Chapter 21: Dinner
The text from Joe came through just as Svet was debating between jeans and a dress. Door’s open. Grill’s fired up. Don’t knock. A flame emoji followed. She went with the jeans, dark wash and fitted, and a simple black top that did interesting things with her neckline. She felt a low, nervous buzz in her stomach. It was the good kind, the anticipatory kind she hadn’t felt in years, if ever.
His house was a renovated bungalow in Toluca Lake, shaded by an old olive tree. The front door was, as promised, unlocked. She pushed it open, the smell of searing meat and charcoal hitting her immediately. Her mouth watered.
“Joe? It’s me,” she called out, stepping into the cool, tiled entryway.
The voice that answered wasn’t his. It was higher, polished, with a melodic lilt that felt practiced. “He’s just grabbing another beer!”
A woman appeared from the direction of the living room. She was willowy, with artfully messy chestnut waves and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She wore expensive-looking athleisure wear, the kind meant for lattes, not lunges. Svet recognized her instantly from a team charity gala photo she’d once stalked on Joe’s Instagram. Isla. The ballet dancer. The one who’d lasted almost six months.
A cold knot formed in Svet’s gut, hardening the buzz into something brittle.
Isla’s gaze swept over Svet, a quick, appraising inventory that ended with a faint, dismissive curl of her lip. “You must be the neighbor,” she said, her tone suggesting Svet had come to borrow a cup of sugar, and the wrong kind at that.
Before Svet could correct her, Joe emerged from the kitchen, a bottle of craft beer in each of his massive hands. His expression was tight, his shoulders set in a hard line. He looked at Isla, then at Svet, and the annoyance in his brown eyes shifted into something softer, tinged with apology.
“Svet,” he said, moving past Isla as if she were furniture. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She kept her voice even, but her mind was racing. The old scripts, dusty and well-worn, clamored for attention. See? This is what happens. You’re just the next in line. He has a type, and it’s not you. She shoved them down.
“Isla just stopped by,” Joe said, placing the beers on a side table. “Unexpectedly.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” Isla chirped, gliding forward to stand too close to Joe. She placed a manicured hand on his forearm. “Thought I’d see how my favorite lineman was holding up. You never answer my texts.”
Joe didn’t shake her off, but he didn’t acknowledge the touch either. His eyes were locked on Svet. “We have plans,” he said to Isla, his voice flat.
“Oh, I can see that.” Isla’s laugh was a tinkling bell. “A little home-cooked meal. How sweet.” Her eyes flicked back to Svet, the sweetness in her voice turning saccharine. “Joe always did like to play house. It never really stuck, though.”
Something in Svet snapped. It wasn’t a loud snap. It was quiet, final, like the click of a lock. The cold knot dissolved, replaced by a clean, sharp clarity. She was tired. Tired of the Chloes, tired of the Islas, tired of her own history whispering doubts in a voice that was starting to sound pathetic.
She didn’t look at Isla. She looked at Joe, at the patient tension in his jaw, at the way he was waiting, letting her see this, not hiding it. Letting her choose.
Svet walked past Isla, her boot heels clicking on the tile. She stopped in front of Joe, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, to smell the cedar-and-sweat scent of him over the charcoal. The kitchen counter was right behind him.
Without a word, she reached up, her fingers finding the silken knot of his tie—a deep blue, probably picked because she’d once said she liked it. She gave it a gentle, firm tug, pulling him down those few crucial inches as she hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the counter. The movement was smooth, deliberate.
His eyes widened, just a fraction.
She kissed him.
It wasn’t a sweet, greeting kiss. It was all claim. Her lips parted, her tongue finding his, and she poured every bit of that clarity, that defiance, that sheer enough into it. One hand stayed fisted in his tie, anchoring him to her. The other slid into the short hair at the nape of his neck. A low, rough sound vibrated from his chest into hers. His hands, which had been hanging at his sides, came up to grip her hips, his fingers digging in possessively.
He kissed her back, just as hungry, just as final. The world narrowed to the taste of him, the scratch of his stubble, the solid press of his body between her thighs.
