Love Bound

by Rebecca Ryan

  It was dusk. We'd all just come home to The Inn and she was still in her cap and gown. Well, she held the cap in her hand. The gown was bright blue and could be spotted, even from as far away as the train trellis that linked the other side of the island with Route Ten. I was calling Travis, trying to get him to eat something before I took them all out to the movies. And then I spied this spot of blue on the bridge. It was so clearly her, but her back was to me. Then she tossed the cap and it flickered in the low evening light like an iridescent butterfly on its way down.

  Suddenly, my heart throbbed in the back of my throat, and I saw her climb up on the trellis, on one of the girders, and as I stepped forward—the blood leaving my head and turning my legs to lead—she jumped.

  I sank to the floor of the porch, head down, hands gripping the railing, and then I hauled myself up and got ready to run to her or to the phone inside. To anywhere, and that's when I saw something else.

  Devon, like a bright blue button, bouncing at the end of a bungee cord.

  The fight that ensued proved historic.

  I couldn't handle it. It was the last straw. My twenty-year-old back was broken. Parents dead, the older sister—who should have been here to take care of it all—MIA, Laurel sleeping around and smoking weed, and little Travis growing up in a mess that used to be a functional family. And somehow, I had to keep it, and them, and me all together.

  When I had come running down the road, screaming at Devon, she was already out of the water, dripping wet, euphoric that her calculations worked which made her even more pissed at me when I launched myself down the hill like a madwoman.

  She pointed out that she’d used a harness around her torso, not a leg harness, and that proved she was being safe.

  I pointed out that our bathroom scale—which she used to weigh herself for her precious calculations—was often off by five pounds because Laurel messed with the settings.

  She fumed and trudged up the hill on the road, her back stiff and angry, her straight black hair in long ropes.

  I screamed that I was sick of having to watch her, worry about her, and stop her from taking risks.

  She turned around and, in a voice I will never forget, she looked me right in the eye and stated—quite correctly—that I was "not her mother," and she didn’t need someone "smothering her all the fucking time." Someone who was "no fucking fun."

  If it had only been that one time, or maybe if she had seen or appreciated all I had given up and done for everyone, some kind of understanding that I, too, had suffered, something, I don’t think I would have done what I did.

  I was still a teenager myself and I didn't get that you never take personally what a teenager says, even if it seems highly personal and directly aimed at you.

  In rage and in ignorance, I kicked her out.

  Right there.

  By the time Devon returned from her graduation parties, I had three duffle bags full of her stuff on the porch with a note. And I gave her everything she needed, tears streaming down my face and snot pouring from my nose. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I couldn’t handle it if she died on my watch.

  She left with two of the bags.

  That summer, she lived with Geo and then took her scholarship to the University of Colorado. She came home dutifully that first Christmas for Laurel and Travis and kept up with them over email, and later Snapchat and Instagram, but I heard little until she came home three years ago and announced she was a smokejumper in Montana with one of the most elite teams in the country.

  Of course, she was.

  Our feud unraveled, pulled apart by time and distance, and though it wasn't quite a funny family story yet, it began to have the trappings of something powerful but no longer potent. She was really on her own. She had agency in her own life and I gave myself permission to let go. I was not her mother and not even a very good substitute, but I could be a great sister—so I tried to focus on that. So far, it's been working.

  Now, looking around the little apartment she and Laurel share, Cody in his "building room" with his beloved Legos, and Colin Hay playing softly in the background from a really old CD player, the smell of roast chicken and potatoes welling from the small kitchen, I feel like a welcome guest. An outsider, yes, from their club of two, but welcome.

  I squeeze Finn's hand, which does not go unnoticed, set the crab dip in the middle of the table, and open a bag of tortilla chips.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Finn

  There's a flaw with the sisters, a wrinkle in their relationship. Those micro-expressions—so hard to teach, but so easy for me to pick up on—make it clear there’s hurt and betrayal going on. Or, went on. I've learned this curse, while helpful as a security expert, can get in the way of relationships. It's one of the reasons I don’t have many. Being able to determine if someone is lying, hurt, angry, devious, or shy, with all other outward aspects of their expression and demeanor seemingly neutral, doesn’t ever tell me the most important piece of information: why.

