Cami Broussard has her future all figured out. She’ll finish her senior year of high school, then go to work full-time as an apprentice chef in her father’s French restaurant alongside her boyfriend, Luke. But then twenty-year-old former marine Julian Wyatt comes to live with Cami’s family while recovering from serious injuries. And suddenly Cami finds herself questioning everything she thought she wanted.

Julian’s all attitude, challenges and intense green-brown eyes. But beneath that abrasive exterior is a man who just might be as lost as Cami’s starting to feel. And Cami can’t stop thinking about him. Talking to him. Wanting to kiss him. He’s got her seriously stirred up. Her senior year has just gotten a lot more complicated....

Contains mature content and some sexual situations. Suited for readers 16 and up.

Stir Me Up

Sabrina Elkins

www.miraink.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Apple Muffins with Cinnamon Swirl and Streusel Topping

Midnight Soup

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter One

I’m proud to say that after five years of virtual slavery, I am now allowed to make the soup on Wednesday nights for Étoile, my father’s restaurant. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is. Soup ranks fairly high in the kitchen pecking order, right up there with preparing the fish and working a stove.

I started at the bottom, peeling potatoes and apples when I was ten. I graduated to dicing onions and garlic. Then I was given the challenge of doing things like stripping and cleaning baby artichokes, which are actually worse than the onions because artichoke hairs can give you an infection if they get embedded under your fingernails—ask me how I know this.

Despite the onions, garlic and artichoke hairs, I managed to stick with cooking long enough to make it to salad prep—only to learn, the hard way, that bell pepper seeds on your cutting board make your knife slip.

Seeing as how knives were obviously too dangerous for me, I was then demoted to melon-balling and pitting cherries. After another year of this, the chef who usually does the soup, Georges, took pity on me and let me watch him. Not cook with him. Watch him. Then I was allowed to make garnishes for him. Then add ingredients for him. Then make soup with him. And now, at long last, I have my own night. The slowest night of the week. On Wednesdays, I get to be soup girl—and Georges gets to be sous-chef and babysitter to the soup girl—who, for her first solo soup ever, has decided to make a tricky-but-hopefully-stunning wild morel with vegetable confetti and a veal infusion.

Now, morels are rare wild mushrooms with caps like extremely delicate honeycombs that are almost impossible to clean. So, when Dad comes over and picks up a morel and taps on it, my already-pounding heart starts to sink. Sure enough, three miniscule grains of sand fall out. Dad’s face turns red.

“GEORGES!” he yells.

“Oui, chef.”

Dad starts yelling at Georges in French. I’m mostly fluent, so I can follow almost all of the bawling out my supervisor is getting. Georges gives me a sideways glare, then Dad turns his rage directly on me. “You expect me to feed my customers sand?”

“No.”

“You want to go out into the dining room and explain to my customers why they have grit in their mouths?”

“I’ll reclean them.”

“Yes, you will. Without water. And if you can’t get it right, you’ll be sweeping floors.”

“Oui, chef,” I say, though he’s my father. I call him this at work, just like everyone else.

Georges comes over and hands me a toothpick. I use this to clean each honeycomb hole, and I have to do it carefully because the stupid things are insanely fragile, and we can’t just wash the morels out—oh no—for that would wreck their flavor. No bugs. No dirt. No grit—and no water.

I set to work. It takes a tedious two hours, then Georges spot-checks about fifty mushrooms and gives me a nod. Dad sees the nod and comes over. He checks a mushroom—one single mushroom—and no sand comes out. None. Huzzah.

“Took you long enough,” he says.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m tired, but I still have to work seven more hours and then wait another extra hour or so for Dad to take me home. During the school year, I usually drive myself to and from work. But in the summertime, I tend to bum rides with my father. I have two reasons for this—one, to save the gas money. And two, because I like being with him on the drive home at night.

Our restaurant is in Northampton, which is about forty miles from the southeast corner of Vermont, where we live. Lately it’s the only time Dad and I have alone together. Usually on these rides, he lets go of the strict chef thing and just unwinds by talking about his day—how the new fish dish went, what other dishes he wants to try, and how much he wants to try to find certain ingredients, like tiny wild “mignonette” strawberries.

Tonight though, when the time comes, I climb into the passenger seat and within five blocks my head’s already leaning on the car window.

“Something’s happened I have to talk to you about,” Dad says, waking me a little.

“What?” I ask, inwardly cringing. This must be about cleaning the morels.

“Julian has been wounded in an IED explosion.”

“Oh,” I say, thrown. So Dad’s not mad at me? Then his words sink in. “Sorry, I’m so tired I can’t think straight. Who is Julian again?”

Dad frowns at me. “Estella’s nephew. The one she raised since he was a boy. He’s a Marine in Afghanistan.”

That’s right. Dad’s new wife, Estella, raised her nephew alongside her son after her sister died. I’ve met her son, Brandon, but not the nephew yet. “How wounded is he?”

“His legs are in very bad shape. He’s in critical condition.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is. They’re planning on airlifting him to a military hospital in Germany until he’s stable enough to be sent to Bethesda. When he is, I want you to go down there with Estella to be with her and lend a hand.”

I blink. “But I barely know Estella. And I don’t know Julian at all.”

Dad holds the wheel and peers down the dark road. “Estella can’t be with Julian all the time. She’ll need help and Brandon and I both have to work. Besides, it’ll be a good bonding experience for you two.”

“What about my work?”

“I’ll get your shift covered.”

Wonderful, I think to myself. “Fine,” I say with a sigh.

“Look, just as a warning, Estella is extremely upset about this.”

“Of course...”

“First they hit one roadside bomb, then apparently as Julian was trying to pull the three others in the vehicle to safety, there was a second explosion. None of the others survived.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes.” Dad looks far down the road, shakes his head and grows quiet. We both sit lost in thought and worry. When we reach the house, I see the light is still on in the kitchen. Estella is usually a very well-put-together lady—manicured and meticulously dressed, an elegant brunette with soft brown eyes and a figure Dad can’t stop staring at. Now, of course, she’s a complete mess, hunched at the kitchen table in one of Dad’s old bathrobes. Her shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes are red and bloodshot. The phone is next to the tissue box. I was thinking I might try to console her, but Dad makes a beeline for her and the two of them aren’t letting go of each other. So, I just tiptoe away.

I brush my teeth, wash my face and hands, strip down to my undershirt and panties and climb into bed. Shelby, my little red-and-white spaniel, is already there waiting for me. I scoot her over a little, close my eyes and think of Estella crying for her nephew at the kitchen table. I think of this guy, Julian, possibly fighting for his life in the belly of a plane somewhere. Then suddenly, I hear yelling.

Chapter Two

“NO!” Estella cries. “I DON’T NEED A BABYSITTER!”

Great...thanks, Dad.

He must be answering her because there’s a pause.

“THIS IS NOT A SIGHTSEEING TRIP,” Estella then yells. “I’M GOING TO BE LIVING IN THE HOSPITAL. I CAN’T BE LOOKING AFTER CAMI FOR YOU AT THE SAME TIME.”

Another pause.

“SO, WHAT WILL SHE DO, SIT THERE IN THE HOSPITAL WAITING TO SEE IF I DETONATE?”

The house is quiet. Okay, I guess Dad managed to calm her down. I text Luke, my boyfriend for the past eight months:

Dad’s asked me to fly out of town with Estella soon. Her nephew’s in the hospital.

His response comes almost at once:

If you’re leaving soon, I want to see you. Meet me on the road in ten minutes?

I smile, text him yes, and throw my clothes back on. Then I tiptoe down the hall to check on Dad and Estella. They’re upstairs in their room now. Fortunately, Estella and Dad never seem to come down before seven. I sneak back to my room, throw on my shoes, and stuff a bunch of pillows under my blanket and sheet, partly to fool them on the off chance one of them does come in, but also partly because if I am found out, at least this way they’ll know I’ve left on purpose and haven’t been kidnapped. Then I climb out the back bedroom window. I wouldn’t leave a window purposely unlocked, but the one on the far left has a broken latch, which makes getting back in much easier. For the past month or so of summer I’ve occasionally taken advantage of it. If Dad ever found out about this, he’d filet Luke and lock me in a tower. It’d be seriously terrible. But so far, we’ve gotten away with it.

Our house has a good amount of lawn. It’s a nice piece of land with forest all around it, a big old house set up on a steep little hill. The garage is a separate building at the bottom of the hill and has spare rooms for storage and Dad’s gym equipment. Just off the garage, there’s a small step-down garden with a footbridge that goes over a tiny stream. Apparently, Dad charmed some old widow out of the place back when I was a baby. I don’t blame him for wanting it.

Finally, I reach the road. Our road is like a long sloping dirt path up a mountainside. It winds past a cemetery and branches off in two different directions. I live down one branch of the road. Luke lives down the other branch. It’s late, pitch-dark as only a small back road can get, and Luke is nowhere to be found.

Fortunately, about two minutes later, I see headlights I hope are his approaching and climb into the brush alongside the curb. The road is narrow, and like I said it’s pitch-black out. The truck stops and Luke flips the light on inside. I run around the front and get in next to him.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.”

Luke’s extremely handsome—tanned skin, black hair and dark brown bedroom eyes. He works in the restaurant with me, on the hot line—one of the three industrial stoves blazing away, and I do mean blazing. I helped him get the job with Dad about six months ago, which was no easy feat given his limited experience. Today was Luke’s day off. “No problem.”

“How’d your soup go?” he asks.

“Fine. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

I tell him about the mushroom incident on the way back to his place.

The house Luke lives in isn’t much bigger than a trailer. He parks and takes me inside through the front door. His parents are asleep, but they have three grown sons, are used to girlfriends who sleep over, and don’t mind if their fourth and youngest, at eighteen, now does the same. We go to his closet of a room, mostly just a dresser and a bed. The bed is one of those cheap ones that feels like it might collapse if you move too much on it.

“So what’s going on with you leaving?”

I fill him in on how Estella’s nephew’s been wounded in Afghanistan, and how Dad’s asked me to fly out with her to see him in a few days. I also tell Luke how weird this will be for me—to be alone with Estella for so long, sharing a hotel room with her and visiting a close relative of hers I’ve never met.

“Can’t she just go alone?” he asks.

“You’d think so. But Dad’s convinced she needs help.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, maybe a week? We’re playing it by ear.”

Luke looks warmly at me and touches my actual ear.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. I’ll just miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

He draws me in closer to him. “I wish I could’ve tried your first solo soup.”

“Oh, sorry—I was so busy, I didn’t think of bringing you any.”

“That’s all right.” He kisses me and pulls at my shirt.

“I was in morel hell making that soup.”

He smiles and kisses me again, sliding his arms around me. I love how it feels when he holds me like this; I just sink right into the comfort of being here. But then after awhile he surprises me by unbuttoning my jeans.

“Uhh...”

“Just a little,” he says.

“But if we start, we won’t want to stop.”

“We’ll stop.”