When she finally broke for air, she was breathless. Her eyes fluttered open, half-lidded. She kept her face close to his, their foreheads nearly touching, their ragged breaths mingling. She didn’t turn her head. She spoke to the room, her voice husky and spent, aimed like a dart.
“He’s a little busy tonight.”
From the periphery, she saw Isla’s perfect posture go rigid. Joe’s hands tightened on her hips. His lips trailed a hot path down the column of her throat, a silent, emphatic agreement.
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then the crisp sound of Isla’s expensive handbag being snatched from the console table. “You’re predictable, Joe,” Isla said, her melodic voice now thin and sharp. “Always trading down.”
The front door opened and slammed shut with a force that rattled the framed photo on the wall.
The echo died. The only sounds were the distant hiss of the grill on the patio and their own breathing. Joe didn’t move from the space between her legs. He lifted his head from her neck, his eyes searching her face. He looked wrecked, his lips swollen from her kiss, his pupils blown wide.
“Svet,” he breathed, the word full of awe and something like fear.
She loosened her death-grip on his tie, smoothing the wrinkled silk with her fingertips. Her heart was a wild drum against her ribs, but her mind was preternaturally calm. “Your steak is probably burning,” she said, her voice still uneven.
He let out a shocked burst of laughter, the tension in his shoulders dissolving. He rested his forehead against hers, his big body shaking slightly. “Let it burn.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, a slow exploration that felt like a thank you. When he pulled back, his gaze was serious. “She shouldn’t have been here.”
“I know.” And she did. She’d seen it in his face the moment she walked in. This wasn’t a Chloe-repeat. This was a ghost he hadn’t bothered to properly exorcise, and it had walked in uninvited. “But I’m here now.”
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming it. It was the boyish, unguarded smile she rarely got, and it made her chest ache. “Yeah,” he said, his hands moving from her hips to cradle her face. “You are.”
He helped her down from the counter. Her legs felt like jelly. He kept an arm around her waist, holding her to his side as he led her through the living room toward the sliding glass door and the patio beyond. The setting sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and purple.
“I’m sorry about… the drama,” he said quietly, grabbing a pair of tongs to rescue two very well-done ribeyes from the flames.
“It’s not your fault.” She leaned against the patio table, watching him. “I’m the one who just mauled you on the kitchen counter.”
He smirked, flipping the steaks onto a platter. “You can maul me anywhere you want.” He glanced at her, the smirk softening. “That was… the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ve played in three playoff games.”
She felt a blush creep up her neck. “Good.”
They ate at the patio table as the sky deepened to indigo. The steaks were charred on the outside, perfect within. The broccoli was, indeed, microwaved. It was the best meal she’d ever had. He kept a hand on her knee the whole time, his thumb rubbing slow circles on the inside of her leg.
Later, with the dishes soaking, he led her to the couch. They didn’t turn on the TV. He just held her, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her like living blankets. The silence was deep and comfortable.
“You were a virgin,” he said after a long while, his voice a rumble in the dark. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, part of an ongoing conversation they’d been having without words.
She tensed, just for a second. “Yeah.”
His arms tightened. “And I’m… I’m not your first bad experience with guys. Not by a long shot.”
Another statement. She nodded, her hair rubbing against his chin. “Also yeah.”
He was quiet for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then he spoke, his lips moving against her hair. “I’m not going anywhere, Svet. You pushing past Isla tonight… that meant something. To me.”
The word she couldn’t say hung in the air between them, heavier than before. But for the first time, the fear of saying it was outweighed by the terror of not having this. His honesty was a mirror, and she couldn’t look away.
She turned in his arms, facing him. In the shadows, she could just make out the earnest lines of his face. She didn’t say it. Instead, she reached for him, her mouth finding his in the dark, pouring everything she couldn’t yet voice into the touch. It was an answer. A promise.
He understood. He always did. He met her kiss for kiss, touch for touch, until the only history that mattered was the one they were writing, right here, in the quiet dark of his living room.