“And?”
“It was…Clean.”
Anyone else would assume that meant no sex and move on.But not Frankie.
“Emotionally clean.”Her gaze pries me open.“I’m glad Dove could give you that.”
She hovers so close I feel her need to touch me like a hand held near a fire.I look down.She looks up.There’s a question in her eyes and a hundred unsaid words circling like wolves.
I give her a tight nod.
With a relieved breath, she throws herself against me.Not in front like a hug would be, but onto my back.She hangs there, arms looped around my collarbones, cheek at the hinge of my jaw, her weight comforting, familiar, her warmth sinking into my spine, into places where last night hollowed me out.
When she exhales, the sound comes out of me, too.I let my head tip back until it hits her shoulder and rests there, waiting for her questions.
“How much did you tell her?”She nuzzles my hair.
“Bits.”
“Graphic bits?”
“More like big-picture bits.In fairy-tale format.”
“Did these fairy tales feature a drag queen?”
I nod.
She pulls a heavy breath through her nose, doing her best to remain neutral.
The silence that follows is a barbed wire fence.I could grab it and bleed.Or I could sit here with her arms around me until I say something offensive that sends her running away.
Except Frankie doesn’t run from a challenge.She faces it head-on.
“We knew, Wolf.”She kisses my temple and shifts around to face me.“We all knew about your scars.”
“Leo told you.”
“He loves you.We all do, and we’re trying to give you space, knowing you’re talking to Dr.Thurber—”
“Dr.Freud.”
“Right.”A smile moves through her voice, a tremor rather than a sound.“I know it’s hard.”
Hard implies there’s a correct angle of attack, and if I apply enough force, it yields.This isn’t that kind of hard.This is a cliff in the way of a river, and the river in the way of a cliff.
I’m stuck between two unmovable realities.Captivity and survival.One blocks.The other erodes.Both are in the way.Both require a lot of work.
The butter in the pan goes from a hiss to a sizzle.Frankie peels away, grabs a spatula, and starts cracking eggs.
Saliva floods my mouth as the smell hits.Fat, pepper, a hint of singe.It grabs my spine and shakes.
I start the toast and stare off into space.When the toaster pops, I flinch.
Frankie pretends not to notice.
After she plates the food, we sit side by side and dig in.
The first bite is ridiculous, the crisp edges of fried egg giving under my teeth.My jaw works, chewing too loud and fast.I eat like I’m on the clock.
