“Yeah.”She rests her hands on my knees, where they bracket hers.“Me, too.”
“Ask me the question you always asked back then.”I take a breath, bracing for it.“The one you never let go.”
She stills, her fingers biting into my legs.“Will you tell me about our parents?”
“Yeah.I will.”I part her hair into two neat sections, my hands surprisingly steady.“Celeste had gentle eyes and long blond hair.Whenever she sang, my skin pebbled in happy goosebumps.Her smile was her best feature.It went all the way to her soul, reflecting her bottomless kindness.That kindness made her even more beautiful.You look just like her.And she was… She was young, Dove.Only fifteen-years-old when she got pregnant with you.”
“What?”Her voice strangles.“How?”
And so I tell her.
The motion of braiding Dove’s hair used to calm me.But I’m no longer staring at the back of my little sister’s head.
A woman sits between my legs.The one and only woman I’ve been jerking it to for years.
My desire for her grows layers as I lift a section of hair to my nose and sniff.
Fuck.I need to focus.
I thread the silky blue strands, passing them over and under each other, my hands remembering what they’ve always known.
As I sink into the old rhythm, I come clean about her childhood.
“Adrian Crowe,” Dove says slowly as if testing the name on her tongue.“He’s my father.”
“Only in DNA.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I promised Celeste that I wouldn’t.She depended on me to keep you away from it, to keep you safe.”
I tell her about the vow I made to her mother and how it ruled every decision for the next twenty years.No police, no confessions, no telling anyone.I don’t frame it as sacrifice.I don’t soften it.I make sure she understands exactly how it unfolded and why I never broke the promise I made to Celeste.
“Why tell me now?”she asks numbly, not moving, barely breathing.
“Adrian Crowe is dead.”
“Oh.”Her hand spasms on my leg.“That’s where you’ve been for the past twelve days.”
“Yes.”
I finish the braids down her back, giving her time to absorb, dissect, and reshape her unforgivable childhood.
Any minute, she’ll spin around and throw a barrage of questions at me.I’m ready for it.Ready to tell her everything she wants to know.Then I’ll tell her about Wolf’s role in Crowe’s death.
At last, she twists to face me, her eyes glistening with tears that haven’t fallen.Her face doesn’t crumple.Her mouth doesn’t move.She just stares, her eyes darting between mine, perhaps looking at me through a new lens.
Her hands lift, and she places them on my face.Slowly, deliberately, her fingers trail around my eyes, down the bridge of my nose, scraping through the rough shadow along my jaw, and tracing the shape of my lips.Inspecting.Revising.Redrawing my features.Redrawing the man in front of her, adjusting angles, updating truths, and fitting the past to what’s sitting here now.
When she’s done, her chin trembles.Her eyes soften, and a small whimper escapes her.
Then she’s on me, hands in my hair, and mouth crashing into mine, lips parting, tongue chasing, demanding and spectacularly fierce.
She climbs onto my lap in a fluid motion, knees sliding around my hips, thighs straddling, crowding me back on the bed as if proximity is the answer.She kisses with her whole body, no restraint or uncertainty.
Just like Dove to make the first move and choose physical contact over words to express her feelings.
For a heartbeat, I’m stunned by it.Then I take control.
