“This whole conversation is awkward,” I chime. “Can we stop discussing my dick?”
“I second that,” Celeste says before glancing at my wife. “We should at least do it behind his back.”
Gage laughs at that, but Wells and Liam appear mildly ruffled.
“You girls have cock-worshipping parties?” Liam quips with a waggle of his brows.
Ivy laughs in a mocking tone, blue eyes rolling. “Something like that.”
God only knows what that means, but the thought of Ivy and Celeste discussing my—
Nope, don’t want to go there. I think of them like sisters.
Rena wanders back and nestles into my side, cracking open the Diet Coke I grabbed for her. “At least the dick convo lightened the mood. It was like a tomb in here.”
Wells chuckles, plucking a butterscotch candy from his pocket and making a show of unwrapping it. “Your timing is impeccable, Rena. Just what we needed.”
“Well, you know,” she says, waving her hand in the air, “when life has you by the thong …”
“The fuck?” Gage belts out. “When life has you by the thong?”
“Yeah.” She flaps one hand and raises her soda with the other. “Well, it’s less relevant to you because you aren’t expected to wear dental floss as an undergarment, but you know when life is all up your ass and uncomfortable and you’re ready to just sayfuck itand shed every last morsel of constriction? Stripping isn’t practical in most situations. Sometimes, all you can do is laugh.”
Gage bobs his head, considering. Ivy and Celeste giggle in agreement. Wells rubs his fingers over his smirk, clearly amused by my girl. But Liam lays it all out. Not simply what I need to hear and what I want her to soak in, but the sentiment that is clearly shared by my whole family.
“Thank fuck we get to keep her.”
RENA
My father used to bring me kettle corn. New Orleans has some of the most incredible sweetened popcorn in existence. A few places even add a Cajun flair, although you’d be hard-pressed to find a food there that hasn’t been Cajun-ized.
La Lune Noire didn’t serve the treat because carnival food wasn’t exactly the vibe intended. But there was a little place near the resort that we visited. So, occasionally, my father would stop after work and deliver me a warm bag of my most cherished treat.
The boys liked it, but they didn’t love it like I did. They preferred the pastries, fudge, or more decadent desserts served at La Lune Noire. So, my father always brought it home just for me. Our thing. I don’t know for sure how he felt about me because I was so young and he was a busy man. I can’t say I was the apple of his eye or his precious little girl. The man was, in most aspects, a stranger. Memories in those early years are distorted, gritty with tiny shards of sharpness in the midst of a blurry backdrop.
For most of my first six years, he was a speckle in the blur.
But on the days when he brought me kettle corn, we’d sit outside on the porch and chat about our current events—highs and lows—just him and me. And I felt loved. Special. Chosen.
During our kettle-corn chitchats, he was the best dad in the world.
With the exception of one day. It was blistering hot, not too long before he died. Weeks or months maybe. The air was muggy and oppressive, the kind of heat that sought to consume the entirety of life.
We plopped down out front—him on the bench, me on the wood-slatted swing. With my beloved treat in hand, my wide eyes were trained on his suit-clad physique as I kicked my feet to move. He looked sad that day, a weariness etched into his features. A little bitter too.
And I could feel it. The way the porch swing swayed slower, thwarting the whimsy it usually bestowed. The way the wind refused to blow, leaving us in a sticky residue. The way the birds all flitted away.
Everything was somber. Prepping me.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” I asked him because I hated the idea of anyone being sad. I much preferred my mother’s notion of freedom, blueberries and rain. Dancing in a dreary field, growth in the gray. I wanted to belong to that, to embody being the light for others.
“I’m disappointed,” he began, and my heart sank for him. Disappointment was a terrible feeling.
He went on to ramble about all sorts of things that didn’t mean much to me, but I was content to simply listen and eat my sugary popcorn. At least he was home, spending time with me. Out of everyone in our family, he picked me to keep him company when he was sad. Pride surged inside my chest. Maybe I could cheer him up. Maybe that was why he wanted to be with me.
But then his eyes rose to mine, skittering a chill down my spinedespite the sweltering heat, as he said, “You don’t have what it takes to be a Noire.”
“What?” I muttered, my pulse hammering my temples.
