Page 58 of Revived
Chapter 19
Luke
I’m going on a date, for the first time since I was in my early twenties. As I knot my tie and check my reflection in the mirror, I focus on trying to stifle my nerves for what awaits me later this evening.
Rachel and I have been seeing each other behind closed doors since the end of April, and here it is, the middle of June, several months since she entered our lives and awakened the dormant organ in my chest. My heart has only beat for one woman and my son since she passed. But now, he’s taken on a rhythm of his own that beats for Rachel. It’s foreign and scary, yet unorthodox—kind of like jazz music. But it also feels right, even though I’m desperately trying to find a sign from Hannah that this is what I’m supposed to be doing.
The echoes of our promise to move on in the event of death have been the driving force challenging me to open up to Rachel entirely. I know I care about her, I love spending time with her, and I admire how selflessly she takes care of my son. And the more I touch her and find every soft spot on her body that makes her writhe, the more I want to bury myself inside of her.
But tonight I’m going to walk outside of my home with another woman on my arm, the thought making me proud and yet still doubting myself. No matter how strong my feelings grow for Rachel, fear eats at me that I’m going to hurt her—that there’s going to be an instance that causes me to act irrationally again, like what I did on Mother’s Day.
I don’t want to think that way, but the risk of opening my heart again leaves me vulnerable and questioning myself. And then I also think about Rachel, how she must feel knowing that there’s this other woman that will always be between us. I know Hannah is not coming back, but her memory will live on forever, and I just hope it’s not so powerful that it tears us apart.
“You can do this,” I exhale, running gel through my thick hair that I just got cut earlier this morning. Wanting to look my best tonight, I spent this morning getting in an early workout session while Rachel slept in, and then headed to my barber. A neat trim of my hair made me feel fresh and ready for what the night may bring. I told Rachel last night that I think I’m ready to jump over that final hurdle. But I also know that the confidence I felt yesterday could change over the course of the evening. Right now, the goal is just to play it by ear.
Tucking my navy blue button down into my dark grey slacks and then straightening my tie, I check my teeth for food and then smile in the mirror at myself, pleased with my appearance. I make my way into the living room and kitchen, where the bouquet of roses I bought earlier for Rachel is resting in a vase. I hid them from her earlier so I could surprise her tonight.
And as if on cue, the soft steps of her heels against the carpet pull my eyes to the hallway as the gorgeous woman who’s bringing me back to life comes strutting towards me—her curves encased in a red, hip-hugging dress that scoops just low enough in the front to show off her amazing breasts, the sleeves draping on her upper arms, exposing her shoulders and entire collarbone, her long legs stretching down to the heels that I can imagine her keeping on as I pound into her, and her thick and silky hair down in soft curls around her face, which isn’t typical for her because she almost always has her hair pulled up. When her eyes find me, her mouth breaks open into that smile that drew me to her almost instantly, and I feel my breath hitch and my heart clunk in my ribcage.
“You look stunning,” I say as I close the distance between us.
She reaches up and swivels my tie before pulling the fabric so my mouth is within an inch of hers. “You look mouthwatering yourself,” she smirks before planting a chaste kiss on my lips.
“Don’t say stuff like that or we will never leave.”
She giggles. “No way. You owe me a date and the expectation is pret-ty high,” she replies, pushing away from me as she shoves her hair behind her neck.
“Now I’m even more nervous,” I tease.
“Don’t be. I’m just excited.” Veering around me, she notices the roses on the island. “Are these for me?” She bends at the waist to smell them, closing her eyes as I hear the intake of air through her nose.
“Yes. I hope you like them.”
“They’re beautiful. And I love the color.” Her fingers brush the petals as she takes in the blended hues of pink, yellow, and orange. They reminded me of the sunset the other night that graced the sky behind her while we were having dinner at my parent’s house.
“I thought they were unique, just like you.”
She playfully rests her hand on my chest as she leans into me. “With those smooth lines, you just might get lucky later, Mr. Henderson.”
The growl that travels up my throat is clear as day when I hear her call me a name reserved for my students, shocking me that maybe that’s a fetish I didn’t know I had.
Giggling while she grabs her purse, I follow her to the door before we make our way out to my car. I open the passenger door for her like a gentleman, settle into my seat, and then head for the new spot in town that is sure to wow her tonight. We arrive about twenty minutes later just as the sun sets in the sky.
“What is this place?” She asks as I help her from the car, her hand resting assuredly in mine. Closing the door, I turn to face the building with my arm around her, admiring the architecture.
Erected from steel and protruding from the roof of the warehouse-looking building is an enormous tree, branches stretching hundreds of feet in the air with stark beams of light protruding through the spaces, turning in the sky like spot lights. The front of the structure has floor to ceiling windows separated by chrome beams that provide a view of the inside, which looks even more spectacular than the vision in front of us.
“It’s the newest restaurant in town, just opened last week. The chef and owner is an up-and-coming protégé of Michele Stone.” Michele Stone is a famous chef that lives in Los Angeles, but owns restaurants all over the country. He’s like a Gordon Ramsey doppelganger, producing his own competitive cooking television show and everything.
“Wow. This guy must know his stuff then, huh?”
“That’s what the word on the street is.”
“Wonder why he decided to create a place as breathtaking as this in a small town like Emerson Falls?” We glide towards the entrance where the sign The Treehouse hangs above the enormous wooden doors.
“He must have had a reason.” The hostess greets us and I give my name for the reservation. One of the professors I work with knows the head chef and owner, so he pulled some strings and got us in on short notice. Otherwise, the place is booked solid for months already and there would have been no chance of us getting in.
We are quickly ushered to our table as both Rachel and I look up towards the ceiling, admiring the details of the space from the inside. Planted firmly in the center of the restaurant is the trunk of the tree we saw outside, the steel and plaster cut and bent to mimic the cords of real wood. Along with the painting scheme and plants scattered around the room, you feel like you’re in some fairytale forest that exists only in a Disney movie, like Tinkerbell. Sparkling lights that look like stars are scattered on the ceiling and visible through the branches, as well as the sudden flash of the spotlights from outside. Portions of the ceiling are glass so you can see the tree entirely above the roof, and the sound of running water echoes from a fountain in one corner, adorned as a waterfall, completing the visual effects.