“Darlin’,” he says, looking deep into my eyes as I rest on his right arm. He kisses me slowly and releases my lip from between my clenched teeth. “We don’t have to do anything until you’re ready,” he says, reassuringly—and I know he means it. He’s halted his hand, but not moved it.
I close my eyes, and relax my body, purposefully, by taking a deep cleansing breath. I expressly remind myself that what I feel now is the opposite of pain. He would never hurt me. Although they are brothers, they are contrary to one another. What his brother took, Dillon will give back to me in his own way, and right now. “You’re going to have to tell me when you’re ready,” he says, swallowing hard.
It seems like we lie here on the precipice for ages. When I don’t feel like I’m going to react to the diseased molecules swimming on the surface of my perception, I say yes with my eyes and nod my head almost imperceptibly. If he’d blinked too long, he would have missed me giving him my consent.
I exhale, locking eyes with him as he glides smoothly through the petals of my flower. I feel it from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. Our bond is strengthened, stronger than before, and unable to be broken. I am his and he is mine. I push into his hand, squeeze my legs around his arm.
I am his instrument. He plays me and I sing in breathy tunes. I can’t keep still. I need him to quench this ache, make the rosebud bloom and grow before it can close again like flowers in the night. My eyes plead with his. I need you.
“Please,” I say, as that’s all I can force my mouth to complete. He pushes off the bed, away from me. At first, I think he’s changed his mind. But slowly, he unbuttons his pants. Pulling them down over his hips, he frees what had been pushed down by weight of the denim. I look at him sideways as I wonder about the mechanics of it and if I can accommodate him. He’s a monument to the ideal of manhood. I had no idea.
Then I realize, as he looks at me so vulnerably trying to read my expression, that we fit together in every other way. The way our hands fit together—our fingers entwined like knotted wood, mine in his; how his hip rests just above mine when he holds me, and I fit perfectly under his ribs when we walk arm in arm. This should be no different. I wiggle under his gaze. I’m not afraid. I’m hearing the Song of Songs in my head. This verse makes so much sense now. The moment when the wife is introduced to sensual pleasure:
‘Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest
is my beloved among the young men.
I delight to sit in his shade,
and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
Let him lead me to the banquet hall,
and let his banner over me be love.’
These verses finally make sense. The couple is starving for love. The physical relationship feeds it—feeds them and makes them stronger. I want to be nourished. We will become stronger together.
“Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits,” I say, ending the verse I’d been thinking out loud. The look on his face, so serious, so amorous makes me feel like bubbles are popping under my skin, my eyebrows furrowed in longing.
He is drawn to me, and I to him like two atoms pulled into marriage with one another. He takes my lips between his. This is a new kiss, asking for something, coaxing my heart to connect with his on some level I cannot even fathom yet. My form comes up to meet him as he breathes out and tenderly finds his place within my body, just like my memories of him have always been inside my mind all these years.
At first, the pain echoes through me with a feeling like ripping paper. But he moves inside me so slowly you’d think I am an heirloom of thin glass that already has a hairline crack. He takes my pain, filters it into his mouth as I exhale it. Before I know it, I’m singing in a breathy tune.
Despite how fragile I am to him, we slowly begin to sing together—a duet of movement and breath, kisses that pitter-patter along mouths and necks. His scent and mine mix together in the air around us like a perfume that never existed until right this moment. I am overcome. I will never leave him. He is mine.
“I’m yours,” I say, into his mouth as he stops, inhales and exhales heavy and deep, looking at me like his most prized possession. He cries out, sounding like a wolf howling in a low holler and drives himself inside me with a new potency—as if there is nothing separating us anymore. As if we are free.
My stinging tears mix with our perspiration, our scents dancing, his back wet under my fingers, our bodies powerfully gliding together in a slick covering. It’s building inside. My skin feels hot. It’s pain and pleasure in the same moment. We move together as one entity, I’m filled, and quenched, and bloom wider than I’d ever expected.
“Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me,” he says through clenched teeth, looking into my stinging eyes. He holds me, breaths frantic in my ear, as we shudder and quake together. I clutch him to my body with all four limbs, like he is the tree during a windstorm, and I am holding on for dear life.
I’m on fire, both inside and out. I push my face into his chest to hide the stinging cry that has turned into the loud, ugly cry. Suddenly, he’s tenderly kissing my face, kissing my squeezed-shut eyes, my ruddy cheeks, my chin. He cradles my face between his long, thin fingers.
“Did I hurt you, baby?” I can’t answer him. “Are you hurt?” He’s getting frantic now. He pulls away from me and I wince from the shock of being separated so quickly. I almost want to push him away, but I force myself not to punish him for my inability to handle too much at once.
It’s easier to push away than to hold on. It always has been. It’s easier to feel angry than vulnerable—and that’s how I feel now. Completely stripped of my veneer. My body has never known such tenderness, such urgency, such release, but this has drawn up what was really never healed in me like breaking open a glass case and spilling the remains to the floor.
“I’m okay,” I chirp, through the spasms of my crying. “I...” I cover my eyes with my hand like a child who thinks they’re invisible when only their head is under the blanket.
“I know, baby. Just let it out,” he says. Let it out? I think as I refuse to pick up my broken pieces from the floor. I need to deal with this. He’s right. Let it go! Stop holding on to all of this. I don’t need to do this alone anymore.
I lean into his chest like a brace and he holds me while I grieve. I grieve my loss in a way that I was never able to when I was numb and empty. The loss feels so immense that I can’t see the top of it from my perspective on the ground. I mourn in heaving tears, and acknowledge the old me hiding behind all of it as if she’s just been waiting for me to let her out of the prison he put her in.
In fact, I know he did not kill her. It was me who let her go so I could move on—like cutting off a diseased limb before it spreads to the rest of the body. I’m ready now to bring her out and examine her wounds. I’m willing to call her ‘me’ again.
I acknowledge that her fears are my fears, let go of the guilt, and say goodbye to my empty life—really take my time until I’m nearly empty of all of that, for now. He holds me until my breaths are even and clear, until my limbs feel like loose rubber bands and my eyes, like steel weights. In my chest, I feel a white light. I embrace it, even if it is just for this moment.
“You’re so brave, darlin’,” he croons. I feel nothing but peace in my bones. “Sleep now, baby,” he whispers as he pulls me under his arm, my head resting on his chest. I can’t help it when sleep comes like a refuge in the safety of love’s cocoon.
As my eyes flutter from shut to open, I’m greeted by the morning sun dancing in waves through the trees outside Dillon’s, I mean, our room. I don’t want to move because then we will have to get up—deal with the life that falls on me like a boulder from the sky. My mother is dying, Donnie wants to murder me and keep me enslaved by his sickness, I can’t tell Dillon what’s going on and he’s pressing for the truth, and a coal company is going to blow up the mountain that my home town is nestled into—a town that I’ve decided I’m
not going to leave.
On the other hand, I have this, right now. I’m in bed with my best friend, the only man I’ve ever loved and who loves me more than a fish loves water; and I’ve just agreed to stay here with him, in this house that has nothing but potential—kind of like Dillon and me.
Memories of last night come at me in waves just like the sunlight. I’m warmed by the pictures in my mind. My skin prickles and my stomach tingles. Physically, we are a perfect match. We’d always been emotionally perfect for one another. He never pushed me too hard, but always helped me be the best me. He’s funny. Kind. Sensitive, but strong. He’s perfect—too perfect for me, I think.
I smile wider than my face. I want to do that again.
“You do?” Dillon says, in my ear through a raspy, morning voice.
“Did I say that out loud?” I question him, as I yawn and stretch my body out like I’m reaching for both ends of the bed. I’m sore—but in a good way like after doing yoga or running in the park.
