by E. S. Carter
I should’ve been stronger and told you sooner, but there was never a right time.
I’ll miss you.
I’ll call all the time.
G.
Food forgotten, I clutch the torn notepad paper in my hands and crawl into bed.
I’m such a bad friend. I should be happy for him.
I drift into a restless sleep with promises to be better swirling in my brain.
No more selfish Fflur.
Life is better for everyone this way.
Today was a good day.
Today was a good day.
Today was the day everything ended, and something else began.
Chapter Thirty
I’m alone at Mum and Max’s house.
I could’ve stayed with my dad this weekend while they were away in Paris—a last minute trip booked in Mum’s excitement at everyone’s good news—but I’d hoped I’d get to spend some time with Galen before he left on tour. Mum easily bought my excuse of wanting to give Dad and Kate some quality alone time.
Time.
It’s a funny concept.
Mum and Max were spending some much-needed time together in the beautiful French city of love—let’s face it if anyone deserved it after the last few months, they did.
Dad and Kate were having some alone time together, their relationship getting stronger and more serious by the day, and Rhys was having the time of his life in Uni.
While time was slipping away from me, from us.
The more time passes, the more it takes away, and soon, Galen would be the person time would take away from me.
The first morning I awake, and Galen has already left to go to work. I know it, even before I look for him because the house feels cold, empty.
I go through the routine of showering and having a lonely breakfast, but I feel lost.
Without everyone else here—the people who made me accept this place as a home—it just feels like a house.
I’m loading the dishwasher when the doorbell rings, and for a brief second my heart flutters Galen, then my head kicks in, and I realise he wouldn’t be ringing the bell, he has a key.
I try to rein in my disappointment when I open the door to Erin and the box of donuts she has precariously balanced in her hand.
“I thought we could finish our English assignment and then pig out in your TV room and watch Friends reruns.”
I give her what I hope is a grateful smile and open the door wide to let her enter. “That sounds great. I was just thinking how empty this place feels when you’re on your own.”
The smile she gives me goes a long way towards soothing a little of the ache I feel inside.
We’d grown closer, Erin and I, and neither of us had anything more to do with Emma. In fact, Emma hadn’t returned to school after our GCSEs, having got pregnant by a random hook-up with a boy from another school. Her deeply religious family sold up and moved out of the area to escape what they’d perceived as a scandal, making a heavily pregnant Emma move with them.
Despite what she’d done to me, a part of me felt sorry for her. She’d gotten to the point where she’d wanted to fit in and be popular more than she’d valued our friendship. I can’t say I understood the need that drove her to change so drastically, but I didn’t feel the need to judge her for it either.
Almost a box of donuts and three episodes later—our English assignment set aside in favour of watching Joey and the gang—and Erin asks out of the blue, “When does Galen leave for the tour?”
Her question catches me off guard after the pleasant few hours spent mindlessly laughing at a show I must have already seen every episode of at least twice.
“Uh, a couple of days’ time, I think,” I respond vaguely, thankful my voice doesn’t betray the immediate churning that twists through my stomach.
“I bet you’ll miss him,” she continues, oblivious to the turmoil this conversation is causing me. “You’ve always been more than just brother and sister.”
My stomach bottoms out, and my mouth fills with bile as I manage to sit on my hands to hide the tremors running through my body.
She’s still unaware, her attention mostly on the TV. This conversation seemingly nothing more than idle chat to her.
“You’re both more like best mates than siblings. My brothers actively avoid me, yet you get on great with both of yours.” She turns her head to look at me. “You’re lucky, Fflur. Yours both adore you.”
I’m aware I haven’t spoken or even nodded, but Erin doesn’t pick up on it. Her focus back on the TV.
It’s only minutes later that we both hear the front door open, and less than five minutes after that Galen walks into the room.
“Hey,” he says to us both, his eyes flicking from the TV to the single donut left in the box. “Looks like you’ve had a productive morning.” He steps forward and steals the final treat, a big grin on his face as he takes a huge bite.
Erin squirms in her seat, she’s been weird around Galen lately, like she’s finally caught on to the fact he’s good looking.
“Help yourself,” I mumble, my earlier nausea abating quickly now Galen is near. His response is to shove the rest of the donut into his mouth. His cheeks stuffed to bursting as his jaw works hard to chew. I find myself unable to stop the grin I give him. After the last few months, a playful Galen is impossible to resist, even if I only get to have him on borrowed time.
Erin stands, quickly reverting to the shy, reserved girl she tends to be around most others.
“I’m going to head home. Thanks for the, uh, yeah.” She grabs her bag and fumbles with the strap. “I’ll see you Monday in school Fflur.”
She gives Galen an awkward smile and what passes as a wave and leaves without waiting for me to see her out.
“So what are we doing today?” he asks, plopping down on the sofa next to me, his thigh tight against mine.
I lean in close, and his eyes widen fractionally when mine flit to his lips, lingering there a beat, before once more coming to rest on his gaze. But instead of being bold like I want to be, I duck at the last minute and exaggeratedly sniff at his t-shirt.
