Page 60 of When the Smoke Clears

“Luke made pasta,” I say.

“Did he now?” Gabe grins.

“Yes,” Luke answers. “And I made enough for two. You can grab a burger at the diner.”

Gabe blinks. “Cold, man.”

For a second, guilt pricks at me. Then I think about the kiss by the lake, the way Luke’s hands cradled my face like it was something worth protecting, and I’m selfish enough to stay quiet.

Luke’s phone chimes. He glances at it and grimaces. “Shit. I’m having dinner with my family tonight. Completely forgot.”

“At eight-thirty at night?” Gabe asks.

“My father thinks it’s fancier if it starts later,” Luke says dryly.

Gabe rolls his gaze. “That tracks.”

Luke turns to him. “Can you stay with Isla for a while?”

“Sure. But didn’t you just have a family dinner?”

“This one’s for my dad’s birthday.” Luke scrubs a hand over his face. “He’ll consider it a personal attack if I’m late.”

“Make sure you don’t forget the salad,” Gabe teases.

“No need,” Luke mutters. “It’s at my parents’ mausoleum. Catered. Over the top. There won’t be a single dish there I recognize as actual food.”

“That sounds nice,” I say softly. “Not the mausoleum part. Just…everyone together.”

I grew up watching other people’s families through glass—noisy dinners, overlapping conversations, arguments that ended in hugs instead of silence. Luke’s house was the only time I ever got to press my hand against that glass.

“You’ve met my family,” he says. “It’ll be a shit-show.”

A small laugh escapes me. “Tell Eden and Savannah I said hi.”

Gabe flashes a grin. “Tell Sav I said hi, too.”

Luke points at him. “Stay away from my sister.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Gabe shoots back.

Luke’s expression softens when he looks at me. “I’ll tell them,” he says. “You going to be okay?”

“Sure,” I lie. “I’ll eat with Gabe.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Gabe says, already reaching for a fork.

“Talk soon,” Luke says, hesitating for the briefest second before heading for the door.

The cabin feels bigger the second it closes behind him. Emptier, too.

The pasta is good—perfectly al dente, rich sauce, garlic just right—but without Luke here, it tastes like fuel. Something to keep me from screaming.

“Back when you lived here,” Gabe says between bites, “was there anyone you had a big falling out with? Someone who might hold a grudge?”

The question is casual. It lands like a stone.

“My whole life here was one long falling out,” I say. “With my mom. With this town. With myself.”