He comes over me, kissing and caressing me as his hand works its way around to the back of my jeans. Then he shifts me so he’ll have clearer access. I tense up slightly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and we start making out again. His fingers wind up moving closer and pressing against me.

“Ahhh,” I breathe, still highly uncertain—I mean, it feels great and I hate to disappoint him. But when it gets so hot and heavy, it makes it harder to put on the brakes. And sex is something I don’t think I’m ready for yet. “Stop, Luke. Please.”

He does. My eyes open. “See? I stopped.”

I smile. “Very good.”

“Very good as in you liked it?”

I cuddle against him, smiling still. “Maybe.”

“Maybe sounds promising.” He strokes my hair. “Beauty girl.”

He’s sweet. He holds me in his arms and explores his newly-claimed turf a few more times before morning. But at five-thirty his alarm goes off and we have to sneak me back home. The kiss goodbye takes longer than usual this time, because of the new development. He’s obviously extremely pleased about it. He can’t stop smiling.

“You’re a goofball,” I tell him.

“You’re fantastic.”

I kiss him one last time. He draws me in closer, and I climb over the console so I’m pressed into him. The steering wheel is pushing up against me, which actually works in his favor. “Mmm,” he says, hugging me tightly. Luke’s told me he likes having me around—in his bed, on his lap, next to him, near him, beside him. When we were in school together he’d meet me after almost every class and often cut class just to be with me at lunch. But he just graduated and I still have senior year to go.

He gives a small wave and watches me leave. Once I’m back in my room, I shuck my shoes, bra and jeans, thinking about him, how he touched me and how he wants me and what it might be like to let him go further. I don’t know why I’m hesitating with him, exactly. We’ve been dating long enough. Most couples probably would have by now. I just feel like once we do have sex everything will change, get so much more serious. The physical would be nice. But then Luke would want me over there all the time. He’d want me to move in with him as soon as I graduate.... I do love him, but a part of me is concerned it might also become kind of smothering. I don’t know. I guess I just like things the way they are.

I climb into the bed and decide to let myself sleep in. After all, I don’t have to be at work until two. Unfortunately, Shelby is used to waking up and being fed early. She sits next to me, staring at me with her stomach growling until I force myself up on my feet to go feed her.

Shelby’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel—not the most athletic of dogs, but very sweet. She’s about twelve years old now. I’ve had her since I was a little kid. She was a birthday present to me and I love her. So, I wait for her to finish her food, give her new water and then let her out. She has a doggie door she can use on her own, but we’ve gotten into the habit of the full door-opening treatment in the morning. No doggie doors before coffee or something, I guess, I don’t know.

She goes through her freshly-opened door and then turns and waits for me to leave so she can do her business in privacy. It’s kind of cute, but I’m too tired to care. I leave her to do her thing and crawl back into bed to sleep for another hour. After I get up again later, I take a fast shower, change and make my way back into the kitchen, where I find Estella hovering over the stove.

“Morning,” she says. “Coffee?” She’s staring at the little espresso pot and clearly fighting back tears.

Poor Estella. She’s a wreck over this. “He’ll be fine,” I say, realizing this is probably zero comfort to her. “They have state-of-the-art care for our soldiers now.”

Suddenly I’m in a hug. I try to hug her back. But the truth is I was raised mostly by a man and I’m not used to being touched by anyone other than a boyfriend or maybe my aunts the few times I’ve met them. But Estella, I know, is very touchy-feely. Thankfully she pulls away from me pretty quickly. “Sorry, I’m a bit of a disaster.”

“I understand,” I tell her, and suddenly the coffee explodes, boiling over and leaking through the seal. Estella reaches for it with a bare hand.

“No, don’t!” I move her aside, shut off the stove and realize, looking at her, that Estella is barely hanging on. She’s a woman on the verge of a complete meltdown.

“I can’t do this,” she says mostly to herself.

My guess is she thinks her nephew is either dead or on the verge of death and they’re not telling her. Poor Estella. Poor Julian. I glance at the table and see an open photo album there, next to a water glass. She must have just been looking at it. “Are those pictures of him?”

“Yes.”

I go over and take a look. To be honest, I was expecting to see baby pictures, or pictures of him as a little kid, but these must have been taken only a few years ago. Julian looks about my age in the first picture. He’s lounging on the grass in a T-shirt and jeans, all straight nose, cheeks and angular jaw. His toast-brown hair is tinged with blond. There’s a devilish curve in his upper lip. His eyes seem amused—and annoyed. “Wow.”

Estella smiles, obviously pleased by this reaction. “My sister was a knockout. Julian looks just like her.” She turns the page. “See, here he is with his date for prom his senior year.”

The girl is blond, several shades lighter than my own light brown hair, and with eyes far bluer than my gray ones. Also, unlike me, she doesn’t have freckles. “She’s extremely pretty.”

“Yes, his girlfriends always are.”

I feel a stab of something, I’m not sure what. “Was she a cheerleader?”

“Actually, this one wasn’t,” says Estella.

We look through more pictures of Julian during his senior year, the year I’m about to begin. He was in varsity basketball. There are lots of shots with friends and with Estella’s son Brandon. Several are from Brandon and Claire’s wedding. Brandon has Estella’s dark features whereas his wife, Claire, is much lighter, with a round cherub face and short blond hair, so they’re like opposites and look very cute together. I want to ask Estella what happened to her sister, how she died, and how old Julian was when he came to live with her, but now’s not the time. I just keep complimenting how great everyone looks and then Estella puts the photo album away.

Chapter Three

The minute the album is out of sight, Estella’s stress level multiplies by a factor of about a hundred, particularly when Julian’s arrival date is moved up a day, and Estella’s non-changeable flight is therefore set for the morning after Julian will be there. Ultimately, we’re able to convince her that Julian will probably not be conscious or aware when he first arrives anyway—and no, she shouldn’t just pay for new flights or take the car and drive all the way down to Maryland to be there for him when he first arrives. The morning we have to leave, she’s still a mess about the delay, and about the trip in general. She can’t remember if she packed her socks or travel alarm. She can’t find her keys.

“Have a safe trip,” Dad says to her. “Call me when you get there.” He gives her an embarrassingly long hug and kiss goodbye and then turns to me and tells me—in French—to be as helpful as possible. Like this message is so important it requires his native language for added emphasis.

“I will.”

We finally make it into the shuttle van and to the airport and then there’s the stress over the tickets and whether to check or carry on the bags. This, of course, is really all about Julian and how worried she is for him, and nothing I do or say makes her feel any better. I only hope when she sees him, she’ll feel slightly more reassured.

Estella’s going to have a nervous breakdown before we even reach the hospital, I text Luke. But I have to power down my phone for takeoff before he can text me back.

Estella spends the whole flight memorizing maps of the area surrounding the hospital and then shredding her cocktail napkin into tiny little pieces and floating them in her ice water.

“We’ll be landing soon,” I say encouragingly to her. She blinks and nods but doesn’t really answer.

We carried on the bags, so without delay Estella hits the cab line and gets us from the airport to our hotel. There are a lot of hotels within a few miles of the hospital. Estella’s picked out one of the ones within walking distance.

“Let’s just check in, drop off the bags and head right over,” she says. She seems definitely on edge now, almost cranky.

The hospital is just under a mile away, so still a fair distance. The bags hit the room and I just have time to use the bathroom before she’s hurrying me back out again. When she wants to, Estella can really move. I’ve never been left in the dust so quickly outside of a running track before in my life. I have to pretty much jog to keep up with her, and the fact that I’m slowing her down seems to make her bad mood even worse.

“I wish you’d hurry!” she snaps.

Good grief. “Did you hear some news about Julian that has you more worried?” I ask.

Estella glares at me in response. All I meant was did a call come in I don’t know about that has her particularly in a rush. But I don’t bother to explain and she doesn’t care to stop to listen. Then all at once she turns to me when we reach an intersection and are forced to wait for the light.

“Look, Cami. I appreciate your father’s concern for me,” she says. “But this really isn’t the kind of thing you need to be exposed to.”

Oh, so that’s it. She’s still upset I’ve been sent on the trip with her, whereas I’ve pretty much made my peace with it. “I’m just here to help,” I tell her. “What if Julian could use a fresh blanket or a hot meal? I can run out and fetch those things for you. I can go back to the hotel and get something for you, whatever you might need. I can call people like my father or Brandon to let them know what’s going on, so you can focus all your attention on Julian.”

This seems reasonable enough to me and must to her as well, because she considers me before we head into the crosswalk. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she admits.

“Yeah, well.”

“That’s not how your father put it.”

“Dad’s a man. He’s not good with the whole communication thing sometimes.”

“I just hope Julian’s condition has stabilized,” she says.

No idea what this means, but it sounds really scary. “Me too. I’ll do whatever you need to help either one of you, okay?”

She gives me a faint smile and touches my arm. “Thanks.”

From the moment we walk in the front doors, I kind of have to force myself not to freak out—hospitals just aren’t my favorite places. I go out of my way not to look at anything too carefully, but of course it’s all still there in plain sight—the wheelchairs, the gurneys, the nurse’s stations, the doctors with stethoscopes draped around their necks, the curtained-off beds and blue IV machines. And then there’s the smell, that awful unmistakable antiseptic hospital smell. Estella’s shaking so hard, I want to squeeze her hand or something but even though she’d typically like it if I did, now I’m not sure. I think I’ll somehow be interrupting or bothering her.

Julian’s not in the critical care unit anymore, which is good. We find his room, and once we reach the door, I tell Estella I’ll wait outside. She doesn’t even register that I’ve spoken. She’s too locked on what’s inside that room. She’s so drawn to it, to her surrogate son, that I can’t stop watching her. Like a peeping Tom, I linger by the open doorway as she approaches Julian’s bed. There’s another patient in the room with him, but he’s the one who’s closest. “Hey handsome,” I hear her say, very softly. “How do you feel?” All I can see is her back. I don’t even know him and my heart is thundering away.

I can’t hear his response.

She leans over his face, probably to kiss him.

Then she turns away from him, obviously hiding the fact that she’s crying. I feel so bad for her, I go in and hand her the crumpled tissue in my pocket. She takes it and holds my arm. She holds it like she needs it to stay upright. I don’t even notice the patient in the bed, I’m so focused on Estella, and she’s blocking my view anyway. “I’ll get you a chair,” I say. She’s nodding. Trying to keep it together.

“No, don’t sit down,” a garbled voice from behind her says. “Just leave.”

“But Julian,” Estella begins, turning to face him.

“LEAVE!” he cries.

Some nerve. “You know, Estella has been worried half out of her mind,” I say. “She flew down here with her heart in her...”

Holy Mother of God. Estella moves away and I’m looking at her nephew. And I’m praying. Holy Mother of God, I pray. Well, a sort-of prayer. His eyes are so blackened and swollen he must hardly be able to see. His nose is broken and bandaged. His bottom lip is a busted mess. He’s wearing a neck brace. His right leg, covered by a hand-knitted quilt, is cut off just below the knee. His left leg is bare and outfitted with an extremely scary-looking apparatus made of metal rods and pins. The pins have been surgically inserted into his skin, presumably to hold the bones in place. I close my eyes. Holy Mother, ease his pain, I think to myself. Heal him.