  "That was amazing," says Laurel, wiping Cody's mouth.

  He ate under the table at a bed tray she’d set on the floor. I felt bad; it was because I had sat down to dinner. Devon assured me it took Cody three weeks before he could sit at the table with her. Any change in routine was tough. When I moved into the kitchen to compliment Laurel, Devon asked me not to mention her explanation.

  "Well, my contribution is fried bananas and ice-cream," says Devon. "Claire, could you make Mom's caramel sauce?"

  Claire smiles at me. "I'll try. Travis does a much better job. Mine crystalizes sometimes."

  "That's weird, because he never made it with her," Devon says and then hears herself. "I mean, you know."

  "I know," says Claire and laughs, which makes Devon relax a little. "He always made it with me. He just has instincts. Sugar instincts."

  "It’s 'cause he lived on gummy bears ‘til he was fifteen," Laurel says, pulling the chicken from the roasting pan and popping a piece into her mouth.

  Claire bristles slightly. "He did not. He ate pretty well. We all did."

  Laurel shrugs. "Well, not after you left for school."

  Claire's mouth closes into a line and I can tell she's hurt, but she comes over and puts an arm around Laurel for a quick hug. "I left for school. I didn’t leave you guys."

  Looking a little surprised, Laurel pulls away, but not before she kisses Claire on the cheek. "I know. I wasn't saying that." She turns to me. "You’ll find out that Claire is overly sensitive."

  "I am not. I’m tough. Tough as leather," Claire argues.

  "There's no such thing as being overly sensitive," I say.

  Colin Hay wafts in the background.

  I pick up a slice of cucumber in the salad. "I also don't believe in 'overreactions.'" After air quoting, I lick my thumb quickly and find three women staring at me. "What?"

  Claire comes over and rubs my shoulder. "Who are you?"

  With a shake of my head, I rise and stroll over to the sink with the salad bowl in my hand. "I just don’t understand what that's supposed to mean. Usually, an ‘overreaction’ just means the person handing out that label didn’t like the other person's reaction."

  Laurel glances at Cody and she's processing this, trying to find applications for the soft truth.

  Devon, sitting back down, looks hard at me. "What exactly are you two doing?"

  Laurel tosses back her curly hair and even Claire—with one hand deep in a container of brown sugar—glances my way, though her eyes are hooded in fear.

  I, too, fear thinking about the past.

  I sigh, a long big sigh that signals Laurel to offer, "Oh, you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to. Echo Bay is called Echo Bay 'cause of all the gossip."

  I grin. "I thought it was because of the caves."

  But Claire seems expectant, like she's waiting for something, and I realize that if I want to know more about her she must want to know more about me. More than just my life with Allison.


  So, I lay out a thumbnail while Devon and Claire make fried bananas and caramel sauce and Devon pulls out ice-cream and bowls. That Colton Security Systems was founded a decade ago, handles elite clients and businesses from cybersecurity to personal safety. And that I sold my half to my partner to move up here and try something different.

  Only the last two points are not entirely true. But I’m not in the mood to tell them how I gave away my half. How Nic still has not signed the paperwork. How I walked away with a fraction of the money and how this was a poor penance for not seeing what I should have seen right away. That the man who’d been working up the road—paying attention to my wife, stopping by even the day before with a cherry pie, which I ate—had then murdered her and my son and I never connected the dots. I never saw what I’d been trained to see. I should have picked up something in Allison's face, some guilelessness that monster saw and abused.

  Walking away had been easy.

  Finding a different path seemed impossible—until Claire.

  ***

  After dessert and some hasty goodbyes, peppered with several quick glances between the sisters when I put my hand on the small of Claire's back and then helped her on with her coat, she and I walk back down to the pier.

