Chapter 15

 

 

 

Luke

 

 

“Hey! Hey! It’s Brooklyn. You know the drill. Leave a message at the beep!”

“Fuck,” I end the call with that muted curse before tossing my phone on the soft leather of the worn couch I inherited from Rocco.

Storming to one of the large windows overlooking the building next door, I press my hands against the glass.

“Why?” I whisper to myself. “Why the fuck are you avoiding me, Brook?”

The answer is obvious. She married Dennis days ago, and now, she’s taken the step of putting even more distance between us. Ignoring my calls and text messages isn’t new for my ex-girlfriend.

Every time we broke up, she’d pull that trick.

I’d set out on a quest to find her. I know it fed something inside of her when she’d hear from our mutual friends that I was desperate to talk to her.

I was back then.

Now, all I want are answers and a roadmap for the future.

The sound of keys jingling behind me turns me right around.

There are two people who still have access to this place. Rocco is one, and that’s because he owns it. The other owns my heart, so I gave her a key so she could stop by whenever she wants.

“Lucas?”

Her voice has a slight tremor in it now that wasn’t there when I was a kid, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

I run a hand over the front of the gray T-shirt I’m wearing. Luck must be smiling down on me today because it bears the Calvetti’s logo.

Marti, my beautiful grandmother, spots me once she rounds the corner from the foyer.

I sprint toward her because she’s got a bag in each hand, and I know they’re not light. The food she prepares has substance to it.

“Hey, Grandma,” I call her by the name I rarely do.

She’s Marti to all of her grandkids. That started when Rocco was born, and the tradition never waned.

It’s not a vanity thing. She’s proud of her role as the matriarch of the Calvetti family. Marti suits her.

She wiggles both hands in the air as I reach for the bags. “I cooked a few things for you.”

Judging by how full the bags are, I’d say this would keep me fed for a week. There’s enough here that I can share with Afton.

I brush that thought away with a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Marti instantly picks up on the sigh. “Are you sick?”

I jut my chest out. “Do I look sick?”

She gives me a slow rake from my shoes to my head. “You’ve lost weight.”

I huff out a laugh. “I haven’t.”

She pats my flat stomach with her palm. “I say you have. Eat something.”

“I had scrambled eggs an hour ago.” I lean down to kiss the center of her forehead. “Do you want coffee?”

“I had a cup with Rocco and Dexie this morning.”

That makes sense. Marti lives in a brownstone across the street from my oldest brother, his wife, and son. Rocco bought the home as a gift for Marti. It’s become our family’s hub for our bi-monthly Sunday lunches.

I take off for the kitchen with my grandmother on my heel. A barrage of questions falls from her in the slight Italian accent I’ve come to love more and more. “What’s wrong? You’re sad, aren’t you? Is it work? Did something happen with that woman you broke up with?”

There it is – the expected question about Brooklyn.

Marti knows what that relationship entailed. She saw me through the ups and downs of it.

I shove both bags in the fridge before I turn to face her. “I’m good, Marti.”

Leaning back against the counter, she crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re lying.”

I mimic her stance. “I said I’m fine.”

She drops a hand to the hem of the blue blouse she’s wearing. The color matches the fine streaks in her hair. They were an addition after she met Dexie. The pink streaks in my sister-in-law’s blonde hair inspired Marti to venture outside her comfort zone.

“You weren’t fine when you had lunch with Dante.”

I was hungover and still aching from the sting of Brook marrying Dennis. That pain has lessened, but I haven’t lost it completely.

I know Marti well enough to sense that she’s not leaving here until she gets an answer from me, so I give her what she wants. “Brooklyn got married.”

Her blue eyes widen. “If it’s not to you, I’m happy for her.”

“Ouch.” I rub the center of my chest. “That hurt.”

She reaches up to cup a hand over mine. “She has never been the woman for you.”

My grandmother rarely holds back her opinion. I’ve always appreciated that. I value her thoughts, but this is different. “It’s complicated.”

That brings her a step closer to where I’m standing. “Because of Auggie?”

Hearing his name drops my head down. A burst of raw emotion spurs through me, becausefuck, I miss him.

“Lucas.” Marti clutches my hand in hers. “I know how much you love that boy, but he’s not your son.”

Maybe not biologically, but I’m the only father figure that five-year-old has ever known. He’s never called me Dad, but I’ve taken on that role in every way that matters.

I was there when August was born, and sat next to him when he blew out the candle on every single one of his birthday cakes. 

Brook and I weren’t together when he was conceived. We’d been apart for more than a year at that point, but his birth drew us back together. She needed someone to help, and I stepped up.

I always stepped up for Auggie even during the on and off periods with Brooklyn.

Marti leans closer to me. “You did everything you could for him. You loved Auggie with all your heart. I know that, but things with his mother weren’t good.”

Scrubbing a hand over my forehead, I take in those words. Rocco has said them to me. Nash has too.

“Love should bring joy to your heart,” she says softly. “It should feel safe and strong. Each quarrel should end with understanding and every day with a kiss and a promise that tomorrow will be better.”

I swallow hard, not knowing what to say. I didn’t experience any of that with Brooklyn.

“She made her choice.” She nods decisively. “You need to accept it.”

They are wise words coming from the woman who has always kept me on the right path.

I need to change the subject because everything she said made sense, but the pull inside me to talk to Brooklyn is still there. 

“What did you bring me to eat?”

That lures a wide smile to her lips. “All of your favorites.”

I laugh. “So one of everything on the menu?”

“Almost.” She winks. “I didn’t put any manicotti in there. I want you at the restaurant eating that soon.”

“I’ll make that happen,” I say as I take her in for a quick embrace. “I love you, Marti.”

“I love you, my brave boy,” she whispers. “Your mama would be as proud of you as I am.”

I hope that’s true. I was too young when she died to remember anything about my mom, but if I can make the rest of my family proud, I’m on the right track.