“Julian, this is your new step-cousin, Camille,” Estella says.

“GET OUT!” Something is knocked across the room—a book I think.

Estella hesitates, still not wanting to go, but Julian’s so upset he’s throwing things, so I just kind of drag her from the room. Estella’s eyes are brimming with tears. A nurse comes over to us and Estella ushers her away from me. All I get from the conversation is that the nurse will find Julian’s main doctor. Meanwhile, I go about the business of fetching Estella some water. My hands are shaking so hard the paper cup is folding and the water is sloshing around, wetting my fingers. My cell rings. I know it’s Dad calling to see how things are going, but I can’t talk to him now. I can’t talk to anyone. I give the water to Estella, trying to calm myself down by remembering this guy is a complete stranger to me. That he’s probably on all kinds of drugs. This idea gives me some hope. I turn to Estella, who’s staring helplessly at the nurse’s station.

“Estella?” I say to her. “You know Julian must be in a lot of pain. He’s probably stoned out of his mind and has no idea what he’s saying.”

She takes a small sip of water and looks at me. “That’s true.”

Heh. She almost smiles.

“I’m going back in,” she says.

Yikes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. You shouldn’t, though. Just wait out here for me. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all,” I tell her, glad to be able to sit this one out. “I’ll either be here or in the waiting area.”

“I’m just going to go in and sit in a chair.”

“Good idea.”

“He can’t mind that.” She hands me her water cup and goes in.

I don’t hear any yelling, but five minutes later Estella is back out in the hall. “We’ll come back tomorrow.” She’s on the verge of crying again. Just holding it in. Barely. Poor woman. This guy is a major jerk, I don’t care how hurt he is. I take her hand and lead her outside for the walk back. The minute she leaves the hospital the waterworks fully unleash.

“Hey,” I say. “At least you know he’s strong enough to speak.”

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“I mean, think about it. He was hollering pretty good in there. Can’t be too close to death or anything.”

She smiles. Hiccups. I’m scrambling for a fresh tissue for her.

“He’s the sweetest boy. That’s what I don’t get. He’s never yelled at me once in his whole life.”

All the tissues in the world aren’t enough. As soon as we’re in the room she tells me she’s exhausted and taking a sleeping pill for the night. I don’t know how much those pills typically knock you out, but in about half an hour she crawls onto the bed and falls into what I seriously fear is a coma.

I’m not kidding. I fret over her and call Dad, who can’t speak to me because of the dinner rush, and I’m shaking her and I can’t call Luke because he’s working too and she stirs a little and I try to convince myself she’s fine. I call and order a pizza from room service. I realize she’ll sleep through it and it’ll be cold and I cancel the order. Then I realize I haven’t eaten all day and I call back and reorder, adding mushrooms and olives. The room service guy is nice about it.

I flip on the television, turn the volume down low and watch the news and some stupid reality show about a man living off of a pocketknife and pipe cleaner out in the jungle. I read a little of Jacques Pepin’s autobiography—he’s a famous French chef who used to be a hot guy—and the pizza arrives. I sign for it, eat two slices and worry over Estella’s possible coma some more. My phone battery is dead but I already left Dad a message. She did too, I think. I plug the cell phone in to charge it, brush my teeth and wash my face and get into bed.

As I switch off the light, I think of Julian and wonder why he’d tell Estella to leave like that. What could he be thinking? I try to imagine what happened to him—and I have literally no idea. What must it be like to change from a gorgeous, considerate athlete to that mess in the bed?

Poor Estella. I feel rotten for her. She dreamed of life in Vermont, in the country, with a handsome chef husband. I’m not stupid; I know my father’s attractive for an older guy. His brown hair is a little gray, he has a bump in his nose from where it was broken once and a heavy growth of beard he’s always having to shave, but underneath all this, Dad also has the same fine French features as his mother, who was a very beautiful lady. He claims I look just like her, but I’m not sure this is true. I’m five inches taller than she was, for one thing—five foot five, and not as delicate. She was so fragile, she looked like anything would break her.

Dad dated a lot of women after Mom left. Before Estella came into the picture, I’d suspected he’d been intimate with a good number of his mostly-female wait staff as well. It still seems to me like they’re always flirting with him, but then who knows, I could be imagining it.

What would he tell me to do now? He’d tell me to take care of Estella. I think it through. Hope she hasn’t poisoned herself. I switch the light back on, find a blanket and lay it over her. I take off her shoes and she whimpers in her sleep. Thank God, since it means she’s all right.

I climb into my own bed and try to think only of Luke caressing me, his mouth against mine. But images of Julian’s beaten face and those metal rods and bars on his leg keep intruding. Eventually, I fall into a troubled sleep.

Chapter Four

I’m used to waking up early, so I’m already up, showered and changed by the time Estella raises herself back to a state of awareness the next morning. She stumbles into the bathroom after me and I attempt to make coffee in the little coffeepot. I’m not used to making regular coffee—my father never drinks it, he only drinks espresso. He’s a snob, I know, but he’s a French chef so what do you expect? I started drinking it as well when I was in tenth grade and the class load required a few late study sessions. I fiddle with the thing, plug it in, flip the switch and Estella comes out in a towel and gets dressed. I pour her a cup of coffee and she tastes it and drinks it like it’s fine. “I have to go back to see Julian,” she says. “What will you do?”

“I’ll go with you, and stay in the hallway or the waiting room.”

“You’ll be bored there all day.”

I think she’ll be thrown out of the room inside five minutes, but I say nothing about this. I just tell her I have a book and I’ll be fine.

We head downstairs and it occurs to me Estella didn’t touch the pizza. She hasn’t eaten in a long time. “That free coffee in the room was terrible,” I say as we walk to the hospital. “I wonder if there’s a place where we could get a latte.”

She looks annoyed by this, but I convince her to stop at a coffee shop on the way. I get my latte and order two muffins to go with it and hand her one. She takes it without complaint, so I go get a latte for her as well, and then silently offer myself a major pat on the back. For stealth-feeding of the crazed woman.

“It’s probably just the trauma,” Estella says to herself as I steer her toward a table in the back. “They probably have a psychologist he’s working with who specializes in cases like this. I’m sure there are things they can do.”

I want to stay quiet, but my curiosity finally gets the better of me. “So, do you know what condition he’s in?” I try to ask it very gently.

She looks at me and sighs. “He lost his right leg below the knee, of course. His left femur is broken. He has whiplash and a broken nose and a host of other smaller cuts and contusions. There’s talk of possible mild TBI, traumatic brain injury, but that’s unconfirmed.”

“I’m sorry, Estella. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I had to get it out.” She is almost crying. “I should have told you before we even left.” The barista is staring at us. I glare back at her. “The thing is, Julian’s really very lucky, not just to have survived, but to have not been caught up in the blast itself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he was thrown by the force of the second explosion. If he’d been closer to it when it detonated, his injuries would probably have been far worse—shattered limbs, multiple amputations....”

Her voice trails off. Her face is a wall of stress.

“So, the doctors think he’ll recover all right then,” I say, attempting to refocus her on something more positive.

“Eventually,” she says with a sigh, “though he’ll always have the amputation to deal with. He has a surgery today at eleven on his other leg. It’s being fitted with an internal pin.”

“Is he staying in the Marines?”

“He’s receiving a medical discharge.” She looks at me. “You know he’s coming to live with us, right?”

I stare at her, mouth agape. “Um. No. He’s coming to live with us?”

“I thought your father would have told you. He’ll be moving in probably this winter.”

“How long will he stay?”

“As long as he needs,” she answers, fiddling with her cup.

How long is that? I wonder. “Okay, but where is he staying? The house only has two bedrooms.”

“I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that,” she says. “You know your room is the only one that’s downstairs. And your shower is the walk-in kind....”

Okay, wait—I’ve had that bedroom all my life. “You’re giving him my room?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting him use it awhile.”

“And where do I go?”

“I was thinking we could put a bed up in the alcove for you. There’s a closet there.”

“And no door.”

“No one goes down that hallway. You’d have it all to yourself.”

She’s moving me upstairs into a little storage space that’s down the hallway from the master bedroom. My only bathroom will be the small one she uses with just a bathtub. It has almost no cabinet or counter space, and her stuff fills it completely. “Does Dad know about this plan?”

“We’ve discussed it.”

This is unreal. I say nothing.

“Julian will have a wheelchair and crutches. That’s the main reason.”

“Where will all my stuff go?”

“Different places. You can still keep most of your closet. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want, Cami,” she says.

Where else will her nephew go if I say no to this? It’s my room or nothing. Obviously. The stairs up to the second floor are extremely steep, completely out of the question for someone on crutches. “No, it’s fine,” I say with a frown.

Estella looks at me like I’m an angel. “I knew you’d understand.”

Yeah, like I have a choice.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cami. Your father was right to have you come with me.”

“Thanks,” I say, slightly mollified.

“We’ll make the alcove nice for you, and make sure you have room for your things. You can share my closet. I can give you that whole upstairs bathroom.”

“No, that’s your space. We’ll figure out the bathroom thing somehow. Don’t worry.” Okay, this sucks.

“Good,” she says. “Ready to go?”

We continue our trek to the hospital, but both of us are quiet. Estella’s probably thinking about Julian. I’m thinking about him, and losing my room to him. But also, I’m thinking a little bit about my mother—my real mother. She disappeared from our lives when I was eight. She just left. Because of a man. Because she couldn’t take my father or me, I don’t know. Maybe she just hated Vermont. She never calls us. I have no idea where she is now. Does Estella want to fill that role for me, or is this bedroom thing her way of trying to squeeze me out of her and Dad’s life? She has her son and nephew, her own family. And I’m almost eighteen already. I just can’t tell where I stand with her yet. And now, apparently, we’ll be throwing a wounded Marine into the mix.

“Did Julian join up right after high school?” I ask, out of sheer curiosity. The hospital’s just up ahead.

“Yes, he did. He could have had his choice of colleges, but he made up his mind to enlist.” She sighs. “He’s been in the Marines for almost two years now.”

“He’s twenty?”

“Just turned. Let’s go. I want to find out what’s happening.”

We head inside and make our way back to Julian’s room. As we approach the door, I hear voices and cross my fingers that Julian won’t scream at her again. I don’t care if he screams at me, just not at Estella.

“I have to speak to Julian’s doctor,” Estella says. She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to do something about this.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly. “I’ll see if I can track him down for you.”

She goes into a sort of brief trance and then snaps out of it and enters Julian’s room. I watch her, fearing for her sanity and realizing more than ever that my father was right to have me come with her. When a nurse passes, I ask her if we can see Julian’s doctor. Her answer isn’t very promising. I slip into the room just to share the news that the doctor will come as soon as he finishes his rounds, however long that takes, and Estella turns and Julian falls into my line of vision and I’m horrified all over again. I try to hide it, but I’m not that experienced at masking such huge reactions.

