“Really?”
He strokes my cheek as he nods. “Really.”
“Thank you.”
He sighs as he gazes into my eyes. “I should be the one thanking you. I don’t know what you’re doing to me. You’ve got me all… I don’t know. But staying the night is the least I can do for you on your birthday.”
I rake my fingertips over his solid abs as I flash him my best come-hither smile. “I know what else you can do for me for my birthday.”
A huge grin spreads across his face, and it looks different. It takes me a minute to realize what it is. This one looks real.
He flips me onto my back, and lies halfway on top of me, positioning his leg between mine. As his hand slides down to cup my pussy possessively, his cock presses into my hip. It stiffens as his mouth falls over mine.
A whimper sounds in my throat as his finger brushes past my clit and slides inside me. He collects my moisture and uses it to massage my swollen flesh in whisper-soft strokes. His kiss is slow and deep and utterly intoxicating. I have to keep remembering to breathe.
When he finally pulls away, my head aches as if I’ve been drugged. But I know it’s just my shallow breathing and the chemical reaction he’s ignited inside me. My body is bursting with anticipation as he kisses his way down my belly until his head is between my thighs.
He looks up at me with that genuine smile and murmurs, “Happy birthday, baby.”
We spend the next two hours exploring each other’s bodies and making each other come like it’s a competitive sport, and we’re going for a damn world record. It almost feels as if we’re trying to erase everything that happened before tonight. Orgasm-induced amnesia.
It works for a short while. But a little while without the pain is enough. For tonight.
It’s been over an hour since we turned out the lights, and he turned on his phone to set an alarm. After lying in each other’s arms for about twenty minutes, the inferno of body heat we create forces us to concede defeat. And we’ve been sleeping separately ever since.
Well, in my case, pretending to sleep.
I’m still close enough to feel the warmth of his skin as I lie facing him. Every few minutes, I open my eyes to check if he’s still there; to make sure I didn’t conjure him in a psychotic episode triggered by Elle’s death. Or maybe she didn’t even die. Maybe I imagined the last two years of my life.
But every time I sneak a peek at him, he’s still lying there on his back, his eyes closed, knee bent to the side with the sheet barely covering his hips. And every time, it reminds me he’s real. This whole day was real.
Despite my exhaustion, this awful truth won’t let me rest.
I keep going through all the things I should have said to Elle. All the things we could have done before she got sick again. I spent too much time resenting her when I could have been reminding her how I felt like no one would ever be more important to me than she was.
It must be past midnight when his phone vibrates on the nightstand. I squeeze my eyelids shut, resisting the urge to open them as I feel the mattress move. Whatever notification just popped up on his phone, it must be important, because I can sense him slowly and quietly slipping out of bed.
My suspicions are confirmed when I hear the soft rustle of his pants as he lifts them off the floor. I sneak a half-second glance toward my bedroom door. He’s carrying his phone in one hand and his bundled clothing in the crook of his other arm.
I consider letting him know I’m awake. I can offer to let him drive us to my parents’ apartment in Seattle, so he can get an Uber from there to the bar. But I’m still in no mood to see my parents. And I don’t feel like sitting through a forty-minute car ride with the question of who messaged him hanging between us.
Of course, I’m assuming it was a text message that prompted him to leave. For all I know, when he told me he was setting an alarm for us to wake up in the morning, he was actually setting an alarm for when he thought I would be asleep and it would be safe for him to sneak out. It’s this thought that stops me from letting him know I’m awake.
As he leaves the bedroom, he takes extraordinary care not to make any noise with the latch. The moment he pulls the door closed, I breathe a sigh of relief. The tears I’ve mostly held in all day come easily in his absence.
I’m not ready to turn on my phone to use it as my next distraction. The notifications awaiting me feel like a ticking time bomb of emotions waiting to be detonated. For now, I lie back and stare at the ceiling. And I imagine I’m watching a movie with Elle. Her favorite: The Secret Life of Bees.
2
Damage
As we walk toward the line of cars parked along the narrow cemetery road, I catch glimpses of people, including my parents, engaged in what looks like idle chit-chat. I want to shake my head in disbelief. My nerves are so frayed, my emotions so raw, I can’t imagine thinking of anything other than my sister lying all alone in a wooden box behind us.
My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep, and I’ve hardly eaten in five days. Every word I speak requires too much effort; every move I make feels laborious and painful. My body feels like it’s made of shards of broken glass, precariously held together by a thin web of comforting platitudes: she’s not suffering anymore; if there’s a heaven, she’s definitely there; she would want you to carry on.
One minute, I find these thoughts comforting. The next, I find them infuriatingly stupid. My heart can’t settle on whether I should be depressed, relieved, or furious. Though, angry seems to be my new default setting.
Dahlia loops her arm through mine, snapping me out of my grim thoughts. “This way.”
She flashes me a careful smile as she gently coaxes me toward the procession of vehicles. I seem to have wandered away from the funeral party without noticing.
“Thanks,” I mutter as she leads me back toward her green Subaru.
The thirty-minute drive back from Cedar Lawns Memorial Park is spent in stifling silence. I’ve been too angry to listen to music lately. When we pull up in front of my childhood home, I grab Dahlia’s hand before she can turn off the car.
“I don’t want to go in there,” I say, hoping she’ll recognize the panicked plea in my eyes.
Her blonde shoulder-length hair sparkles in the afternoon sunlight, in stark contrast to the black sweater she’s wearing.
“Coffee?”
I nod as I let out my hundredth sigh of the day. “A drive-thru, please.”
After getting our drinks at Starbucks, we head across the road to the small park attached to our local grocery store. It’s so tiny, no one ever goes there. It’s the perfect escape in a place like Duvall. This town can sometimes feel like a crowded closet.
Dahlia grabs a fuzzy plaid blanket out of the trunk of her car, and we lay it down to protect us from the damp grass.
It’s not raining now, but it sprinkled a little this morning. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds while we sat in the drive-thru. I don’t expect the sunny weather to last much longer. Still, it’s nice to be outside. It’s easier to breathe out here.
I take a small sip of my pink drink as I sit cross-legged on the blanket. “Can you text my mom and let her know we’re getting coffee?”