door gently shut. There’s something new, something dark and heavy in his eyes that I can’t name. It sends a hot thrill of anticipation down my spine.

“I don’t think I ever said thank you,” he begins slowly, whispering the words even though we’re all alone. Only the dim porch light illuminates the dark night around us, creating a cozy glow that makes me feel like we are the only people in the world. “For making me draw again. I know our episode with that, you helping me and everything, didn’t end on the best note this summer. So I want to be sure you know how grateful I am that you kept pushing me. Even when I lashed out at you—figuratively and literally. So, thank you.”