“You smell like oil and petrol. I thought you were working at the music store today?”
He lifts the cotton to his nose and inhales.
“Nah, I handed my notice in last week. Jeff was happy for me and gave me the weekend off. I was just helping Gareth fix his car.”
I shoo him off the sofa. “Then you need to go shower before we decide to do anything today. Go on, go.”
“You got ants in your pants? You’re a little bossy today, Fflur,” he grumbles, giving me the side eye as he goes to leave, but I can see the smile at the corner of his lips.
“Nope,” I reply, popping the P and grinning just as wide as he had moments ago, his playfulness infectious. “I just don’t want to waste any more time, that’s all. Now go, get changed, shower, whatever. You’re taking me out.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon eating fish and chips in the car while watching the blustery waves hit the shore of the beach. It’s been a long time since we’ve been here, and never alone. The last time was that family day out at the pleasure beach. A summer day awkwardly spent following Galen like a lost puppy and riding old log flumes. It felt like a lifetime ago, and as we sat in comfortable silence, I wondered if he was recalling the same memories.
Galen’s hand finds mine, and he links our fingers. I’m so consumed by the contact that it takes me a second to realise that he’s arched his body up and his other hand slides into his jeans pocket and pulls out the plectrum I gave him for his birthday.
“Ad Libitum,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing over the engraving while the hand in mine squeezes once. “I know you don’t want me to leave, Fflur, and a huge part of me wants to stay, but this way is for the best.”
I still, not ready for a brush off. Today has been perfect. Just being with him and spending our time together, was enough to help me push thoughts of him leaving out of my head,
if only for a little while. I wasn’t expecting him to bring it up like this.
“At one's will," he whispers, his eyes still on the silver plectrum in his hand. “I’ve struggled with that, with choosing, and allowing myself to take what I’ve tried so fucking hard to ignore, but today,” his head turns to me, and I’m drawn to look at him. “Today, I’m done fighting it.”
Then his lips are on mine.
He’s not tentative or gentle. His lips take and take, his hands rough and demanding as he pulls me towards him, my knee hitting the handbrake hard.
“Shit,” he curses breathlessly. “Shit, Fflur. I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.” He looks down at where I absently rub my likely bruised knee. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” It’s the truth. My knee smarts but that’s not the worst pain I feel. I hurt more knowing he’ll be gone soon.
“Take me home, Gal,” I whisper, my knee forgotten, my hand once more lifting to link with his, and my eyes dropping to his lips. With more confidence than I’ve ever felt capable of, I beg, “Take me home and give in to your will. Our will.”
The drive back is tense, but there’s anticipation there too.
He didn’t say anything after my brazen request. He just started the car, and without letting go of my hand, he reversed from our parking spot and began our journey home. He’s held on ever since. Changing gears awkwardly by resting his knee on the underside of the steering wheel and using his free hand to reach over his body to the gearstick.
I stare out of the window as my thumb runs over his knuckles. It’s the most intimate connection we’ve allowed ourselves for a long time, so I’m confused when we get back to the house to be ditched in the hallway without so much as a word while Galen goes straight into the kitchen.
A few moments later he calls out, “Want a drink? I can make tea?”
I don’t reply, and moments later his head pops around the doorway.
“What’s wrong,” he asks. Although he’s not asking because he doesn’t know, he’s trying to buy time.
Time.
That ruthless jailor determined to take away all my dreams.
“Nothing, I don’t want a drink. Play a song for me?” I ask, all my earlier boldness gone to be replaced by a nervous awkwardness. My skin feels too tight for my body. My hands are twitchy and unsure whether to stay at my sides or reach out for that which they desperately want to touch.
I want to ask him for more than a song, but I can feel him putting distance between us, and I’ll take what I can get.
He looks unsure but takes a step towards me, and the restlessness thrumming through my veins eases a little.
When he walks by me to climb the stairs, he reaches out and snags my hand, tugging me behind him and into his room.
Leaving me just inside the doorway, he moves across the room to turn on the lamp, then retrieves his guitar from its stand in the corner and swivels around his desk chair to face the bed. With the instrument positioned in front of him, he looks up at me and tilts his head, indicating for me to take a seat on his bed.
“What—” he clears his throat. “What did you want me to play?”
“Pick something for me.”
I sit on the edge of the bed facing him and watch as he closes his eyes. His hands find the strings as if they are an extension of himself. He swallows hard, and I’m struck by the longing in his gaze when his eyes pop open and lock with mine.
“For Fflur.”
I shiver knowing that whatever song he chooses to sing is for me and me alone.
The first notes curl through the air like wisps of smoke, and it isn’t until he opens his mouth and sings the first line, that I recognise the song.
All I Ask by Adele.
But unlike the original, Galen’s version is stripped back, low, painfully raw, and filled with an ache that speaks of a yearning so profound that I can’t keep my tears at bay. Even when I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, they seep through my lashes and run rivers down my cheeks.
It’s too much.