“Hey, Julian,” I say with fake cheer.

Estella forces a smile, and Julian says, “Get her out.” He says it quietly this time. He turns his face away.

“I brought some German chocolate for you,” I tell him. I actually brought it for myself, but I want him to have it. I leave it on the wheelie half table that goes over his bed. “It’s a bit bitter. But very rich.”

Julian’s hand covers his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Estella ushers me out of the room. I’m babbling some kind of apology and she’s humoring me instead of being in the room with him like she wants. I excuse myself, head for the lobby and text Taryn, my best friend who’s currently in Los Angeles studying acting at a prestigious summer arts program.

Guess where I am? I type.

PARIS? She replies. LONDON? CANNES? OMG!!! ARE YOU HERE IN L.A.???

NO, I text her. I’m at the military hospital in Bethesda.

HUH? WHY?

Estella’s nephew’s just been flown in from Afghanistan.

HOT MARINE? she texts.

No! He’s a mess. He lost one leg, broke the other...broken nose...neck brace.

I have to wait awhile for the reply. HOT WOUNDED MARINE??

He’s a TRAIN WRECK and a major jerk. He yells at Estella and throws things.

HOT WOUNDED MARINE—WITH ATTITUDE?? Taryn texts.

I roll my eyes and grin, shake my head. You’re insane, you know this.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, I GOTTA GO BRING ON THE CRAZY (ACTING CLASS ;). WAIT, WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE WHEN HE’S NOT A MESS? ACH! STOP DISTRACTING ME WITH STORIES OF HOT, HARD AND WOUNDED PISSED-OFF MARINES! I HAVE TO GO TO CLASS!!!

It feels good to laugh.

Taryn’s crazy—in a great way. Crazy-talented at acting, too. She recently signed with an agent in L.A. who’s sent her on a few auditions, but no big breaks yet. I read my book, and eventually Estella comes in and sits next to me. “Julian is going in for surgery any minute now.” Her face seems to crease up like an accordion, just fold into itself.

“Hey,” I say, as soothingly as I can. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s a good thing. He’ll have a bionic leg. Just think of it.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“It’ll be fine.”

She squeezes my hand. “I have to go back. I don’t want him taken into surgery without me knowing it.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I’ll come get you and we can wait together for him,” she says.

“Sure.”

She goes back to wait with him and I call Luke.

“Hey you,” he says. “How’s it going down there?”

“It’s going okay. I wish I was home.”

“I wish you were home too. How’s what’s-his-name, the nephew?”

“He’s a mess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean his right calf is missing, and his left leg is broken. He’s in surgery getting it fixed now. It’s awful. He yelled at us both to leave the room. Estella burst into tears.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine. Estella took some kind of sleeping pill last night and I was worried she’d killed herself.”

“Yeah, try not to let her kill herself.”

“Thank you. How’s work?”

“It’s lonesome. Boring. All the eye-candy is gone.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m not eye-candy.”

“Yes you are. Hey, a guest found a pit in the cherry granita last night,” he says.

“Oh no! You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. Fortunately, she didn’t chip a tooth. Even more fortunately, you weren’t the one who pitted the cherries.”

Oh wow, Dad must be completely losing it. “Who did it?”

“Dave.”

“Did Dad can him?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. And now your father’s going ape over all of us. At least out there you can keep out of the line of fire.”

I knew Dad would be mad as hell. “I’m in a line of fire of my own. That guy Julian hates my guts.”

“He probably doesn’t want to have people gaping at him. Stay away. You don’t know him anyway.”

“True.” I know Luke’s right. I don’t know Julian, and he is hurt, so of course he doesn’t want me around. But does he have to be so adamant about it? I know I shouldn’t take this personally, but I kind of do.

“When you get home, come for the whole night. Don’t leave at six,” Luke says.

Oh no—now he’s asking for the impossible. “How will I manage that?”

“Tell your father you’re spending the night at a friend’s house.”

“Taryn’s not back yet.”

“Tell him it’s with someone else.”

Who? I wonder. It might be nice to not have to wake up and leave his house so early, but not if it means I get caught. “Maybe. We’ll figure something out.”

I say goodbye to Luke, then call Dad to give him the update.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “How’s Estella?”

“She’s fine. So, Julian’s moving into our house with us this winter?”

Dad pauses. “He’s like a son to her, and he’s going to need some help.”

“I heard about the plan to give him my room.”

“There’s no other place he can go, Camille. We have no choice. Think about it from his point of view. How difficult it’s going to be for him to readjust to life now.”

“I know. But still...”

“You’ll be moving out for college next year anyway,” he points out.

Oh no. Not this can of worms again. After letting me train to be a chef for half my life, my father, in all his wisdom, now insists that doing this for a career is too hard and what I need to make sure I have a good future is a college degree. I don’t want to be anything other than a chef. But Dad wants me to have the kind of “flexibility” and “earning potential” I can get by having both a chef’s capability and an advanced education. I think it’s more about him having to drop out of school to work and never being able to go to a university himself. “Can we not get into this now? Sorry, but I have enough to deal with at the moment.”

“Fine. We’ll discuss it later.”

Again. For the millionth damned time. “Goody, I can’t wait. Hold on, Estella just came in.”

I hand my phone to her, telling her it’s Dad, and the two of them talk for a while. I try not to listen to all the “I love yous.” When she hangs up, we go to the waiting room for the families of people in surgery.

This room is insane. It’s full of stress, thick with it. The occupants have that look in their eyes, like they’re watching each minute tick past. “Maybe we should wait in the hall,” I suggest to Estella.

“No. I have to be here in case there’s word.” She flips through a magazine without really looking at it and sets it down again. “Julian’s being adamant about his privacy. He doesn’t want to receive any fanfare or get any press. No hero’s welcome or calls of support. He doesn’t even want to get in contact with old buddies of his who are still at the base.” Estella’s speaking to me, but to herself really. Her eyes are distant. “I think it’s for the best, him wanting to keep everything so quiet. But I’m not sure.”

I don’t know what to say to this. I wish I did. “Vermont’s a good place for privacy,” I finally—and lamely—tell her.

She squeezes my hand and we sit. For what feels like the longest block of time in my entire life we sit. Finally, the doctor comes in and Estella goes over to him.

“He’s in recovery,” she says when she returns to me. Once again, it strikes me that Estella, who’s usually so well put-together, seems frazzled. Her clothes are sloppier, just jeans and a blouse. Her long dark hair is a mess in its ponytail. She’s wearing almost no makeup, other than the mascara she’s rarely without, and this is smeared. Her eyes are puffy and faintly bloodshot.

“Go see him,” I suggest.

She sighs and her shoulders sag. “You come with me.”

“Estella, that’s not a good idea. Julian doesn’t want me near him.”

“But I need the moral support,” she says, and I go with her. We head for recovery and the first thing I see when I spot Julian in the room full of post-surgery patients is that he’s vomiting onto the floor.

Estella forgets I exist. She races to him, finds towels and throws them over the vomit, then wipes his face with more towels. She’s gentle about it. He’s hanging his head over the bed rail and she’s cradling his face, repositioning him back on the pillows. This isn’t even her son, and yet she is a beautiful mother. Suddenly I don’t just like her, I admire her. She’s stepping on the towels—the ones covering the vomit. She doesn’t care. She just wants to smooth his hair and fix his blankets and touch little bits of him.

The nurse comes over and starts taking care of him, and meanwhile Julian takes Estella’s hand and holds it. I turn away and leave them to go back out and wait in the hallway.

Chapter Five

While the patient continues to be alternately silent and surly, we spend the entire rest of the trip making complicated plans for how integrating Julian into our lives, when he comes to live with us this winter, will work. Namely, which items of mine will stay downstairs in my closet and bathroom and which things will be moved elsewhere.

Years ago, Dad had the upstairs of our house remodeled to be a giant master suite. There’s an office and bathroom off the master bedroom for my father, and an alcove office and bathroom down a short hallway that’s now Estella’s. Her little alcove, my new room, has a tiny closet, a low sloped ceiling, a sliver of window, half a wall and, as I’d pointed out to her in the coffee shop, no door. Before he remarried, Dad used to use this useless little space to keep leftover chairs and boxes of paperwork. It’s way too small to hold all my stuff, so my things will be kept partly in my old room, particularly in half of the closet and most of the bathroom cabinets.

Once we’ve finalized the details of moving me out, Estella’s next fixation is how to redo the room so that her rude and recovering nephew is most comfortable. Estella used to be in banking in New York before she got married and she’s finding, I think, the housewife thing to be a bit dreary, so the idea of having her boy living at home with her seems to have given her some sense of purpose. Dad and I are always at school or work—at least Julian will be there to keep her company. As long as he doesn’t go back to biting her head off, it should be nice for her.

Guess who’s moving in once he’s well. Into my room. I text Taryn from the airport.

HOW COZY, she texts back. I THOUGHT HE WAS JUST A NEPHEW.

He’s more like a son to Estella. She raised him. Now she’s planning to give him my room b/c it’s downstairs.

WHERE DO YOU GO? THE BASEMENT?

Close. The upstairs landing.

UNREAL. BTW, I’M AT THE WORST DANCE EVER. NO ONE IS HERE!

Hey, at least it has the potential to be fun—which is more than I’ve got. We make it back to Hartford in what I would tentatively call good spirits. It’s a Tuesday night and Étoile is closed, so Dad meets us at the airport. Estella pours the whole plan out on Dad’s lap as soon as we get in the car.

“Are you sure this is all right with you, Chris?” she asks. “Having Julian live with us?”

“Of course,” Dad says. “It’s no problem.” Estella smiles—but Dad’s return smile to her seems a little fake to me. This is just a guess, but I suspect Dad secretly isn’t any more thrilled about Julian moving in than I am.

He certainly doesn’t seem to be paying very close attention to the details of what Estella’s telling him.

“Are you listening?” she asks at one point.

“Yes, of course,” he repeats.

She gazes at him and touches his arm, his knee. I’m kind of wishing she’d shut up and let the man drive. I’m carsick. I have a headache from hearing it all twice now. As soon as we come to a stop in the driveway, I jump out of the car. Home Sweet Home. Happy Happy. I’m off to what thankfully is still my room for at least a few months longer when I hear Dad call me.

“Cami?”

“Yeah?”

“Go ahead and sleep in tomorrow. I have to go to Boston and the restaurant can live without you. Take a day off.”

“But it’s my soup night.”

“I’ll give you Thursday. This once.”

I thank him, say good-night and head for my room just as they start for theirs. Wow...I just got bumped up to a Thursday, and Dad and Estella are going to their room already. They must really want to be alone tonight. Thank heaven for newlyweds. After petting Shelby for a little while, I call Luke and he answers on the first ring. “I’m on my way,” he says without preamble. I haven’t told Luke this yet, but I’ve been thinking about it and my plan is to stay later than six, like maybe seven or eight. I think that should probably be safe enough, and it’ll make Luke happy and still keep my absence from being discovered.

