The job I scored wasn’t perfect and didn’t pay well, but it meant I could keep a roof over our heads and dinner on our table without having to hunt and gut it first.
I never grumbled as I lugged timber and dug holes.
I was the bitch on the site, gathering tools and doing the chores no one else wanted to do. The foreman who gave me the cash job said I got the dregs because I wasn’t a skilled builder, but I knew it was because I refused to drink with the guys or let them get to know me.
I didn’t want people to know me.
That was where danger lay.
Every day, I hated trudging to work and enduring yet more snide comments and rolled eyes at my reserved silence.
I missed the fields.
I missed the smell of manure and sunshine and tractor diesel.
Now, the dirt on my hands was from concrete and lime, not earth and grass. The dust in my lungs was from cutting bricks and shovelling gravel, not from fluffing hay and hauling bales.
Sometimes, even though the guys hated me, they’d offer me the odd after-work gig. The rules were: always do it late at night and always be unseen by anyone.
I didn’t understand the secrecy for tasks like removing old roof sheets or cracking apart ancient walls, but I followed their stupid rules and cleared away debris. No one else seemed to want to do it, and the money was double that of day labouring.
No matter that I was grateful I had a job, some mornings, when I left for work and Della left for school, I’d struggle to continue walking to the site. Ice would crack beneath my boots and breath would curl from my lips, and I’d physically stop, look at the snow-capped trees in the distance, and have to lock my knees to stop from bolting toward them.
Days were long and hard and taxed me of everything I had.
But the nights—when I wasn’t working on secret demolition—made up for the struggle.
The emptiness inside from living in a concrete jungle amongst wretches and sinners faded whenever I was near her. Her comforting voice, familiar kindness, and almost intuitive knowing when I just needed to sit quiet and have her tell me stories for a change, repaired the tears inside me.
Watching her animate tales of school and teachers allowed me to forget about everything but her. It reminded me why I’d cursed her for overstepping a boundary. And why I could never lose her. No way could I ever survive without her, and that terrified me because with every day, the remainder of her childhood slipped off like a cocoon, leaving behind new wings dying to fly.
She was evolving, and I couldn’t do a damn thing but watch her morph into something I could never keep.
For two years, I held that job and paid for Della’s every need. For every whisper from the wind to leave, I was held in place by the knowledge I needed to stay for her. For every tug to run, I focused on the person Della was becoming, and it was completely worth it.
A month or so after we’d moved into our apartment and I’d decorated the bedroom with purple curtains and a foam mattress covered in lilac bedding for Della—while I slept on the pop-out couch in the living room—we received our first letter.
Because we’d used John Wilson as a landlord reference, he knew where we were and wrote to us.
The letter was short and to the point, making sure we were safe and doing well and that if we ever needed anything, their door was always open. I tucked his phone number and address safely in my memory just in case.
I missed them, but I didn’t know how to say such things or to convey how grateful I was for their hand in our lives—I’d fail in person, and I’d definitely fail in writing.
So Della was the one who got in touch and thanked them.
She let them know I’d found her and apologised for any embarrassment she might’ve caused. I approved the letter she sent, making sure it held the correct tone and gave no room for imagination that we might be doing anything wrong.
But she didn’t let me read the note she sent to Cassie.
She scribbled something, folded it tight, and placed it in the envelope, licking it before I had a chance to spy.
I wanted to know what she said, but at the same time, I respected their privacy and relationship. She had every reason to stay in touch while I had a lot to stay away.
I didn’t send any letters. I didn’t find her online. I didn’t get in touch in anyway.
What was the point?
Cassie and I were friends out of convenience. She had used me just as much as I had used her, and she no longer needed me to cause any more stress than I already had.
But with one letter came more, and Della and Cassie stayed in touch with the occasional note from Liam. Eventually, their snail mail became emails and quickly evolved to Facebook messages.
Occasionally, once Della had dragged herself to sleep and left the cheap phone I’d bought her on the coffee table, I’d swipe on the screen and scroll through pictures of Cassie at horse shows or sunsets over the fields sent by Liam.
Those moments hurt my heart for the simplicity of the world we’d all shared.
The perfection of long summer evenings and cosy winter nights. The innocence of growing up without fences and traffic lights.
I missed sharing a bedroom with Della.
I missed birthday picnics and cherished handmade gifts.
I missed holding her close on a freshly harvested meadow and hearing the birds roost in the willows.
I would’ve given anything to be a farmhand again.
And I knew, over the course of the two years while we lived in a city I didn’t care about, and life maintained a steady stream of work, school, and evenings together, that something had to give.
Something had to change.
Otherwise, I was going to go insane.
I wasn’t cut out for a job where I hated the crew and the labour.
I wasn’t cut out to live in a tiny claustrophobic basement apartment.
But each spring, when the ground thawed and Della murmured that we should go back to the forest, I forbid it. She had to finish school. That was my commitment to her to pay for her education and her commitment to me to learn it.