I can’t look at him. My heart won’t survive.
I may have laid myself bare for Galen before, but this is him doing it for me now.
Every word. Every syllable. Every soul deep note.
When his voice cracks on the lyrics that ask if he’ll ever love again, my breath catches painfully in my throat, and my eyes flash open to crash with his. Lawn green meets bright blue, reflecting every ounce of pain, of need, of… love that I’ve tried to keep locked inside for so long.
“Galen.” His name comes out on a sob, and he drops the guitar to the floor to kneel in front of me, his hand reaching out, the pads of his fingertips gently running through the wetness on my cheeks.
“Fflur.” My name on his lips is a benediction.
And he kisses me.
His lips feather over mine—a whisper of hope, and a testing of waters.
My heart beats sluggishly before bursting to life, and then we become more.
More frantic.
More frenzied.
Urgent. Needy. Desperate.
One of his hands cups my jaw, tilting my head and deepening our connection, the other runs down my arm to link our fingers.
He kisses me like he’s starved.
He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m his air.
Then his lips find my neck, my collarbone, my jaw and his hands find their way into my t-shirt while mine burrow up the back of his shirt. The muscles in his back shift and bunch under my palms, his skin smooth and hot to the touch.
I want to touch more of him, but our position is wrong, and as if sensing what I want—what I need—Galen stands and pulls me up.
My top is gone between one breath and the next, and his quickly follows as he tugs at the back of his collar and drags it over his head before dropping it to the floor at our feet.
Then I’m back in his arms, not a millimetre between us, as our bodies press together from knee to chest.
His hands find my cotton encased breasts, while mine skim down his neck to his taut nipples, my nails lightly scraping and eliciting a gasp from his lips, so I do it again. And again. Until he’s unable to hold back.
He’s hard and insistent against my stomach, and I ache to touch him there.
Without breaking our next kiss, my hands seek out the button of his jeans and I fumble as I unzip him, his groans urging me on. When I cup him over his boxers, he tears his mouth from mine, and his fingers rush to undo my jeans.
Within seconds, our bottoms are gone, followed by his boxers and my plain white knickers.
He kisses me again, deep and long and consuming, as my hand wraps around his length and pumps—once, twice—loving the feel of him, yet needy for even more. My legs threaten to buckle when his hand skims down my belly, lower and lower his fingers trail, until he finds me hot, wet and ready for his touch. His fingers are gentle despite the ferocity of our previous actions. He works them around and around and around the bundle of nerves that before today only knew my hands, my fingers, my touch. His eyes are fixed on the movements of my hand as I stroke, and pull, and drag him closer to the edge.
His breaths ghost over my face, our air mingling, our bodies grinding. His fingers alternate between that delicious, maddening rub, to teasing my entrance. I chase the feeling, my hips circling wanting to reach the crescendo yet never wanting this to end.
I tighten my hold on his cock when a single digit dares to enter me, followed by two and his thumb takes over to tease the part of me that drives me to the edge.
Gasp.
Thrust.
Tighten.
Pump.
Stroke.
Rub.
Over and over and over until he’s panting against my mouth and I cry out in ecstasy. His groan of release following soon after and coating my hand.
“Fflur,” he groans across my lips. “God… Fflur.”
We hold each other tight through the tremors in our bodies. Our foreheads touching, our lips a mere breath aw
ay. We’d soared in the sky together, wrapped up in touch, and taste, and love, and now clung tightly to each other on our glide towards land.
“I—” he begins to speak, then pulls away, his eyes no longer on me but everywhere else.
“Galen?”
When he lifts his head to look at me, the expression on his face causes me to take a step back.
Guilt. Mistake. Regret.
He sees the despair quickly overtaking my elation and steps towards me, his hand cupping my face, his mouth finding mine in a slow, sweet kiss.
A kiss goodbye.
When he pulls back, his eyes trained on my lips, I want to reach out and drag him to me, demand that he doesn’t do this to me. To us.
“I’m sorry, Fflur. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Wh—why are you apologising? This wasn’t wrong, what we just shared wasn’t wrong.”
He takes a step back, his heel hitting the discarded guitar and the instrument lets out a discordant cry.
“Tell me, Galen,” I demand. “Tell me.”
“I—, we—, that should never—”
“Don’t you dare tell me that the most important, most special, most meaningful moment of my life should never have happened. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“It shouldn’t have happened with you.”
“What?” I ask in shock. “With me? Why? Tell me why, because right now all I hear is a whole lot of nothing, and it hurts Gal, it fucking hurts.”
He bends and picks up his tee from the floor, holding it out for me to clean myself and my hand that’s still covered with what I just did to him. What we did to each other.
“I’m not your sister, Gal,” I bite out, snatching the top from him and roughly scrubbing at my skin.
“No,” he says at length. “You’re not my sister. You’re my cousin. My first cousin.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“What the hell are you on about?”
This makes no sense. He must be confused. He’s got this wrong. We’re not related.
“We’re not related, Gal. You’re making excuses. We aren’t even step-siblings.”