Why take the chance on the later time? Because I miss him. Because I’ve had a shitty week and want to feel loved and adored by him. Not sex yet, but more. Maybe more.

I own one black lacy thong and bombshell of a bra—if a 32B can ever be a bombshell—and I’ve never worn either of them. Until tonight. I change into the fancy underwear, put my jeans and top back on and then slip back down the hallway to check on Estella and Dad. They’re in their room with the door shut. Good. Sometimes I think maybe I should leave a little note, like on my pillow so if they do ever find me gone at least they won’t worry I’m off doing something worse. But I guess because Dad’s respected my privacy for so long, I really don’t think he’d ever come into my room. Estella’s actually the more dangerous one—who knows what she’ll do. Anyway, I offer up a silent prayer to the sneaking-out-on-your-parents gods and slip out the window.

Luke’s waiting in his truck not twenty feet from the house, headlights off. I head on over and he reaches to open the door for me. “Welcome back,” he says once I’m in. “How was your flight?”

“Fine.” I’m feeling shy all of a sudden. Like I’ve been gone for a month. And I’m also nervous about the underwear. Third base, yes. Home run, no. Will that work? I mean, I know where third begins, but where exactly does it end? Luke drives over to his place and we go to his room. “Is that guy doing any better?”

“I don’t know. I guess.” I tell him about the surgery and Estella’s big plan for Julian to move in the house with us once he’s well.

“It doesn’t sound fair that you have to give up your room.”

He seems really concerned for me. Glad someone is. “I know. It sucks. But he needs to be downstairs. So...”

Luke strokes my arm. “So...”

I kiss him, wrap my arm around his neck. “I missed you.”

He kisses me back for a long time. “I missed you, too,” he says, catching his breath. “Beauty girl.”

I wrap myself around him, and he lifts me onto the bed. Normally Luke opens the blinds just so he can see me a little. But now the room is pitch-dark. And there’s something exciting about him like this, in the blackness, about things happening to me that I can’t see, can’t anticipate. His lips never leave me, his hands fumble with my clothes. He finds my sexy bra and opens the shade to let in some light. “Oh, man.”

I smile, unbutton my jeans and lower them a little, so he can see just the top of the thong. His eyes get wide.

“Not all the way.”

He nods.

“Can we do that? Do more, but no sex?”

“Yes. Definitely. Don’t worry,” he says, and he’s all over me. My jeans hit the floor. I’m shaking and he’s kissing me, caressing me. It’s great, but then he reaches inside the thong, and I start to get nervous.

“Trust me,” he whispers.

I do trust him. Basically. We’d visited third that one night before I left, but not like this. He strokes me and presses his thumb against me and eventually all the pleasure and fear and new sensations just get too intense.

“Stop, Luke,” I whisper.

“Cami, please.” He grimaces.

“I’m sorry. I just feel scared.”

“Why? Don’t be...”

“We’re going farther,” I say, stroking his face.

“Not by much,” he grouses.

Eventually, I cuddle in against him and we fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning, I’m awake before he is. He’s only in boxers. This is new also. I mean, me being naked except for a thong is definitely new, but I was so preoccupied with what was happening to me last night, I didn’t really realize what was going on with him so much—that he’d undressed. I was too scared to touch him last night. But now, with him asleep and unaware, I figure I can do some quiet exploring.

He feels nice. Surprisingly so. I don’t know what horrors I was expecting, but this doesn’t seem so bad. There’s something kind of tender about touching him like this. His eyes open. They seem wide and warm to me. He doesn’t speak or move, like he’s afraid he might spook me. I stroke him a little and his eyes close and he covers my hand with his own, to show me what to do. He looks so cute, so focused on this. I lean over and bite his ear. The effect is strong; I knew it would be. He pulls me in, intent now on the instruction. He whispers things to me, like harder and faster. I’m not sure I want to keep with it, I think I’d stop, but he’s fixed on this, working my hand and it’s too late to stop. My chest hurts and feels kind of heavy. He starts whimpering, grips me hard, and then lets loose.

His breathing is jagged after. His mouth is different when he kisses me, softer, wetter. I just don’t think I was ready. I wasn’t ready. And even though I really care about him, part of me suddenly feels a little sleazy—and very delicate. Like maybe I’d cry if he said the wrong thing. But he doesn’t. He does all the right things, drying my hand with a bath towel and being extra sweet to me. He touches my face and kisses the freckles, which are mostly across my nose, but some do stray up to my forehead. Eventually we make it out of the room.

“Morning, Cami,” his mother says from the kitchen.

“Morning.” Luke’s mom knows I stay the night, but usually I’m gone before she wakes up. Running into her like this is embarrassing, particularly after what her son and I have been up to this morning. But Luke doesn’t seem to notice or mind his mom being there. He’s holding my hand. The other hand.

“I’m taking Cami home, Mom,” he says, and ushers me to his truck.

I stare out the window.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I’m better than fine,” he says with a smile, and kisses me goodbye. I climb through my window, change my clothes and crawl into bed. I was the one who unbuttoned my jeans in the first place. I asked for it. Plus, it’s no problem. It was just my hand. We’ve been dating a long time. Sneaking out to see each other at night. Is it selfish of me to have liked the part where he was caressing and touching me more than the part where I was touching him? I guess he has a right to have what he wants, too. I mean, what was he supposed to do, stop and have a discussion with me about it? Hey baby, I’m going to have you give me a hand job now. You okay with that? Hmm...maybe. But there’s no stopping him from wanting it now. Which is fine. Yeah, of course it’s fine. I want to please and satisfy him. It was nice—kind of tender, in an intimate, erotic way.

* * *

As it turns out, third is a place Luke and I can both manage to be at for the rest of the summer. He’s happy because he’s more satisfied, and so am I—once I get more comfortable with everything. It works. At least for us it does.

Meanwhile, too soon the first day of school appears, sprouting up like a zit just after Labor Day. The only good thing I can see about my senior year is that because of a cleverly-arranged work-study program, I’ll be able to leave each day at 12:05. I guess I’ll also be glad to see all my friends. Although I work constantly in a place where almost no one’s my age, I do have friends. They’re all just linked to my best friend, Taryn. And because she’s flying in from L.A. at the very last moment possible, I don’t get to see her until twenty minutes before first period.

I wait for her big return into my life at the same place I always wait—the lunch table near our lockers in front of C Building.

“CAMI!” she cries, rushing up to me. She looks fantastic, even thinner than usual. Taryn always reminds me a tiny bit of the Mademoiselle doll I had as a kid. She has the same long black hair, pretty round face and thin legs. She even has the same wardrobe—cool hats, vests and shoes.

“Hey! Welcome home! You look fantastic.”

“Thanks,” she says, blinking her eyes and posing for invisible cameras. “I’d say it’s great to be here. But it really sucks.” She grins and her eyes shift to my left. “Derek! You grew facial hair!”

“Sure did.” He strokes his upper lip, clearly pleased. “Hey, Camster.”

Derek, like all of Taryn’s friends except me, is a theater geek. “Hey. Nice mustache.”

“TARYN!” more theater friends cry. Taryn’s the prettiest, best-dressed and most talented actor we have at school by far, and now she’s a senior, so this should be her year. We’ve been friends since kindergarten.

“Look, I have to run,” I say. “I’m in A Building.”

“Okay, see you babe!”

I don’t understand why teachers feel they must first hand you a printed syllabus and then go over the thing in detail out loud as well. Do they think we, as seniors, don’t know how to read? Anyway, I spend the next four hours listening to what’s right in front of me, secretly texting Taryn how much it sucks to be back, and wishing I was someplace—just about anyplace—else. Then at noon, a miracle—I’m done for the day.

LUNCH? SAME TABLE? Taryn texts.

Unlike me, Taryn does have fifth and sixth-period classes, so she has to stick around. I could hang out awhile with her anyway even though I don’t have to, but really I just want to leave campus and she has all that catching up to do with her theater friends. Our lunch table will be swamped for the next few weeks at least. Can’t. I’m meeting Luke, I text back. I head to my locker to stash my books. No homework yet, thank God.

FOR A QUICKIE?

I roll my eyes. NO!! I text her.

NO QUICKIE?? TELL ME IT’S NOT JUST FOR FOOD ;)

Are you done yet? Come over! Luke texts me.

On my way, I text back and head to his house.

Luke transferred to my high school as a senior last year—he was the hot transfer student in need of a job, preferably as a chef, and I’m the daughter of the guy who owns Étoile. When Taryn heard Luke needed work, and then caught him staring at me at lunch one day, she arranged for us to run into each other—literally. I helped him get the job, he took me out for ice cream to thank me, and we’ve been together ever since.

“Hey, how was school?” he asks. Tight T-shirt. I approve.

“Just like last year, only I’m done at noon and you weren’t there.”

He smiles. “Are you hungry? I made yogurt.”

“From scratch?”

“Yep.”

Luke’s new to professional cooking, but not new to the kitchen. He’s always loved to cook, wants to be a career chef, and loves to come up with little surprises like this for me. “What flavor is it?” I ask.

“Strawberry.”

He takes a container from the fridge and hands it to me with a spoon. “Mmm...” I say. “This is great. Thanks.”

“Sure.” He turns me around so I’m facing the kitchen counter and my back is to him.

“What are we doing?”

“Nothing. Eat your yogurt.”

“I don’t mind if I do. How was your morning?”

“Dull.” Suddenly, Luke comes up behind me and reaches up my skirt. Just like that. No kissing and caressing first. He just goes for it. And maybe because it was so unexpected, because it’s in the kitchen in the middle of the day and while I’m eating lunch, it doesn’t work for me. I start wondering if maybe something’s wrong with me. And the worry only makes it worse. Now I’m not eating the yogurt, I’m leaning against him and hoping he’ll either get better at doing this in a hurry, or else leave me alone and let me finish my food. “You’re awfully quiet,” he says. “You want me to stop?”

“Um...” He pulls his hand away and presses up against me. Yeah, the kitchen in broad daylight just isn’t working for me at all. “Can we go to your room?”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Kind of. It’s weird for me in here.”

“I thought you’d like down-and-dirty in the kitchen.”

“No,” I say. “I think I prefer sweet-and-tender in the bedroom.”

He picks me up off my feet.

“Wait!” I cry.

“What?”

“My yogurt!”

He rolls his eyes and grabs it for me.

A few hours later, he’s across the worktable from me at Étoile, stuffing cubes of fresh ginger into a duck carcass. “Watch where you stick your hand, there.”

At first Luke thinks I’m correcting him. Then he realizes I’m making a joke about his hand being up a duck’s ass, and he grins.

I watch him truss up the thing and go back over to his station. Sometimes, when he has to prep something, he’ll work near me, but usually no. And he doesn’t sit near me during the staff meal. He sits with the hot-line guys. I sit with the prep cooks. It’s like the French restaurant version of our high school lunchroom. And the principal, in this case, my father, is currently on his way to my table.

