He’s sitting at the dining table, hands clasped on the table top, shoulders tense. He looks beautiful—and lonely.
It hits me then: I’m not the only one spending Christmas Day alone. I knew this—that he fled his home because of the violence. Is he going back? Will it be safe for him?
Protectiveness washes through me. A funny notion, since he’s over six feet tall and his muscles bulge through his long-sleeved shirt. But his dad is much bigger, I know, and an experienced fighter.
He glances up when I bring the dishes and set them on the table. His hands are splayed on the table. There it is—the scar across his knuckles, a reminder of the night he saved me.
I tear my gaze from it, confused by all the feelings inside me. Just be friends, Tessa had said. How difficult can it be?
“What about you?” he says when I serve him my pitiful culinary experiment.
“I ate already. Got hungry early.” Lunchtime was hours ago but the way he tenses again tells me he’s probably thinking of leaving right now, and I’m not having it. Not before I get a chance to finally talk to him. “Go on, it will get cold. I’ve saved dessert to have with you.”
He settles a little, his shoulders slumping, and digs into the pasta. What convinced him to come? I watch him eat until I realize he’s stopped, his brows dipping over his eyes, and I go to get dessert ready.
By the time I return with the pie and plates, he’s polished his food.
Well, either my cooking isn’t so bad or he was starving. “Zane left no food?”
Ash grimaces. “He did. I need to find a way to pay him back and...” He trails off, his gaze guarded. He obviously feels bad about being a guest at Zane’s.
“He?
??s your friend. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”
“He shouldn’t have to put up with me all the time.”
“It’s just a few days.”
He shakes his head. Something’s on his mind but he says nothing more as I lay out the plates and spoons, and take my time unwrapping the pie.
“I hope you like cherry pie,” I say.
He nods and receives his slice. “Thanks.”
“It’s not much as Christmas meals go,” I mutter, serving myself a dollop of cream. I push the bowl toward him.
“It’s great,” he says and there’s an odd note in his voice. He sound sincere, which is weird—pasta with canned sauce, and deep frozen cherry pie?—but there’s also something like longing that makes my chest hurt.
This boy confuses me so much.
***
We eat our pie in a silence so thick you can cut it with a knife. After the first mouthfuls, I can’t take it anymore, so I get up and put Dead Can Dance on my old beaten-up stereo.
Ash is frowning when I return to the table but presses his mouth shut. I focus on my pie. At some point I look up to find his gaze fixed on my mouth.
My neck warms, the heat rising to my cheeks. I wipe my chin. “Do I have cherry jam all over my face?”
“No, you...” He swallows hard, licks his lips. He puts down his spoon. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He puffs out a breath and his eyes turn hard. He pushes his dish to the side. “Why did you invite me?”
I clench my jaw. “Just wanted to see you. We’re friends.”
“Used to be.”