He swallows hard. “Only really know one way.”
My grin is slow, a curve of my lips as my teeth catch at my lower lip. “I’m good with that, Rev. Really,reallygood with it.” I nip at his chin, playfully, letting the grin shift. “That said, there are other little ways you can show me.”
“Like?”
“Affection. Nonsexual touching. My hair, my face. Put your arm around me when we’re sitting together. Hold my hand, wherever, whenever. Kiss me, but like, not my mouth. Kiss my hair, or my temple, or whatever. That shows me.” I nuzzle his face, just because; when I do it, his chest swells, holds, as if the affection fills him to bursting. “When you call me honey, babe or baby, beautiful. A nickname—my family calls me Mike, and you’re welcome to, as well, and in fact, I’d like it. You can find your own nickname, your own words or terms of endearment for me. That kind of thing shows me.” I touch my forehead to his lips, rest there. “But more than anything else, just…being therefor me. Being open, continuing to let me in and show me your real, deep self. Protecting me. Making love to me.” I whisper with a grin against his cheek, “Fucking me. Making me feel beautiful, and sexy, making me feel desired.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Breakfast, ya’ll.” It’s Mallory.
“Coming!” I call. To Rev, then. “Ready? Donovan breakfasts are a whole thing.”
He smirks. “Survived yesterday, I figure I can handle breakfast.”
* * *
Mom and Anaare doing breakfast—as ever. There’s a mountain of silver dollar pancakes, several pounds of bacon, a bowl of mixed fresh berries—strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries—a bowl of freshly whipped heavy cream, a platter of buttered toast halves and several jars of jelly and jam. Whenever the group of us is here overnight, Mom brings out her two spare coffeemakers, so there are three pots of coffee.
The kids, all early risers, have all long since scavenged breakfast and are already outside, running and squealing.
All the food is arrayed buffet style on the island, the table set. Rev watches, noticing no one is sitting; we all stand around the table behind our respective chairs, leaving the chair at the head for Dad—who comes home later this morning, after breakfast—with Mom opposite. We all have assigned seats, Angus to Dad’s right with his wife next to him, Ana across from Angus on Dad’s right with Andrew beside her, and so on in descending order with each sibling’s significant other bedside them. Mallory is left of me, Kellan on her left, with Rev next to Mom.
Mom and Ana finish the last few slices of bacon and the last batch of pancakes, and then they take their places at the table. Once in place, everyone joins hands; Rev is nonplussed by this, but goes along with it. When everyone bows their heads and closes their eyes, he bows but watches from under his lashes.
“Gus, would you bless the meal, son?” Mom asks.
“Sure, Ma.” Angus clears his throat. “Thank you, Lord, for good food and the hands that made it, for family around us and the good times yesterday. Thank you for keeping Dad okay, and…that we all got to watch Darren Milch get his butt kicked by our new brother, Rev. Amen.”
There are snickers around the table, some stifled and some not.
“Angus Doyle Donovan!” Mom snaps. “That’s irreverent.”
Angus grins at Rev. “The Lord knows my heart, Ma.”
Mom huffs. “Well, that’s between you and your Savior, I guess. Now. Let’s eat.” She gestures at Rev. “You first, son.”
Rev goes still—or more still, since he went to stone when Angus saidour new brother.“Me?”
She smiles at him. “Yeah, you. First time with us, you’re a guest, and guests always go first. Next time, it’s in order of age, like usual, so you’ll go with Myka.”
He takes his plate and heads for the island, but he’s hesitant, aware of everyone watching him. He laughs uncomfortably. “This is kinda weird, you guys all watching.”
I move up with him. “It’s just how we do it, baby. There’s so many of us, if there’s not order, it’ll be chaos.”
Mom gestures. “Gus, go on, then.”
The rest of breakfast is peaceful. Lots of chatter, easy conversation. Rev talks baseball with Angus and Jordan. Occasionally, a kid comes in to tattle or ask for a snack or to get a drink.
Mallory elbows me, leans in close and whispers. “Hey, Mike. You, um…you okay?”
I glance at her, puzzled. “Yeah, fine—why?”
Mallory is the genetic anomaly of the family: my height, but naturally slender to the point of svelte, if not outright skinny—where the rest of us are either curvy, or in Mom and Ana’s case…morecurvy—with curly red hair and green eyes and freckles; Mom says the red hair and freckles is a recessive gene from her side and the green eyes are recessive gene from Dad’s, and she’s got no clue why she’s so skinny.
Mal leans closer, voice barely audible over the conversation. “You and Rev.” Under the table, she smacks her fist into her hand. “Thought he was murdering you.”
My face goes beet red. “Mal!” I hiss.
She giggles. “I did! Never heard anything like it in my life. I might need some pointers.”