“How was school?” Dad asks.

“Fine.”

“What are your classes again?”

“English lit, statistics, human anatomy and U.S. government, which switches to economics in January. Can I have Saturday night off to sleep over at Taryn’s?”

“You’re already on the schedule.”

“But I haven’t seen her all summer.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” he says. Which means no.

Chapter Six

About a month ago, Julian transferred from the military hospital in Bethesda to a veterans’ rehab center in Boston. Since then, Estella and Brandon have both been regularly making the two-hour drive down to visit him. So when I see Estella’s SUV in the garage following her most recent visit, I don’t think much of it. I grab my backpack, go inside and call out to her but get no answer. Strange, but whatever. It’s after eleven, I had school this morning and then work since two and there’s still homework I haven’t done. I get some cheese and crackers from the kitchen and my cell beeps. It’s Luke:

Whatever happened to nighttime visits?

I smile. I haven’t really stayed out all night at Luke’s since school started. For one thing, it’s tiring on a school night. For another, I prefer not to take the risk of getting caught—meeting up at lunchtime is far safer.

Sorry, it’s late and I still have homework. School tomorrow.

I send the reply to Luke, look up and am startled to spot Estella standing just inside my bedroom doorway. “Oh,” I say. “Hey, what’s up?”

First, I see the wheelchair beside her. Then, I see Julian. In my bed.

His face looks much better than it did in June. The swelling is way down, the bruises are gone, and so is the nose bandage. His leg and a half are covered by my lacy white comforter and pink floral sheets.

“Um...what’s going on?” I ask, completely confused. As far as I knew, Julian wasn’t due here for another few months.

“Julian decided to leave early,” Estella says with a frown.

I look between the two of them. Obviously, this is the source of a disagreement.

I turn to Estella. “I don’t understand.”

“He went ‘AMA’—Against Medical Advice—and checked himself out before he should have,” she tells me with an even bigger frown.

“Sue me for wanting to get the hell out of there,” Julian retorts.

“It’s better than being here, where we have no real facilities to care for you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Well, it’s nice to have you here earlier than expected,” I offer, trying to keep the peace. Guess I’m giving up my room ahead of schedule. “You look much better now.”

Julian glances at me, gets an indecipherable look on his face, and then turns away. “Oh good,” he says sourly. “What a relief.”

Huh. I decide to overlook his foul mood. “I hope the room’s all right.”

“Yeah, thanks for cleaning it.” His voice is snide.

“I didn’t expect you until December.”

“Oh, you mean then you wouldn’t have covered the floor with all your dirty clothes?”

Okay, that’s it. “No, I’d have thrown you a party. Because you’re such a swell guy.”

“Cami,” Estella chides. “Apologize.”

I think about telling her I won’t, and then sigh and grit my teeth. “Sure,” I say reluctantly. “Sorry, Julian.”

“Does that mean you’ll clean it up?”

“Unreal,” I mutter.

“Screw you.”

“Edgy comeback. That one take you awhile?”

“Get out,” he says.

“Wouldn’t you like me to get you a nice pink nightie to go with those sheets first?”

“I said out!”

“Oh dear, the big tough Marine has ordered me out. I guess I’ll have to wring my hands and scuttle away now.”

“Does she ever shut up?” he asks Estella.

“Do you ever act like a normal human being?”

“Cami,” says Estella, pleading now.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I say and I vacate my room. The cot I was going to use is in the alcove already, because that’s where we keep it, but it’s folded up and not made yet. It’s on wheels and a metal frame and is not very comfortable. The plan was for me to keep some of my stuff downstairs, so that means it’s a space Julian and I, in a way, will be sharing. And he’s not just moving into my room, he’s also living with us. He’ll be at every meal, here all the time. Is life at home going to just suck now because of him?

I open my books and set about finishing my homework. I don’t have much, but that’s probably because it’s the start of the year and they really haven’t started piling it on yet. I check my cell and see Luke’s sent me a text, continuing our earlier conversation about my coming over.

Homework? He’s written. Come on. I miss being with you. An hour at lunch isn’t enough.

Hmm. A night with Luke would be nice. It has been awhile; he does have a point. But how am I supposed to sneak out now with that jerk camped out in my room? I text Luke about my predicament. Thanks to this new complication, using my window tonight seems out of the question. And using the actual door feels way more dangerous to me. I could try to open it. But it’s a long walk down those steps out to the street if I don’t leave from the back of the house. Plus, there’s a far greater chance of being seen. By Dad. Who would kill me.

I try to explain all this to Luke, but he keeps working to find a way. He’s telling me to wait an hour and then do it. That the nephew guy won’t rat me out. No, he’ll just start hollering at me and wake the whole house. Eventually, I hear Dad come home.

Please... I want to fall asleep with you, hold you... Luke texts.

I smile. Oh man...

Fine, I text back. Meet me in five.

Unreal. This whole thing has disaster written on it in so many ways I can’t even stop to count them all. You’d think at least we’d wait for a weekend. But no. Why be rational? Why be logical?

I creep down the stairs—old house, steep stairs and lots of them squeak so this is tricky. I then sneak to Julian’s new room, my ex-room and, without knocking, open the door. It’s perfectly quiet. Julian must be asleep. So I tiptoe like a criminal, heart hammering in my chest, to the window with the broken lock. The things you do for love, let me tell you. Then of course I realize I’ve left the door open, so I tiptoe back over to shut it and my phone buzzes. Loud as hell in the otherwise silent room. Terror seizes me. I’m the worst criminal in the history of the planet and his damned wheelchair’s in the way. I push it aside. I’ve got one leg through the window when I hear a voice say, “I’ll lock you out.”

My heart slams against my chest—for a freak moment I think it’s Dad, and then I realize it’s just our charming new houseguest. “I’ll spit on your food,” I tell him and head out to Luke.

* * *

Six o’clock the next morning, my thankfully still-virgin self is climbing back in the window. Julian’s there, in my former bed, whimpering and grimacing like he’s either in pain or else having a nightmare. Maybe it’s both. Should I wake him, I wonder, offer him a pain pill or heating pad or something, or just let him sleep? My God, this poor guy. What horrors are revisiting him? Probably ones I can’t even imagine. He’s so young, just a few years older than me and look what he’s been through already. As much as I don’t want him here, I feel bad for him. “Coop,” he whimpers, no idea why, and suddenly, I feel like I’m violating his privacy.

I leave the room, thinking about what an utter bitch I was to him. I mean, he deserved something but I think I went overboard. Ugh. I wish I hadn’t antagonized him back. We’re living in the same house after all, and he’s really hurt. I go into the kitchen and make myself an omelet, toast, juice. Then instead of eating it, I sigh and load it all on a tray with a fork and napkin.

I knock lightly on the door.

No answer.

I go on in, figuring I’ll leave it on his night table.

“Estella?” he says.

Oh great. He’s awake. “No, it’s me. I have your breakfast.”

He winces. “I don’t want it.”

“I think you should try to eat it.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think.”

“Come on, it’s good.”

“Just bring me my wheelchair.”

“You forgot the magic word.”

“Fuck you.”

Love how he ups the swearing sans-Estella. “That’s not it.”

He looks at the food and at me, and frowns. “I’m not eating that dainty little herb-speckled piece of crap.”

Huh. He’s insulting the food now? “Don’t tell me the big tough Marine is afraid of a little spit.”

“Why, are you offering to swap some with me? Because I’ve got something right here you can spit on if that guy last night wasn’t enough for you.”

I flee the room, face burning. I meant my threat to spit on his food, of course. I never even thought of the other way it could be taken. I hurry off to school. Later that morning, I get a call from Dad. My first thought: Julian ratted me out about spending the night at Luke’s house. I answer, heart pounding. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Are you in class yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“I wanted to check and see if you were okay in the alcove. And with Julian being so suddenly in our lives.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, because neither of us have much choice in the matter. “Are you?”

“He needs a place to recover. I don’t mind giving him one if he can’t take the hospital.”

“He’s a bit of a jerk.”

“He’s dealing with a lot now, Cami. A few months ago, he was fighting in a war zone. Let’s you and I both just be nice to him and give him his space.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. “Works for me.”

“Good. Incidentally, I’ve decided to let you make your crab soup this Saturday,” Dad says. Dropping a bombshell on me.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

I thank him and stare at my phone in amazement after the call ends. Did Dad just say he’s letting me go with one of my soups on his busiest night of the week? Is this to make up for me suddenly losing my room and having to deal with Julian in our lives? That works. I’m not proud; if it’s a gift, I’ll accept it gladly. This is huge. I mean, who cares about what happened this morning with the stupid breakfast. I’m making my crab soup this Saturday—yay!

Chapter Seven

We’re all sent to check out copies of Hamlet at the start of English class. Joy.

“Good morning,” says Mr. Hague once we have our books and have taken our seats. “What you have before you is arguably the finest play ever written. Now, how many of you have seen Hamlet, either onstage or in a film?”

I raise my hand a little while I secretly text Taryn:

Julian moved in last night. That’s the Marine. He’s an even bigger A-hole than I remembered.

I HAVE TO SEE THIS GUY! Taryn texts back.

Why? I type in.

“How about you, Broussard?” asks Mr. Hague.

Shit. I hide the phone. What did he just ask?

“What it’s about,” the boy next to me whispers.

Oh, okay. “Uhh...It’s about a prince who finds out his father, the king, has been murdered by his uncle.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Hague says. “Hamlet is a play about a young man who believes his father has told him to commit murder. He spends most of the play, as you’ll soon see, wrestling with this request. The theme of parental pressure is still very relevant today. Have any of you ever been compelled by a parent to do something extremely difficult—not murder, I hope, but something else you wouldn’t have done otherwise? Let’s see a show of hands from any of you who’ve faced a difficult parental demand—and no, I don’t mean stuff like being forced to take out the trash.”

A few people laugh. I think, of course, of how Dad wants me to go to college. We’ve only talked about it once since I was in Bethesda, and then he just said he wanted to make sure I had my application done on time for the University of Vermont. I told him I would. Even though I don’t see the point of an expensive four-year interruption to my culinary career. I mean, why on earth would he of all people not understand this? For him, cooking schools are a waste. Okay, I get that, no cooking school. But why college? So I can sit behind a desk and stare at a computer all day? What if I want more than just to earn money to pay the rent and make sure I get home at a reasonable hour? Besides, I hate school. I’m sick of it. All I want to do is cook and maybe come up with a culinary style of my own someday.

I raise my hand in response to Mr. Hague’s question about parental pressure. Most of the class does as well. We start going through the play and it kind of builds on me, this idea of kids throughout history being forced to do things because of a parent. Stay. Go. Do this. Do that. Guess they even had pushy fathers back in Shakespeare’s time.

“You still with us, Broussard?”