Despite our constant desire to leave, I was eternally grateful when a letter arrived for me this time, not for Della.
A letter from John Wilson.
There was no fluff or word wastage, just a short message letting me know a friend who owned a farm not far from where we lived had recently lost his head milking harvester. His dairy herd numbered in the hundreds, and he needed someone trustworthy to start immediately.
Della wasn’t home from school yet, but I caught a bus as close to the city limit as I could and walked the rest of the way to his sprawling acreage.
The farmer, an elderly gentleman with yellowing teeth and balding head called Nick March, offered me a job on the spot if I could start at four a.m. every day.
The pay was double what I was earning, and I’d get to be around animals and open spaces again.
I didn’t even think.
I shook his hand and celebrated with Della that night with an expensive tub of ice cream that I couldn’t really afford.
And that was how two years bled into three, and slowly, our newfound routine faded in favour of upcoming complications.
And our lives got a lot more difficult.
CHAPTER FIFTY
REN
* * * * * *
2016
SWEET SIXTEEN.
I’d never wanted to deny Della a birthday before, but this one…I wished we could skip right over it.
Not because she’d transformed overnight from skinny to curvy. Not because she laughed with a depth and richness that made my heart skip a beat. And not because she’d taken to wearing clothes that revealed her perfect figure, announcing to horny teens and asshole males that she was no longer a kid.
Believe me, I knew she wasn’t a kid anymore.
Living with a stunning teenager when I’d turned into a surly, angry twenty-six-year-old wasn’t easy. She seemed t
o grant life whenever she walked into a room and steal it whenever she left.
If she got pissed at me, I felt as if my world would end.
If I got pissed at her, I wanted nothing more than to punish her so she never misbehaved again.
Our dynamic became more explosive as age both bridged us closer and cracked a wider ravine. Outside appearances might have ensured she matched me almost in adulthood, but our opinions and thoughts remained divided.
She had an uncanny way of wanting to touch and hug when I wanted nothing to do with softness and connection. I hadn’t been with a woman since Cassie, and it had been a long few years sleeping in a house with a girl who’d managed to flip my world upside down with a simple kiss.
I hated the fact that I still guarded myself against her when all I wanted to do was relax.
I despised the fact I’d become afraid of dreaming because, without fail, whenever I started to trust Della’s lovely smile or thaw from her innocent embrace, I’d dream that night of kissing a stranger.
Of chasing her.
Of catching her.
Of kissing her until my body ached and I woke with a desperate growl for more.
I didn’t know who I dreamed of. I never saw her face. And I would never admit to myself that because of what Della had done that night, I’d forever stitched her to the sensation of feeling at home the moment I kissed my dream-stranger or the heart-shattering horror when I woke up feeling dirty and wrong and in serious need of punishment.
I was desperate to taste that sensation of wonder. I craved to relive the magic of falling so deeply and quickly, I’d belonged entirely to my dream figment in a single heartbeat.
But whatever my issues were, I never let Della see.
When we first slept in separate rooms, I’d been obsessed with checking on her—making sure she was safe and no monsters climbed through her bedroom window.
Now, I was glad we had walls between us because my body never obeyed me anymore.
I woke hard.
I struggled not to release the pent-up need in my blood.
And my mind turned to ways of releasing such painful pressure without getting involved with anyone.
Cassie had made me wary, and Della had made me nervous.
I didn’t like getting close to anyone, which meant I buried my needs down deep and accepted I lived in a constant nightmare.
The one saving grace to my torture was no matter Della’s beauty, most days, I only saw her as my Ribbon. I could allow the comforting swell of love when she smiled at me. I could permit the way my body warmed whenever she was close.
I might forever hate myself for kissing her back while asleep, but I was insanely grateful that while awake, I crossed no boundaries in my thoughts. I didn’t covert that which I could not have. I didn’t confuse my dream with reality.
She was my world and home and family.
It didn’t matter her long legs meant when we hugged, her head met my chin. It didn’t matter her strong arms could haul things I deemed too heavy or her quick brain surpassed me in everything.
She was still little Della who I obsessed over, and sometimes, I wondered if that pissed her off.
I’d catch her glaring at me if I indulged her rather than argued. I’d get the sensation she was hurt if I played along rather than acted serious.
But whenever those rare moments occurred, by the time I turned to look closer or cocked my head to hear clearer, the smoke in her gaze was gone, the tightness in her tone vanished.
I supposed we were both keeping secrets; both hiding certain things.
But that was life.
We had our own worlds we juggled during the day. She did things at school I would never know about, and I did things at work I never bothered to tell her.
As long as we returned to each other at night, then I was okay with that.
My family was a single girl who I would happily die for, and lately, that was exactly what she made me want to do.
She might be the sweetest person I knew, but she was also the meanest, and as much as she hated me to call her out on it, I knew why she’d started testing boundaries and pushing into territories I wasn’t comfortable with.
