But if that’s the case, that means Chrissy didn’t tell anyone what she saw last night like we thought she would. Despite her sharp and vicious reaction to finding us together, she didn’t immediately run inside and act like the town crier to the rest of the bar. Now, I can only wonder why not.
There’s a flicker of relief in Luke’s eyes as he looks at me, a reaction so poignant that it pulls at my heart in equal measure. A weight lifts off my chest just as the tension sinks from his shoulders, almost like we can finally breathe again with the awareness that I’m still safe. Ihaven’tbeen outed prematurely to the people who matter the most to me. I know Luke feels a load of guilt being washed away now that it seems I won’t face the same terrible fate he experienced, especially after fearing he had a hand in actively bringing it about.
After my heart settles back to a normal rhythm, I can’t help but run through the events of last night again and try to understand what happened. Or what didn’t happen. There are conflicting feelings in my chest now that I know Chrissy kept my secret to herself, especially when I don’t understandwhyshe would. Maybe I got her reaction all wrong? It doesn’t make sense, especially when I remember the way she looked at me after she learned the truth…
Despite his run-in with the law last night, Frank unexpectedly shows up to work like normal, strolling through the door like it’s any other day.
At the very least, I would have thought the incident violated the terms of his probation and he’d be dealing with the repercussions in the courts for the foreseeable future. Instead, it doesn’t seem to have had much of a negative impact at all. Now I wonder what happened after Luke and I left the bar. Knowingthe nature of small-town cops, I’ve got a feeling that the off-duty officer didn’t call anything in but rather let Frank off with a warning since no real damage was done, and Luke didn’t stick around to press charges.
Surprisingly, Nick and Henry seem to have decided their time associating with Frank has come to an abrupt and permanent end. For the first time in as long as I’ve known him, they’re nowhere in sight. But for how nonchalant Frank is acting, you’d think he doesn’t care. In fact, he’s not the least bit fazed by the sneers and snickers from the rest of the shop as he walks through it. Either he doesn’t notice it, or he’s a better actor than I thought.
But then, that’s as far as his difficulties seem to go.
Frank’s penchant for violence asserts an immovable barrier that gives him an unfair advantage. His hecklers will only go so far, knowing that this one bites back. It makes the tepid taunts he receives seem like child's play compared to the savage and brutal treatment Luke’s been subjected to from these same assholes.
Even now,Luke’sreceiving the brunt of public derision just because he’s the simpler target. It’s absolute bullshit. And it has a strange effect on him.
He’s the first to say he’s glad the backlash on Frank isn’t as bad as it could have been, but it’s hard to ignore the kernel of jealousy that creeps in for their contrasting experiences. This was the man who caused the worst of his problems when they were younger. For all the harm he’s caused, you’d think he deserves to be punished for it, but he’s practically getting off scot-free.
What’s worse is that this whole ordeal only seems to have made Frank’s hostility toward Luke more intense. Although Luke tries very hard to avoid him, Frank has an uncanny ability to appear in his pathway when he least expects it. He’ll brushpast Luke with a stiff shoulder, trip him as he walks by, or otherwise snarl in his face, making Luke wince or flinch in a way I’ve never seen him falter before.
It gets so bad that Luke searches the shop in fear whenever we walk through it, almost like he’s scanning the savannah for a predator hiding in the bushes. I’ve tried to put myself between them whenever I can, but I can’t be at Luke’s side every moment of the day, and Frank seems to seek out the times when I’m not.
It doesn’t take long for Luke’s demeanor to change. He’s still his bright and cheery self on the outside, but it’s clear he’s struggling with something more. Something he refuses to talk about.
His once brilliant spark now feels a little subdued, his fire slowly fading—like one wrong gust of wind or unexpected rain shower would snuff it out entirely. I’m trying everything I can to keep that flame going, but I feel like I’m fighting against him as much as I’m trying to help.
That’s when I begin to notice the bruises.
At first, I write them off as inconsequential because they seem so small and ordinary, and in this line of work, it’s almost inevitable to get dinged up. Apart from the massive welt he’d had on his shoulder a little while ago, I hadn’t noticed a pattern of injury that seemed concerning… Until I find that Luke has covered up a massive bruise on his forearm with a ton of makeup, intentionally making it appear smaller, trying his best to hide it.