“Yes.” I snap out of my daydream and try to focus on the first scene of Act I until the bell rings. English is my last class, so after it I’m free to leave for the day. But instead of heading straight to Luke’s, I have to stop at home first to pick up a clean uniform. I’m constantly washing my chef’s coats, because I’m a bit of a slob, truth be told. It drives Dad crazy, but he’s given up trying to get me to be neater as I work.

LUNCH TODAY! Taryn texts. DON’T SAY NO!

Sorry, can’t today—but soon! I text back.

I head inside, throw my backpack on the floor―and see Julian there in his wheelchair, staring up at the kitchen cabinetry and frowning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his room, so this is a bit of a surprise. “Hi,” I say. “Do you need help getting something? A glass?”

He scowls and turns away from the cabinet. “No.”

I watch him wheel to the door.

“Wait, my backpack’s in...”

“Goddamn it,” he says.

“...your way.”

“Can you pick up the damned thing?”

I go to move it, and my copy of Hamlet falls out. I bend to get it, and find myself at eye-level with Julian’s legs.

He’s in sweats, the right leg of which has been cut off just below the knee. There’s a white cotton sock-type covering on his half leg.

“Stop it,” he says.

“Stop what?”

“Staring.”

I feel my face start to burn. “Sorry. Are you in a lot of pain from it?”

“From what, having to deal with you?”

I sigh and set my bag on a kitchen chair. “Must you always be such an asshole?”

“Must you always leave your crap all over the place—your bag and wussy play...”

“What wussy play?” I ask.

“Hamlet,” he says with a grimace. “Total wuss. Once he received the order to kill his uncle he shouldn’t have hesitated.”

Wait, hold on. Is Julian trying to make actual conversation with me here? “Maybe it wasn’t that simple for him,” I suggest, having seen the movie.

Julian gives me a hard look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And we’re back to arguing. “It just means maybe he didn’t find the prospect of killing someone so easy.”

“You think I find killing easy?”

I stare at him in shock. “I never thought anything even remotely like that, Julian. Look, I know you like picking fights with me. But this one’s ridiculous.”

“You’re saying I’m ridiculous?”

Before I can think of an answer, we’re interrupted. “Oh, Cami, you’re home for lunch. How fantastic.”

Enter Estella—the Broussard family’s very own UN peacekeeper.

“Did you take your noon meds?” she asks Julian.

“I’m not a child,” he snaps. “I don’t need you checking up on me.”

Estella is quiet. Shelby comes in behind her and wags her tail at me. I reach down to pet her. “Hey, baby.”

“And by the way, that ‘baby’ of yours needs to stay off my bed,” Julian says.

Hah. Good job, Shelby. Way to annoy him. “She thinks it’s my bed still. That’s why.”

“While I’m in there, she needs to stay off it.”

I glance at Estella, who gives him a scolding look. “What?” he says. “She wipes her ass all over my pillow.”

“She does not.”

“She does, too. She snores and drools and makes a hundred disgusting noises.”

“Cat person,” I say, petting Shelby still.

“I’m not a cat person. I love dogs. Normal dogs who aren’t annoying and disgusting.”

“I’ll have you know Cavalier King Charles spaniels are a highly desirable breed.”

“Yeah, sure they are,” he says.

“Don’t worry. Shelby’s mostly deaf, but she’s not blind or stupid. I’m sure she’ll start avoiding you soon enough.”

“Good, because I’m kicking her to the carpet from now on, I don’t care how old she is.”

“Yes, let’s pick on the old and infirmed,” I say, glaring at him. In his wheelchair.

Julian’s face clouds over, and suddenly, I feel slightly guilty.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Estella says. “Let’s just try to survive lunch, all right? Julian, we’ll do our best to keep the dog out of your room.”

Julian turns his back on both of us and heads for the door. “Good.”

Chapter Eight

The one night a week we have dinner as a family at home is always Tuesday, because on Tuesdays the restaurant is closed. Now, Estella is a lovely person in many ways. I’m pretty much glad Dad married her. He seems very happy with her. But the woman can’t cook. And living with a French chef husband and his chef-trainee daughter, this can make for some pretty amusing meals.

Me, I’m cool with eating just about anything. I mean, I like good food but I’m not a picky eater. I’m fine with normal stuff. Dad, though, is extremely picky. Like, if there’s a grill mark that’s a bit too dark on the meat he won’t touch it. If the crust is cut off the sandwich but a tiny bit remains, he’ll have to cut that bit off as well or he won’t eat it. And Dad is not only ridiculously selective about food, he’s also snooty about it. He only buys and brings home the freshest and best ingredients. Estella, on the other hand, is fine with bottled salad dressing and mayonnaise from a jar, for example. She thinks it’s kind of silly to bother making things like that from scratch.

Oh yeah, one last thing noteworthy about all this: Dad’s an utter power monger and it takes an unparalleled degree of restraint for him not to “help” Estella with dinner. When he does, he takes over. And Estella insists she can do it herself. So, sorry, this is mean of me, but when she pulls her tuna casserole out and I notice it has a topping of crunched-up potato chips on it, I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. Not at the food—damn, it’s probably the best-looking thing I’ve seen her make. No, I’m laughing because Dad hasn’t come downstairs and seen this yet.

Estella’s made tuna casserole, I text Taryn. Dad will DIE.

IF HE PASSES OUT, she texts back, I VOLUNTEER TO GIVE MOUTH-TO-MOUTH.

Yes, she thinks Dad’s hot. She thinks everyone’s hot.

Gag! I text back. Ugh. Major gag.

WHERE’S HOT WAR VET?

Here he comes now. Should I tell him you say hi?

THAT DEPENDS. IS HE COMING OR IS HE...coming?

I force myself not to imagine this. Then I text back:

Hmm... I’ll ask ;)

WHY? CAN’T YOU TELL?? she replies.

I blush and fight not to smile.

Julian wheels in while I’m still bright-faced. He’s in a Semper Fi T-shirt and cutoff sweats. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

I hide the phone. “Nothing, just happened to see your face there.”

“Ha, ha. So amusing.”

Estella’s made a salad—a bagged salad with iceberg lettuce, the kind Dad has repeatedly told her he dislikes. “Are you and Dad having a fight?”

“No,” she says, plunking down ranch dressing—in a bottle—which he also can’t stand and has kind of an irrational campaign against. “Why?”

I look at Julian. This is our first Tuesday dinner together, so he has no idea what my problem is. Sorry, but this is too funny.

The thing that’s not funny at all is Estella must know where this is headed. Is it a test? Maybe I should warn Dad before he comes down. I mean, if they’re in a fight, I’m supposed to be on Dad’s team, aren’t I?

Suddenly the doorbell rings. “Are we expecting company?” I ask with a frown.

“Yes, it’s Brandon.” Estella hurries to answer it.

Brandon has his mother’s dark hair and eyes, but he’s a big guy, like maybe six foot two, and he’s built like a linebacker. He’s also super-cool.

“Hi, Bran!” I say.

“Hi, kiddo. Where’s Jules?”

Estella moves out of her son’s line of vision. “Here he is.”

“Hey, you rebel.” Brandon gives Julian a light shoulder punch. “So you broke out and left early?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck them, eh?”

“Something like that. Where’s your wife?” Julian asks, clearly wanting a subject change.

“Had to work late. What’s cooking, Ma?”

They head into the kitchen.

“Tuna casserole,” Estella tells them. “You two used to love it.”

“What do you mean, used to?” says Brandon. “Get me a fork.”

“Let me serve it first.”

“I’ll just check it.”

“Wait ’til it’s cooled off at least,” she chides.

Okay, the dish is a family favorite. Yeah, I have to forewarn Dad not to be too snooty about it. “Excuse me a minute,” I say. I run into him halfway up the stairs.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Dad,” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Brandon’s here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And Estella’s made tuna casserole.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Tuna what?”

“Casserole. It’s Brandon and Julian’s favorite dinner from when they were little. They think the recipe’s perfect and doesn’t need fixing or improving.”

“Right,” he says with a slight wince.

We head back down together, and I see Estella serving up a huge square of casserole and plating it. I think it’s going to be for Brandon or Julian—but she passes the plate to Dad. Dad’s eyes get wide for a fraction of a second. “Wow. Looks good.”

“Thanks.” She serves even bigger squares to her son and nephew, and a pretty big one to me.

Actually, I can see why Brandon and Julian like this. She uses cream of mushroom soup, and the good tuna and frozen peas and chopped mushrooms. The potato chip crust is pretty damned fine. Better than breadcrumbs would be. This dish is fun.

“This is good, Estella,” I say.

“Yeah, delicious as usual, Ma.”

“Yeah, thanks,” says Julian softly.

“Sure, thank you for thanking me.” She seems happy. Then she spots Dad. Who, unfortunately, is picking at the ingredients with the tines of his fork and probably hoping the whole plate will somehow manage to vaporize into thin air when Estella’s not looking.

Dad sees his new wife’s obvious anger. And eats a bite.

Okay—this could just be because I know him really well, but if Estella had served Dad roadkill, I don’t think his reaction would be much different. Same pathetic attempt to look fine with it in his mouth. I’ve seen him wear this expression before. Most Tuesday nights for the past few months, in fact. “Mmm,” he says.

Yeah, right. Dad’s Adam’s apple’s about to come jumping out of his mouth waving a white flag of surrender. But I have to give him some credit—he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Oh look,” Estella says. “You didn’t die.”

“Why would I die?” he asks, taking another tiny bite. “I can eat American food. This dish is excellent.”

“Great. Then I’ll have to make it more often.”

Dad pales. “So, what did you do in school today, Cami?”

Poor Dad. So much for me trying to warn him. I try to think of something entertaining to talk about from my day, and then realize I have just the thing. “We played body part hokey-pokey in human anatomy.”

“You played what?” Dad asks.

“Body part hokey pokey. You know, put your ante brachium in, put your ante brachium out, put your ante brachium in and shake it all about.”

“What’s an ante brachium?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Wonderful.” Dad frowns.

“It’s a forearm,” Brandon says with a grin. “How many times did the guys tell you to put your glutes in?”

I smile. “Nope. Butts and such weren’t allowed.”

“Lumbar then,” he says.

“Lower back was a favorite, but most girls just stopped doing it.”

“This is what you go to school for?” Dad asks.

“Then we used play dough to make pretend people. We had to make a pledge not to do anything perverted with our play dough people and then we were able to divide them into cross-sections.”

“You made a pledge?” Estella asks.

“Yes, it was hilarious, actually. The teacher said it and then we all had to repeat it after her.” I decide to recite it for them to help lighten the mood. “I will not make a play dough penis. I will not make a male and female body and then smush them together. I will not put my play dough person in any compromising positions. I will not take two males or two females and put them together.”

This works—Dad’s fighting not to laugh. Estella’s hiding her mouth behind her hand. Brandon’s laughing outright.

Only Julian remains unamused. “Let’s see, the last time I played hokey pokey and used play dough, I was in what grade, Estella?” he asks, deflating everyone’s good mood a little.

“It was just one day of fun,” she chides.

I turn to Julian. “You do remember what that is, right? Fun?”