“Yes,” he says, his left arm bent under his ear and his right hand resting on my stomach. We took no precautions last night. His hand there makes me feel like my body is shared with someone. I wonder if I could be?
“I’d love to take you up on that,” he says, kissing my cheek. “We do have quite a few surfaces in said house to make love upon.” I giggle, remembering his speech up on the mountain. I love it when he talks like that, super smart like the Ph.D. that he is. “I didn’t want to wake you, but it’s actually almost noon and we’re late for lunch at Donnie and Renae’s house.”
And there’s that boulder, falling right on my chest. I can do this. I have the upper hand this time. I’m ready to reclaim my life. One thing I know for sure. Things will never be the same again. And I’m okay with that.
Chapter Eighteen—Splinters
I have only a sheet covering my body; a comfy white sheet under a deep green duvet that’s only covering our feet. Everything is soft, including Dillon’s arm as his hand rests on my stomach. I don’t want to get up yet. I know I have to go to lunch at Donnie’s house today, but I want to talk first. I thought it was such a cliché that women want to talk after making love in movies. But that’s exactly what I need right now.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. In the morning light, his face looks as bad as the punches sounded. He’s swollen under his eye and on his jaw, his eye looks even worse now.
“I should be asking you,” he responds. “Are you okay?” he asks, looking at me like he’s done something wrong.
“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. That was...”
“I know,” he says, when I can’t find a word to describe the wonder that took over my body last night.
“Is it like that all the time?” I ask, feeling a bit inadequate, and inexperienced. Then I realize I’m probably not the only woman who’s been in this bed with him.
“No, darlin’, what we have is very different. Special, you know? What we did last night, I’ve never done before. The emotional part, how much I love you, was even more profound for me than what my body felt. Other than our first real kiss, nothing from my past can compare.”
I’m looking at him from under my lashes. “For me, too, obviously.”
“I’m glad you waited for me,” he says, as he nuzzles his long finger along my cheek. My heart starts to beat recklessly, and my cheek tingles under his rousing touch.
“Me, too,” I say, but the truth is, I never really had a chance. My body said no to everyone else.
“Are you really staying here with me?”
“I meant everything I said last night. And I need to say something else.”
“Okay,” he says, looking a bit nervous as he moves his hand over the round part of my hip. I love it when he touches me. It makes me feel like I’m his.
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing hard, my mouth dry, as I sit up in the bed and he follows.
“For what?” he questions, as he pulls me toward him. My legs are criss-crossed, and his, bent and open on either side of me. I realize he’s put some grey boxers on. He must have been up for a while watching me sleep. He smells amazing. Like him, only magnified and mixed with me.
“For never giving up on me, Dillon. For doing this for me—for us,” I say, waving my hand at the room inside the house of my dreams. “It’s completely overwhelming to think that all these years...” My words are stuck in my head. I can’t get them to come out the way they’re lined up in my mind. He’s watching me intently.
“No, I thank you, Sadie. For coming home, and for loving me back. I can’t even believe it. All these years, I hoped, but now...,” he says, grasping my hands.
“Have you ever,” I clear my throat, “brought anyone else here?”
He stops and blinks a few times, as if my question surprises him. “No, darlin’ you’re the only woman I’ve ever brought to our bed. That’s how it always felt to me. When I saw it, I knew it was yours—just like me.” He looks so earnest. There’s no way he’s being dishonest. But I still feel territorial over him—resentful of any other woman he’s been with. “Are you jealous?” he asks.
“No,” I say. But I am. I want to ask him how many women he’s been with. But what if I don’t like the answer?
“Yes, you are,” he says, tickling me under my ribs. I giggle and jerk away from him. When I do, he looks down on the bed where I was just lying.