When I ask what happened, Luke shrugs evasively and says, “I don’t remember,” before insisting that he’s just naturally clumsy. “I always run into shit without realizing it because I’m so tall. It’s fine.”
Alarms go off in my head, and the rush of anxiety that moves through me makes me feel like my body knows something isvery, very wrong, but my brain can’t comprehend what it is. I can’t figure out why the dismissive words strike me as odd.
A few days later, Luke comes to work with another new injury, setting me on high alert. It’s a cut above his eyebrow, right next to his temple. This time, he can’t cover it up fully because of how badly it’s swollen. I demand to know what happened, fussing over him and gripping his face to study the damage more closely, forgetting that we’re in the middle of the shop in my urgency.
At first, Luke claims it’s no big deal, batting my hands away while putting distance between us. When I refuse to let him dismiss it, he finally snaps back that he’d tripped and fallen down the stairs. He barks it at me, really, the forcefulness of his tone taking me aback.
“God, you’re so infuriating when you don’t leave well enough alone,” he growls, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “I don’t need you to involve yourself with my shit, okay? If I say I’m fine, I’mfuckingfine. Why isn’t that good enough for you?”
I’m left standing there, staring at him in disbelief. Luke has never spoken to me that way before, and he realizes it, too. I watch as his face crumples miserably as he realizes how harsh his outburst was, especially given the nature of my concern for his well-being. But he doesn’t know how to retract it now that it’s out there.
He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was embarrassed.”
It could be a realistic answer. And I’m desperate to accept it, unsure what else it might be. However, I can’t shake the ill-at-ease feeling in my gut that tells me I’m missing something big. For now, I accept the apology and have no choice but to drop it.
A new behavioral pattern emerges soon after this, and arguments become all too common between us. They’re primarily insubstantial, over little things that I wouldn’t usually argue about with anyone else. Still, as Luke’s temperunexpectedly flares, mine always rises to match it like a twin flame—almost against my will. I’m not naturally argumentative, so it throws me off to find us in this new space. But after our disagreements erupt into full-blown fights, it usually ends with stellar make-up sex that has me wondering if it was all a part of Luke’s plan from the beginning, like he craves the drama to find some heightened release.
The problem with all of the fighting is that I know he’s not angry with me. Not really. The arguments never seem to have anything to do with the petty things we fight about on the surface, but I’m the only one he can release all of his pent-up energy on. I can see the war within himself, the guilty anguish in his eyes as he gets stuck in these moods, and how he hates falling prey to the caprice. He doesn’twantto fight, but not fighting seems like it would be worse because it means keeping all of his stress and angst bottled in. My only fault in all this is getting stuck in the crosshairs. Knowing his past struggles with anger, my heart breaks to see such a resurgence of it.
Yet, whenever I try to dig deeper into what’s really upsetting him, Luke always shuts down, firmly keeping me out of the inner workings of his mind. Either he doesn’t understand the source but is a slave to its whims, or he knows exactly what it is and refuses to tell me. Seeing this only adds to my frustration. I could help him, but only if he lets me knowhow. The fact that he’s still refusing to tell me what’s really going on adds to my temper whenever I react in kind. I don’t like what it does to me—the anxiousness that wants so badly to shake him by the shoulders until he opens up, hating how helpless I feel watching him struggle.
For now, I tell myself I can handle the fighting if it eases a bit of the pressure in his mind. Lord knows he always has a way of making up for it that has me wishing for the next fight like aPavlovian response. But I know this isn’t tenable long-term—for him or me.
Heading into Saturday’s rival game, I put our tensions and angst away as best I can and focus on getting ready for the big watch party. This year, it’s my turn to host, and I have a lot to prepare before everyone arrives.
I spend the entire morning making more food than is likely necessary for eight adults and nine children—ten if you include Ryder’s boyfriend—but what can I say? Cooking is one of the things I’m reasonably good at, and I enjoy it. So why wouldn’t I splurge? There are three different kinds of chips and homemade dips, a nacho bar with salsa and guacamole, potato salad and coleslaw, deviled eggs, and a charcuterie board of various meats and cheeses for appetizers. I’ve gone all out, making BBQ pulled pork for sandwiches, beans, chicken wings, and a vegetarian chili for dinner, so there are enough options for everyone.