He looks coldly at me. “I can think of some things I’d like to do to your dog that’d be fun.”

“Why, can’t you even control a little dog?”

“I yell at her but she doesn’t listen.”

“She’s deaf. Of course she won’t listen. Just kick her very gently on the rear and she’ll scoot away.”

“Kick her? Do your eyes work for anything except cooking and using play dough?”

Great, what was I thinking telling the guy with the amputated leg to kick something? Dad gives Julian a sharp look. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but then he doesn’t have to. Julian catches the silent warning and seems a little surprised by it. I’m not. Dad doesn’t like other people giving me shit—just him, and maybe Georges, if it’s related to cooking.

Brandon is watching all this with interest. Dad and Julian mostly seem to avoid each other. Dad works such long hours, they rarely see each other, and I don’t think they’ve actually spoken more than a few words to each other since Julian got here. But then, until tonight, Julian hasn’t really made himself part of the family.

“Pass the salad,” Dad says to me.

Um. Okay. I hand it to him. He peers into the bowl. Sees the bagged iceberg lettuce with the pre-shredded carrots and red cabbage, makes a face, takes a miniscule amount and hands it back to me.

Estella passes him the ranch dressing—ranch dressing...from a bottle.

“Thanks,” Dad says, taking it hesitantly from her.

“This is a perfectly normal meal, Chris. Every other person who lives in America would be fine with it.”

“I am fine with it,” Dad lies.

“Bullshit.”

Brandon makes strained conversation with Dad about downtown Northampton, because he lives there and Dad works there. Then, as I’m taking my plate to the sink, Julian’s wheelchair rolls up behind me.

“Move,” he says.

Okay, wait—Dad and Estella asked me to be nice to him. But does this mean I have to put up with whatever rudeness he dishes out? I decide no. “Hold on, wait your turn.”

“Just take this for me.”

“Why, can’t you do it yourself?”

“It’s a dirty plate and I’m in a wheelchair.”

“So? You can put your own plate in the sink. It’s an easy reach.”

“Not with you in the way. Oh, no. Here comes your animal.”

I take Julian’s plate from him and set it on the floor for Shelby. She’s thrilled.

“I’m not getting that now,” he says. “No, Bran, don’t you get it either.”

I leave.

“We’re not getting that!” he yells.

Suddenly I realize what Dad will do if this keeps up—he’ll open the restaurant on Tuesdays. Next Tuesday, I decide, I’d better offer to lend Estella a hand. Make the salad for her at least. I get my backpack and pass Julian and Brandon in the hall. “The plate’s still there,” Julian growls at me.

“And your point is?” I walk around them and head up to do my homework.

Dad and Estella are still arguing in the kitchen. Man, I wish my upstairs alcove had a door.

* * *

Despite all the fighting over dinner—or maybe because of it—ugh—I’m awakened late that night to the unmistakable sounds of Dad and Estella, particularly Estella, having sex. My face burns and I take my pillow and blanket with me to the downstairs sofa—the sofa that’s like maybe ten feet from Julian’s door. The door is ajar. I don’t hear anything.

Dad and Estella are upstairs, thankfully way out of earshot. The house has its creaks and things but it’s fairly quiet. I’m trying to arrange the blanket in a way that’s comfortable and trying not to think of what drove me down here in the first place when I hear a noise from Julian’s room. A crash that sounds like breaking glass. I hesitate for a second, and then hurry over.

“Julian?”

There’s no answer.

I poke my head in and try it louder. “Julian?”

Still nothing. Crap. I flip on the light, and my eyes take in several things at once. First, my water carafe is now a mess of broken glass on the floor that’s not supposed to get wet. Second, the arm he’s currently using to shield his eyes is streaked with blood. And third, he’s having what seems to me to be the tail end of a panic attack: his breathing is short and fast. I’m thinking hyperventilation, paper bag. “Shut it.”

“You’re bleeding,” I say, ignoring him.

“I said shut the light. And get out.”

“And I said you’re bleeding.”

He glances at his hand. His face looks strained and is covered in sweat.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

“No, don’t. Just go.”

I ignore him and go into the bathroom to get him a towel. There are a lot of pill bottles on the counter. I scan them all and bring him two that say they’re for pain, one to help him sleep and one for anxiety, just in case he needs it. Or are those for when he’s reliving being bombed? Or is that what just happened?

“Here,” I say, handing them all to him. “I wasn’t sure which you wanted.”

He opens one of the bottles with a shaking hand and swallows a pill dry while I go back for bandages and some water.

“Fortunately for you, I have tons of supplies for this sort of thing,” I call out from the bathroom. “I’m always getting cut and burnt.”

He stares at the glass of water blankly after I bring it to him and then shakes his head like he doesn’t want it.

“Nightmare?”

He looks warily at me—to see if I’m teasing him, which I’m not. At all. I sit on the edge of the bed near him with my bandage box. “What are you doing?” His tone is mildly panicked.

“I thought I’d fix your hand.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Come on, let me see it.”

“No. Just leave me the stuff.”

Sheesh, man. “Okay.” I give him the box of supplies and then get up off the bed and start picking up pieces of broken glass. Meanwhile, Julian is doing the world’s worst job of bandaging himself. Obviously he’s a leftie.

He catches me looking at him. “Done gawking at me yet?”

The color on my face heightens, but I force myself to meet his gaze. He’s in the same sweats and Semper Fi T-shirt he had on at dinner—he must have fallen asleep in them. “Nope. Not quite yet.”

“Well, I’m not your personal sideshow.”

Interesting comment. “You know, you could be,” I say. “It’s an idea. Your over-the-top rude thing works pretty well. What you really need is an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. That way you can roll around in your wheelchair hurling insults and shooting seltzer at me.”

“Ha, ha,” he says. “Very funny.”

I move in a bit closer to inspect the pathetic bandaging job on his hand.

“What?” he asks.

“That thing isn’t even on you,” I say. “It’s falling off.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“Did you think I’d need to be asked?”

“Don’t you have a hot date with the window about now?” he says.

“Do you want me to help bandage your hand or no?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer at first. “No. Now get out of...”

He stops midsentence, probably because I’ve decided to ignore his stubborn pride and not let him bleed to death. Instead, I’ve sat down and taken his hurt hand into my lap. I’m studying the cut. “This is deep. How did you hurt yourself so badly?”

“I have a knack for it.” His voice isn’t bitter, exactly. More like hollow. I glance at him, and he turns his head away.

I look back at the cut. “I think you need stitches.”

“I don’t need stitches.”

“Maybe I should wake Estella.”

“No, don’t,” he says. “Let her rest.”

Hmm, he’s concerned about Estella getting her rest? This must be a remnant of the old, pre-injury Julian—the considerate one. I take the bandages and start wrapping his hand up, but as soon as the tape is down he yanks his arm away. “You’re done.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” he mutters. “Now get out.”

I return to the couch, leaving Mister Personality to himself.

Chapter Nine

There’s this dish I’ve been playing with in my mind for the restaurant—a beet and goat cheese Napoleon, only instead of it being just red-white-red-white, I want to make it with golden beets as well. Actually my idea is to fan the thing in a spiral like you’d fan a twisted tower and use halves of both red and gold beets so the colors swirl around. I’m planning to plate it with micro greens, a muscat orange vinaigrette dressing and candied pecans. The ingredients are fairly easy to prepare. It’s the assembly that’s difficult.

I’ve already roasted, peeled and cut the beets into little rectangles when Dad comes over to me. “The restaurant is closed. Perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed. This is for you to try.”

“Hmm.” He frowns and watches me stuff the herbed goat cheese into a pastry bag. I’ve added mascarpone to it to make it the right consistency.

“You’re making me nervous,” I say.

“Too bad.”

“But this is the hard part.”

“So?”

I sigh and take a red beet rectangle and a golden beet rectangle and align them so they’re matched up.

“We need to talk about college,” Dad says.

“Not now.” Pastry bag with a star tip. Damn, do I want the star tip or the regular one? Dad’s eyeing me. Rectangle—star tip—is that too busy? Yes. I take the cheese out of the bag and Dad’s eyebrows go up.

“We really should take a trip up there so you can see the school,” he says, “have an interview.”

“No thanks. The interview’s optional. I opt out.” I get the tip I need from the pastry department, replace it in the bag and start again.

“Keep it small,” Dad coaches.

“I am keeping it small.”

“Smaller.”

“Smaller?”

“Oui—un petit morceau.”

Okay. I line up the next pair of rectangles so they’re about twenty degrees turned to the left. They tilt on the goat cheese. “Merde.”

“Keep going.”

I add another dot of goat cheese and Dad’s right. It helps with the balance. “This isn’t going to work,” I mutter.

“It might.”

“It’ll tip.”

“Keep going. Try it.”

Okay—I add the next layer. Twenty degrees more to the left. And it starts tipping.

“With a college degree you have options.”

I’m sick of hearing this. So, I ignore it. “Maybe I should just make it a pyramid or something.”

“No, keep going,” Dad says. “It’s working.”

I add one more layer and it starts falling apart. “Damn it.”

“Tomorrow you’ll try again.”

“I can’t. I have school. You remember school—that which you are forcing me to do for four more years?”

“It’s better than making this mess.”

“It wouldn’t have been a mess if you hadn’t been bothering me.”

“You’re going up to Burlington with me.”

“If I go will you add my Napoleon to the menu?”

“No. The dish needs work.”

I grit my teeth and say nothing.

“Clean up your mess.”

“I’m not going to UVM with you.”

He looks at me and frowns. “I don’t want you to just be a chef all your life. Work so hard. Never have time for your children on evenings or weekends or holidays. You’re a woman. You’ll be a mother. Cooking is okay when you’re young, but as you get older you’ll need something with regular hours and security. You should go to the university. Work part-time as a chef while you’re up there if you want. But at least get the degree so you have a way to make something else of your life when you get older and your priorities change.”

I’ve heard this speech before. Many times, in fact. “Uh-huh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying again.” My fingers, I realize, are the problem. I switch to toothpicks.

“Less goat cheese as you go higher.”

“Yeah.” I use less. When I get the final layer on, I glance at Dad. He’s completely focused on my creation.

“Et voilà!” I say. “Ta-da!”

Dad smiles—and the whole thing topples over.

* * *

That Sunday morning, I decide to treat everyone to a batch of homemade muffins for breakfast. I like making them with Greek yogurt, but all we have on hand is sour cream, so I just use that. Once the muffin base is ready, I decide on adding apples to the centers and streusel to the tops of each. They’re in the oven when I see Dad come down and head outside for a morning run. He hasn’t mentioned the trip up to Burlington since the other day—fortunately. I really don’t want to have to go tour the school and do all that. I’m still planning to fill out the application. Mostly to keep him satisfied and because filling it out doesn’t seem all that difficult. Just one application, to the state school—a few essays and I’m done. Of course, I still need to figure out what I’m really going to do. I can’t just stay in town dating Luke and working at Étoile my whole life.

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