  The night is cold and clear, and the stars, not having to compete with city lights, are bright and vast in number. The Milky Way undulates above our heads and our breath comes out thick and cottony in the cold air. Her ungloved hand rests inside the pocket of my jacket, our fingers entwined.

  It makes me happy.

  I’m not used to feeling happy.

  "You know, you aren't supposed to get over her," Claire says suddenly, watching my face.

  I keep my head tilted up at the sky.

  "She is a part of who you are. Allison is one of the reasons you are standing here right now," she says, elaborating.

  Now I look down at her. Her hood is pulled back and even in the fading light of the pier I can see that her ears are red with cold. Bending down, I press my face to hers, pull my hand from hers, wrap my arms around her, and kiss her. Her breath is warm, her taste sweet, and I feel her tremble slightly, but not from the cold. Deepening the kiss, my cock starts stiffening and I press against her, this time so she can feel me, all of me, and I grab her ass with one hand and pull her tight.

  "Finn," she whispers, breaking away, and then she opens her mouth to mine once more.

  A tern calls out and somewhere, across the bay, a bagpipe wails in the night.

  I take her by the hand and lead her up the narrow trail through sand and rock and gnarly knots of old sea petunias to the back porch of The Inn. My Inn, though it still doesn’t feel like mine.

  "Wait here," I tell her as she blows on her hands in the empty dining room. The place is warm, the furnace fan creating ambient noise in the background. I take off my jacket and leave it on a table. Grabbing a bottle of wine and two juice glasses, I lead her upstairs. Lighting a hurricane lantern, I set it on the mantle and watch her face.

  She smiles as I set down the glasses on the nightstand. "Really? Juice glasses?"

  "Think of them as tumblers."

  I pour and she swirls the dark liquid for a moment. "I grew up with these, you know. They've been here forever. I think they used to be jam jars."

  "Jam?"

  "Yeah. You know. Like strawberry jam but then you could peel off the label, wash them and voila! Instant juice glasses." Sipping, she shivers. "Is this a Shiraz? It’s yummy."

  It is a Shiraz. A special bottle I've been saving for something. I hadn’t been sure of what that might be until tonight.

  Walking over, I take the glass from her and set it down. She tips her head up and faces me but won’t make eye contact. It doesn't stop me, and I start to unbutton her coat. She pulls against me slightly, but then it opens, and I slide it down around her waist, her arms still trapped inside their sleeves. I slip my arms around her. We kiss again, slow and long, and my cock starts to throb again.

  "Take your shirt off," she says, shaking off the rest of the coat.

  Stepping back, I peel my wool sweater off. Then my black T-shirt. She steps closer and traces fingers along the top of my belt and I feel my body tense. Keeping one hand on the belt buckle, she walks behind me, kisses my back, and then slides her left hand down the front of my jeans.

  But as much as I want her, I want her unbound. I want to see her completely, walls down.

  I take her forearms and gently pull her hand away and draw her back around to face me.

  "What’s wrong?" she asks.

  "Nothing, sweetie."

  She lays her head against my chest and, being careful to avoid my right side, she puts her arms around me.

  Slowly, my erection begins to dissipate and I clear my voice. "How about I just undress you?"

  Pulling out of the embrace, she looks up at me. "What do you mean?"

  "How about I just undress you and you say nothing? No instructions? Just enjoy what happens next?"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Claire

  The blood is pounding in my ears. I am so afraid. So afraid he is not going to like my body, how it responds, or me. The idea that he will see me aroused, while he is in full control of his own senses, is scary.

  If he's not aroused, he won't like me.

  He won't like me. There. I said it.

  Finn has me stepping out of my pants now and I'm embarrassed my underwear is so damp. When he kissed me out on the pier and I felt his erection through his pants, I gushed. I know my little panties are wet to the touch. He picks them up and holds them in his hands and I'm mortified. But then he smells them, closing his eyes.

