This time, I’m on my stomach, face half buried in a pillow. Ember is behind me, arm heavy across my back, snoring lightly.
I feel… something.
Unsettled maybe?
I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. I want to be with him.
But it feels wrong to be here instead of at the funeral home. I put my heart and soul into that house, and I hate that I can’t even step foot in it right now.
“You’re thinking loudly,” he murmurs, his body vibrating with his deep, rumbling voice.
“I am not,” I argue uselessly. He knows me too well by now to believe me, but he doesn’t push the issue.
We cuddle in silence, falling in and out of sleep as the sun rises lazily.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The knocking echoes through the house, firm but insistent.
We both freeze, like maybe if we don’t move, whoever it is will go away.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
It’s louder this time, followed by someone trying to turn the doorknob.
“Were you expecting someone?” I ask, wide awake now and looking for something to throw on.
“No,” he says in a hushed tone.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
“I know you’re home, Kunya.”
The blood drains from Ember’s face, and he sways slightly in place.
“Who is it?” I ask quietly. His reaction has dread twisting my stomach into knots. Whoever is banging on the door has made my usually vibrant man turn into a pale ghost.
Wide, frantic eyes meet mine. He swallows rough and audible before answering.
“My parents.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sunshine
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
They knock again. Somehow making it insistent and jubilant at the same time.
Ember is already on his feet, fully dressed, before I can even find my underwear. Stupid hormones throwing clothes all over the place when you’re horny. I finally throw on some of Ember's stuff and try to look less like I woke up wrapped around Ember and more like a good friend of their son.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the winding staircase, a weird hop in his step. Is he skipping?
“I’ve never met parents before, Ember,” I hiss as another knock echoes through the house.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic! We can hear you in there,”a woman, who must be his mother, speaks through the door, and I trap a squeak of horror behind tight lips.
I freeze, like a deer in headlights, contemplating my next move. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Sure, I’m being a little extreme, but you try having a parent, or two, barge in on a particularly intimate moment and let me know how you handle it.
