Gran is sitting in her chair when we come in. Christmas music plays softly from her radio, and I can see the slight movement of her shoulders, which tells me she’s using the new crochet hook I got her. It took a little bit of work for her to use her other hand to hold the yarn, but it’s been working for her, and she’s halfway through a scarf now.
Her head swivels as she cranes to look up at us, and her grin turns wolfish when she sees the man with me. “…andLuca!”
“Hello, Emilia,” Luca says, holding out his gift for her. “Merry Christmas.”
When we got in the car and I saw the gift in the back with my grandmother’s name on it, I’d turned around and sat perfectly still in the front seat, staring out the windshield, trying not to think about it.
Those tickets. And now his gift for my grandmother.
Luca being thoughtful.
Luca’s hands on me last night, his desperation, the pure wanting in his eyes.
I help Gran open the gift, and she reveals two balls of organic alpaca yarn from the nearby farm. She settles it over her lap and runs her fingers over it while we talk. For something to do with my hands, I get up and make hot chocolate. Luca relaxes back into his chair, laughing with her like they’re old friends.
“I’m just sorry I don’t have something for you,” Gran says, chiding me as I come over and set her hot chocolate next to her—in a mug with a lid so she won’t spill it. “Wren didn’t tell me the two of you weretogether.”
I freeze for a second, but regain my composure.
Nobody else would notice it, but when I turn around to grab the other two mugs, Luca is staring at me, those brown eyes serious.
I should have known better—my grandma loves gossip sites, and spends more than enough time on Facebook. If that wasn’t enough, I’m sure her little group of gals at breakfast are into celebrity gossip.
Of course she heard about Luca and me. My face flushes when I think about her seeing the pictures of the two of us—and it’s quickly followed by a sticky, uncomfortable layer of shame filming over my heart.
I don’t like lying to her.
Just like I hadn’t even thought about Luca’s family when we were deciding what to do, I didn’t think about Gran. What itwould feel like to lie to her about this. The possibility that she would find out about our fake relationship and think it real.
She likes Luca. And it’s going to break her heart when we eventually “break up.”
I spent so much of my life lying to her. When I was with my dad, lying was the standard. He’d bred into me that it was good to fudge the details—tell her the wrong country, lighten up the truth about what we were up to.
And when I finally got away from all that, telling the truth was something I had to work on. Had to figure out on my own. At first, it felt raw and tender, like telling the truth about anything—even just my own preferences—was a sort of armor removal.
Now that I’ve gotten to the point where I can be genuine with Gran, it feels like a return to poison to lie again.
Later, when we’re leaving the nursing home, Luca catches my arm. We stand together out front, snow falling softly around us, and he looks at me like he can see directly into the center of my head.
“I’m sorry you have to lie to her,” he says softly. “I would understand if you wanted to tell her the truth. And I would trust her to keep the secret, if that’s what you want.”
It’s too much. Too intimate.
It should feel good that another person knows me this well and cares enough to pay attention. But it doesn’t. It makes me feel vulnerable, wide open.
So, I do what I’m best at.
“I mean…” I pull my arm out of his hand and laugh at my own joke. “I don’t think she’s ever signed an NDA before. It might be exciting for her.”
Luca presses his lips together briefly, eyes roaming my face. I focus on taking everything and stuffing it down as far as I can.
I have a good poker face. I just need to remember to use it.
After a second, Luca forces a laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’ll have my guys write one up for her.”
It’s a joke, but it lands strangely, and walking back to the car feels like wading knee-deep in an emotion I don’t want to even acknowledge. Things are shifting between us yet again.
And I hate losing my footing, even for a second.