  Does he really like my smell?

  He drops the panties. Slowly, he unbuttons my shirt and slides it off. Then, though his breathing is controlled, he reaches to the front clasp of my bra and I hear the little snap as it's released. I shiver as he opens me up and I slip out.

  "This makes me really uncomfortable," I say, so self-conscious I feel like I might faint.

  "I know," he says. "Just lie down on the bed."

  "Why?"

  "You ask too many questions."

  I'm so nervous I'm not aroused anymore. I want to know what is happening, when it’s happening, and where it’s happening.

  "Listen," he says as he eases me down onto the mattress on my back, "we're not having sex tonight."

  He strokes my face with one hand. The light from the lantern catches the peaks and valleys of the muscles in his chest and abs and as he rises to fetch something from the bathroom, I watch him walk away and my nipples harden.

  I am so embarrassed by this. By me.

  He returns with something in his hand I can't see. "Don’t worry. I want you to close your eyes. Just close them and trust me. Nothing is happening tonight. Even if you ask."

  Even if you ask.

  I close my eyes.

  Then his voice closes over me like a blanket and he talks to me calmly, though I can hear the control in his voice. "You are beautiful Claire. Your hair, your skin, your body. Every inch of you turns me on."

  I clap a hand over my eyes. "Stop it! You're being—"

  He takes my hand away from my face. "Honest. I'm being honest. Keep your eyes closed."

  I can hear the sound of a bottle shaken, and then the smell of jasmine and, as he touches me, I realize it’s oil. His hands are on my stomach and I flinch at his touch and stiffen.

  "Relax, Claire. Just enjoy this. Enjoy not knowing where I'm going to touch you next."

  His hands, large and warm, begin moving over my rib cage, sliding without friction toward my chest, and up over my breasts to my collarbones. There they part and each moves down my shoulders.

  I exhale, not realizing I've been holding my breath the entire time. And then he does it again, and again, and again, each time a little differently. Sometimes his hands move up my neck or all the way down to my fingertips. Each time, he starts at my abdomen. Each time, he describes what he sees—
my skin in the light, my hair, my lips. Each time, he leaves me just a little more vulnerable.

  After the tenth or twelfth pass, I feel like jelly and I open my eyes.

  "There you are," he says. His nipples are pinched into rock hard nubs and he clearly has a massive hard-on. A light sheen of sweat coats his chest. Leaning forward, he whispers in my ear, "But you have to close your eyes."

  I realize he doesn't want me to see him aroused, doesn't want me to feel responsible and to have to do something about it.

  To fix the situation.

  I don’t have to fix this.

  I feel a sob come up from somewhere deep, deep in my stomach.

  "Hey, hey, hey," he says and strokes me again, in one fluid movement— ribcage, chest, throat, shoulders, arms.

  I'm limp. There's a pause, and then his hot hands are on my thighs and he begins to rub them with oil. He lifts them, kneading my buttocks, bending each leg and massaging my calves, all the way down to my toes.

  Boneless, feeling sapped by his touch, all I have the strength to do is breathe. Finn lifts me a little higher on the pillows so he can tilt my hips forward and then he spreads my legs apart. Gently, he fingers my labia and rubs a thumb over my clit. But I am so spent, so in myself, all my body can do is shudder.

  Then his hands are gone. A light sheet settles over me, the trapped air making me shiver a little before it drapes over me. I can feel him move next to me and I open my eyes to see the face of the most beautiful man ever, an arm tucked under his head.

  "Thank you so much for letting me do that to you," he says, his face serious as he touches the tip of my nose.

  I feel bad. I can smell him and what he wants. "Oh, Finn. Oh my God. I can’t move."

  "Shh. I love seeing you," is all he says before my eyes close again and I slip into sleep.

  The last thing I feel is a small kiss on my cheek.

  ***

  The morning sunlight wakes me and as I roll over to avoid it, I am momentarily lost.