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We slip into the booth near the window and open our menus. I’m scanning the specials that are clipped inside when I feel Lark’s gaze on me. I look up to see her attention shift down, but I know I just busted her. “What sounds good tonight?” I ask.
“I’m thinking about the carbonara. It’s my favorite.” She sets the menu as if she’s more than thinking about it. She’s decided. “You?”
“Lasagna. It’s been a while since I’ve had it, and it’s not something I’ll ever make.”
“Do you cook?”
I lean forward as if I’m revealing some great secret. She does the same. I reply, “Not at all.”
Surprise doesn’t contort her expression, but it does bend her brow. “You don’t cook, not eggs or anything? Ever?” Her voice starts pitching even through the whispering exchange.
“No. Never. I should, though.”
“I don’t under—”
“Ready to order?” the server asks, a kid I might recognize from campus, but I’m not sure. Though his blond spikes tend to stand out in this small town. He sets down two glasses of water, and then pulls a pen and pad from his apron. “We can start with drinks. Wine, soda, tea?”
I look at Lark. “We can get a bottle of wine if you’d like.”
She glances up at him. “I think water will be fine for me.”
“I’ll stick with the water as well.”
He takes our food order and quicksteps it back to the kitchen. While we unwrap our napkins, she asks, “Do you have a chef? Or you order food every night? Or . . .” She leaves it open for me to reply. Curiosity shapes her face, but her features remain soft.
“I order a lot of food, I’m a whiz at heating up food—frozen meals or dishes that my family sends me. I eat out a lot or grab something quick from a fast-food joint.”
“I don’t understand. Do you live at home, the home from yesterday?” She adds, “You had a room upstairs?”
“That’s still my room. Whenever I stay over, that’s where I sleep. My childhood, my life before moving out, remains there for me. I suppose one day I’ll have to pack it up, but it’s there now, maybe always will be. Who knows?”
She relaxes across from me, her shoulders rounding as she takes a deep breath. “I still have a room at home. My dad keeps it just as I left it. Sometimes I wonder if he hopes I’ll move home, and other times I think about it because I feel guilty for leaving him.”
“You didn’t leave him. You’re just living somewhere else right now.”
Hope returns to her eyes and raises a smile. “That’s a nice way of looking at it.” She toys with the red pepper shaker, spinning it mindlessly as if her thoughts are elsewhere. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever live there again. Growing up is weird.” She looks at me. “I’m twenty-one, living on my own, paying my own bills, but I feel caught in this age, like I’m not an adult but I’m no longer a kid anymore.” Shaking her head, she says, “Weird. And every time I see my dad, I still feel like a little girl?” She whispers, “I think he'd keep me young forever if he had a choice.”
There’s such a sweetness to her that I can see what she means about being trapped in the age in between. It’s almost like the darkness of life hasn’t touched her yet. She’s lucky that way.
Lucky.
Fuck luck.
Luck doesn’t exist.
Only this.
She and I right here.
Right now.
This is the luckIcreated.
8
Harbor
I thoughtwe were getting heavy and heading for a conversation about the meaning of life. Nope. Her mood goes from introspective to animated with a wave of her hands. “Where do you live?” she asks.