“What’s wrong?” I say, looking down, too. There, under where I’d been sleeping, in the spot where we made love in our bed for the first time, is a quarter sized spot of the deepest crin, almost in the shape of a heart. It’s blood. I look up at him, confused. I didn’t think that could happen again.
“How is this possible?” I ask.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, nervously.
“A little, but I feel fine,” I say, puzzled.
“Well, this means I was right. To me you were, and I’m the only one,” he says, in awe. It seems like his words aren’t coming out the way they’re lined up in his mind either.
He leans toward me and kisses me so ardently that I start to feel dizzy. I kiss him back, because I love him and because I want to feel this now before the world is turned upside down in the next hour of my life.
“You ready to shower with me, baby?” he asks, with an intense expression—like he’s going to share something with me. I’ve never done anything so intimate, with the exception of last night.
I get up, embarrassed to be naked in the morning light. He smiles and moves my arm away from my breasts, taking me in. “Please, don’t hide from me. I’ve waited all my life for this,” he says, taking a moment to look at my naked body. I know there will be a time when this doesn’t make me nervous, but my cheeks feel hot and the back of my neck feels damp. He grasps my other hand and walks backward with me into the bathroom attached to the room. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“I smell of you,” I say.
“And I of you,” he says, as he steps onto the cool tile floor. “I love it.” He smiles, and I giggle. “What a wonderful sound,” he says. “Your giggle reminds me of being a kid. Back when things were simple.”
“Me, too,” I say, and then look around.
The bathroom looks completely remodeled, but in an antique style. There’s a claw foot tub, but larger than a normal one, gorgeous ceramic tile in a light green hue. Just the one I’d pick if given my choice. He’s really read my blogs.
He turns on the shower and strips down. I wonder, as I blush all over, whether I’ll always be dumbfounded when I see him nude. He’s breathtaking—his muscles tight and ropey. His skin is flawless and I giggle thinking, if there is a God, he’s been generous with him in every way.
“What’s so funny?” he asks as we step into the modern shower under the stream of steaming water together.
“I was just thinking that God was kind to you.” I blush, my eyes darting down for a brief second. He’s not embarrassed. He’s very secure in his nakedness. I’m sure any man who
looks like him would be.
“I’m glad to hear you believe in him again,” he says, smiling and nudges me backward until water drenches me like mini-waterfalls over my eyes and the peak of my nose. He takes care of me, washes my hair, his long thin fingers massaging my scalp. He lathers lavender scented soap and rubs my whole body with it, taking care to even wash me in my most delicate area. I try not to let my body get too anticipatory. We do have to go.
I bite my thumbnail to stop the thumping in my heart and try not to push back into his soapy fingers. I close my eyes as he rubs my stomach and moves his hands along my lower back. I open them when he stops washing me. He looks lost, his arms around my waist.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“This just seems so surreal,” he says.
“Like everything is as it should be,” I say, kissing his chest, before I move around so I’m behind him and reciprocate. He winces when I wash the foot sized bruise marring his back. I want to take his bruises away. Erase them. It’s my fault. No, nothing Donnie does is my fault. I know that now. I just need a reminder.
I wash his hair, which feels soft between my fingers, his skin warm and flawless, charged under my touch. When I reach around to his chest, my arms under his, and move down toward his stomach with soapy fingers, I find him wanting more as he turns to face me.
This is so intimate and fills my chest with too much steaming air to breath normally. I wrap my hands around his neck as he presses my back against the now warm tile, pinning me ardently with his hips.
He kisses me carefully, as if he’s holding back, and pulls his mouth away, then presses his forehead lightly against mine. How easy it will be to be his wife, to live my life with him. This is so perfect, so right, I think into his eyes—with one red and broken. His wounds make me sad, then livid and defensive. No one will hurt us again.
“Next time,” he promises, with his eyes shut and his lips curved upward. It feels like an invisible current flows around us in the steam. He kisses me lightly on the cheek, as if he were kissing my lips again, he’d be lost. He turns off the water.
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