She finishes while I search the cabinet for the oregano and sea salt I left here. Quinn’s bakery ovens are even better than Grandpa Jason’s brick one, so whenever I want perfectly baked crust, I just come here. Or when I want to cheer Quinn up. She loves making pizza.
I toss some seasoning on top, a quiet settling over the room, and I glance over at Aro, seeing her watch me. She looks away. “Um…is the camera still working okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. I checked the footage while you were in the shower. Nothing so far.”
I’m recording when I’m not watching, so whatever is going on there, we’ll catch it. We just have to be patient. For how long, is the question.
“I need to go out tomorrow,” she tells me. “I need to sneak into my foster mom’s house while she’s at work and get some clothes.”
I look over at her, studying her. They’ll be looking for her there. Even though she’s technically no longer in the woman’s care, Green Street will know she still crashes at that house. They might not be staked out there, but the neighborhood will be told to keep an eye out for her to show up.
“That’s not a good idea,” I tell her. “I’ll have Dylan bring some bigger shirts.”
“And underwear?” she presses. “Bras? I mean, I can’t wear hers. I need things, Hawke.”
I drop my eyes but raise them again, realization hitting. She’s not wearing anything under her clothes right now. Whatever she had would be in the washer.
She stares at me, but I pick up the pizza, not saying anything. Underwear isn’t that important. She’s not risking being caught for that.
The silence that settles is more awkward than the last, and there are a million things I want to ask her, but she’s in a good mood, and I don’t want to ruin it.
Thankfully, she steps in. “You know, your girlfriend being jealous isn’t out of line.” she says, sipping my beer. “I probably would’ve keyed your car by now.”
I laugh under my breath, visualizing that perfectly. And I know she’s right. Holing up with another woman looks like something it isn’t.
“How about I sneak out to get clothes,” she says, a playful tone in her voice, “and you sneak out to see her and explain the situation? It’s a win-win.”
Yeah, right. I’m not letting her out of my sight. She’ll do something stupid.
Plus, the issue with Schuyler started long before this weekend. It has nothing to do with Aro and will take a lot more than an explanation to fix.
She picks up some leftover shredded cheese and tips her head back, dropping it in. Everything feels warm as I watch her.
I don’t want to go out. I like it here.
With her.
She asked what this place was and what it meant to me, and I’m not entirely sure yet, but I do know it has a name.
And so many stories behind it. Stories of people who were here before us.
Most of the town doesn’t even think it really exists. But they like to believe it does. They want to believe the stories are true.
I stare at her, realizing something. We’ll be one of them. One of the stories that people will tell one day. Aro and me.
I don’t want to leave. Not for underwear. Not for Schuyler. Not just yet.
I pull myself away, pressing buttons on the oven and setting the timer. “Let me look at your arm,” I tell her. “Come on.”
“It’s really okay,” she argues, but I’m already walking away, untying the apron around my waist. I toss it back onto the worktable and lead her back into the hideout, sealing it closed again, even though I know no one is coming into the bakery, and I’ll have to go back out to get the pizza anyway.
Taking her into the other kitchen, I pull out the first aid kit and some cooling lotion. She just took a shower, so it’s clean, but I don’t have anything for the pain other than ibuprofen.
Sitting down on a stool at the island, I take her arm and pull her over. She stumbles, coming to rest between my knees.
“I just don’t want this to get infected,” I tell her, inspecting her wound. “If we’re going to get caught, it’s not going to be because we had to go to the hospital.”
She looks down at me, but I don’t meet her eyes. I spray the cut with disinfectant, apply some ointment and wrap a bandage around her arm, trying to keep it clean.
“I didn’t think you’d have a tattoo,” she says.
I look up as she eyes the script across my shoulder, above my chest. Really small. Most people don’t notice it at first.
I continue wrapping her up. “It’s the only one I have.”
“What does it mean?”
These violent delights have violent ends.