I spring from the bed and climb onto his lap. He pulls me in tight, and I snuggle into his arms.
“The first thing I noticed was her handbag.”
Silence descends. It’s always the damn bag that does it. They say speaking your truth will set you free. And Lord knows, I’ve done everything I can to avoid discussing what happened. All thebusybodies back in Marietta can attest to it, as can the therapist I left behind.
I draw in a breath and then let everything out. “What hurts me the most and what I most feel guilty about is that I’m so fucking angry at him. Because he asked her to marry him and never told me. Stephanie and I despised each other—we were briefly in the same accounting class at college until she was caught cheating and dropped out, which said a lot about her character. But still, what father gets engaged without telling his only child? I found out about the engagement in the news.”
He goes rigid beneath me, and I immediately worry I was too honest. He asked for a dirty little secret. I gave him the weight of my fucked-up world.
“I said too much…”
“And your mother?” he asks, surprising me. “Where is she?”
“She passed from cancer when I was fifteen. It’s just me and my grandparents now.” I snuggle further into his arms. It’s true you never get over losing a loved one, even if you’re angry or feeling abandoned. Anguish may subside over time but missing them never fades away. “Have you ever lost someone?” I croak.
“My mother. Drug overdose. My father didn’t know we existed until we showed up on his doorstep. He was twenty. We were five.”
I do the math, but don’t comment on the obvious. He’s opening up, and we’ve reached an enormous milestone. “You have a sister?” I ask instead.
“Brother.”
I consider that for a second, curious if they’re close. I’m a single child but imagine if I had a sibling, we’d be best friends. His tenderness last night makes me think he’s a good brother. That he protects those close to him. “You never really know a person, do you?” I whisper.
“No. You don’t.”
“Can I tell you something else?”
He’s quiet for a few seconds too long. “Go on.”
“You’re the best kind of hurt.”
He tenses for the briefest moment like I surprised him. Then he tightens his arms around me and confirms the feeling. I’m completely and utterly vulnerable right now yet feel safe in his embrace. When was the last time I felt so protected? Months? Years?
I relax into his arms, and we fall quiet, offering our heavy words space to settle. After a long while, I break the silence. “Ready for my darkest secret?”
“Fuck no.” His chest rumbles. “I need a whiskey shot for this?”
I turn in his lap and rest my head on his shoulder so I can see his face. “I faked an orgasm.”
His eyes flash.
I almost laugh. He thinks I meant with him.
“When?” he growls.
I’m tempted to lie. To press his buttons. After he loved on me all night and well into the morning, in full command and with me in full compliance, as every ache, bruise, and whisker burn applauds him for it, it’s comical he’d question his prowess.
“Riley,” he grinds out. Like he doesn’tknow.
I rise up and kiss his drawn lips. “With my ex-boyfriend back in Marietta,” I clarify. “I faked them.”
“Why?”
I sigh. “I didn’t want him to feel bad.”
“Them. More than one?” He scowls. Like an injustice has been served—on my behalf or not, it’s difficult to decipher.
“All of them.”