Lust.
I did my best to remember the cocktail of confusing needs and rampant curiosities I’d felt at that age, but it didn’t mean I wanted her to go through it.
I wanted her to stay the forest girl, not a boy-interested teen.
Not that it mattered what I wanted.
We were no longer in sync, and when I got home from work and took her out to a local diner for our birthday dinner, I learned just how much things had drifted.
The meal started nice and normal.
We chatted about generic things, asked questions, listened intently, enjoyed each other’s company…that was until a group of people arrived.
A group she knew and a boy who waved in her direction and smiled.
My gut clenched, and my fist wrapped around my Coke glass.
The four teenagers came toward our table, and Della lit up in a way she hadn’t in so long with me. Her eyes met the boy’s, a familiar message shared between them, and I was no longer the most important person in her world.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, hurt me as much as Della laughing and joking with her friends while she was so careful with me. To see her liveliness return with these strangers ripped out my goddamn heart.
I tried to be happy that she had friends, even though she’d never mentioned them. I did my best not to clutch my bleeding chest when she turned to me with blushing cheeks and bright blue eyes and asked, “Do you mind if I finish my birthday with these guys? We…eh, we have an assignment to finish and probably should do some homework.”
Her lie didn’t hurt me.
It was the fact she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
I glanced at her half-eaten burger and remembered a simpler time when she was five and made my world come alive. I recalled how she’d taken my loveless, painful existence and showed me that not all people wanted to buy and sell you.
She was the reason I wasn’t more mentally damaged and physically scarred than I was.
And because she’d been the one to save me without even realising it, I found myself nodding with a fierceness that belied my agony.
This was life.
This was what had to happen.
“Of course.” I cleared my throat, waving her away. “Go ahead. You should spend your birthday with whoever you want.”
She bounced up, looked as if she’d come to my side of the booth and hug me goodbye, but at the last minute changed her mind, gave me a confusing-tormenting smile, then turned and walked away.
“Be home by ten, Della,” I said softly.
She looked over her shoulder with blonde hair cascading with a single blue ribbon glittering amongst the gold. “I will.” She blew me a kiss before giggling at something the boy said in her ear.
Sweet sixteen.
Just like my original discomfort and desire to skip over such a birthday, my resolution solidified with another memory of my own sweet sixteen.
Cassie had said I deserved something special.
I’d had my first blow job in the shadows of a stable.
Now, Della was sixteen and laughing with a boy I wanted to punch in the goddamn face.
I couldn’t stop whatever she would or would not do.
All I could do was celebrate my twenty-six birthday on my own.
I paid for our uneatened burgers.
I returned home to an empty apartment.
And I sat and watched the clock strike nine then ten then eleven and still Della didn’t come home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
REN
* * * * * *
2016
A FEW WEEKS later, Della asked me the dreaded question.
The one I’d been expecting ever since I’d seen her happiness hanging with the group of kids from school on our birthday.
“Ren?”
&n
bsp; I looked up from where I was trying to yank a splinter from my thumb. The bastard had gone in deep, and I’d left it for too long, ensuring a red infection and minor swelling. It was a fence’s fault, catching me as I’d corralled the cows into the yard for milking. “Yeah?” I asked, distracted with a needle and tweezers.
Her bare feet appeared beneath my vision where I sat hunched at the dinged-up kitchen table. “It can wait. Do you need help?”
I smiled at her tangled hair from a long day and the pyjamas with a repeating decal of Cupid’s arrows and hearts all over her arms and legs. Having her stand there ready for bed and eyes hooded with tiredness, I could almost forget she was slipping further from my reach.
Strange how you could miss someone when they were apart of everything you did.
Before I could reply, she stole the needle, pulled up the only other chair, and yanked my hand toward her.
“Careful,” I warned as she prodded me with the sharp tip.
“I have to break a few layers of skin. You left it too long. It’s grown over.”
I groaned. “Great.”
“Hold still.” She bent over me, her hair obscuring her face and tickling the tops of my jean-covered thighs. I hadn’t had a shower from work, and the dust and filth from working cows all day dirtied her cleanliness.
Not that she cared as she bent closer and diligently dug into my thumb.
I flinched occasionally, but somehow, she managed not to hurt me even though a bead of blood kept welling, causing her to wipe it away with her own finger, continuing her splinter hunt.
She needed a napkin or something to prevent my blood from staining her fingers, but I daren’t stop her. I might not let her resume stabbing me otherwise.
The scent of vanilla rose from her hair, hinting she’d bought a different shampoo than her usual. She still smelled of the girl I’d known for sixteen years, but there was a new smell, too.
Something that made my heart chug harder the longer she huddled close.
She was so real, so fragile, so beautiful.
My fingers begged to be allowed to run through her hair, to bring her close, to hold her because I missed her so goddamn much.
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