I didn’t remember John or Patricia taking a lot of photos around the farm, and this one had been taken without our knowledge, capturing a moment of utter simplicity that only made it all the more perfect.
“You’re so pretty,” I breathed, drinking in the sight of young Della with white blonde hair, blue ribbon tangled in whatever breeze had danced in her strands, and the yellow daisy top and skirt she favoured. Knobby knees and white sneakers and the most gorgeous heart-warming smile as she hung on the moss-covered gate, staring at me as if I held her every wish and promise.
And then there was me: lanky and awkward, still a teen with an aura of aloneness beneath the vicious veil of protectiveness for the little girl beside him. I had my hand on Della’s shoulder, laughing at something she said, my entire body turned to face her as if I had to be wherever she was to survive.
Hay covered us, pink cheeks, and sweaty heat. Everything about the photo said summer fun without a care in the world but also throbbed with love.
So much fucking love between two kids who not only adored but needed each other past common-sense.
My anger vanished as I wrapped my arms around Della, hugging her back to my front and resting my chin on her head. She smelled of earth and travel and sleepless nights but she was still the girl I’d known for two decades. “I love you as much as I did then. Even more.”
Twisting in my arms, she reached up and kissed me.
I expected my usual reaction.
The undeniable desire to give in to her, to grant permission, to take the kiss she gave me and deepen it into something more.
But familiarity gave way to a different kind of reaction.
I couldn’t help it.
I reared back just as our lips connected.
And my heart that loved her as a woman threaded with a heart that had once loved her as a child. A heart that knew its boundaries. Knew its boundaries so well, it scrambled behind them and trembled in disgust.
It happened in a split second, but Della froze. She gasped, stumbling back as if I’d slapped her. “Ren…”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” Her hands balled. “Nothing has changed. Just because we’re back here—”
“I know.” Raking fingers through my hair, I coughed around the sudden tightness in my chest. “It-it just happened. I didn’t mean to pull away. I—” I dropped my hand. “I’m sorry, Little Ribbon.”
Even her nickname in this place sounded blasphemous for all the knowledge I now had of her. The knowing of every dip and curve of her body—the same body I’d washed and healed.
Fuck.
My heart raced as more nausea filled me.
I’d raised her, for God’s sake.
I’d lied to every person in this town and told them she was my sister.
Stepping onto the Wilson’s estate, I’d been waiting for some sort of homecoming, some sort of nudge of welcome. But I hadn’t expected to be bombarded by every emotion I hadn’t dealt with before Della kissed me and ran away. Every emotion from a teenage boy struggling to keep his thoughts in check and honour intact.
My boots thudded as I took another step away from her.
And it broke something between us.
I hadn’t meant to do it.
Even now, I wanted nothing more than to move toward her, kiss her deep, and assure her that nothing had happened.
But something had happened, and I didn’t know how to fix it.
Della shook her head as if denying what I’d just done.
I raised my hands, wishing I could ignore the memories, the strict unbreakable laws I’d erected in this place.
But then Cassie’s voice sliced through our agony. “Ren? Della?”
I spun to face the door where Cassie stood on the threshold holding an armful of clothes. Her hostess routine and sweet welcome was immediately blackened as she tasted tension on the air, assessing the complications throbbing between me and Della.
“Um…I brought you some clothes.” Stepping gingerly into the room, she placed them on the bottom of the bed that had once been mine. The same bed where I’d woken up with my fist in Della’s hair and her mouth on mine. The same bed where I’d dreamed of a girl I wanted more than anything, gotten hard thinking about, and never dared admit it was the thirteen-year-old asleep in the dark beside me.
Shit.
“Everything okay?” Cassie asked as she made her way back to the door.
If she didn’t know something was going on before, she sure as fuck did now.
Sucking in a heavy breath, I growled. “Fine, sorry. Long trip.” Marching toward her, I grabbed the door and began to close it. “We’ll have a quick shower and be with you soon, okay?”
I shut it before she could reply.
I’d been an asshole to a woman whose mother had just died all because I couldn’t control my thoughts from past and present.
By the time I turned to face Della—to try to fix what I’d broken—the bathroom door slammed and the lock clicked into place.
I barely made it to my old bed before my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto it.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
REN
* * * * * *
2020
THE FUNERAL WAS crowded with almost everyone from the small town paying their respects to a well-liked, wonderful woman.
As we stood beside the Wilsons on the church steps while they welcomed people to the service, Della and I stayed stiff and hurting, unsure how to breach the sudden gap that had appeared between us.
I was achingly aware of her.
She was flinchingly aware of me.
Our connection had switched from steadfast to fragile.
I wanted to grab and hold her. I needed to talk to her away from prying ears.
We had no time to clear the air and standing at the entrance to a religious service to say goodbye wasn’t the time or place—not because Patricia was the one we ought to be honouring, but because the town insisted on giving us its own welcome.
Person after person smiled and said hello as they trailed into the church.
Exclamations of how big we’d grown, how pretty Della was, how tall I’d become. Along with questions of where we’d been, what we’d been doing, and if we were back for good.
Della’s old teacher hugged her, then looked at me with strange curiosity, acting as if she knew why Della kept flicking me nervous glances.
Other so-called friends narrowed their eyes as if they knew a secret, and some girls from Della’s grade seemed to find answers to their questions in Della’s obvious tension.
I didn’t like any of it.
I didn’t like being noticed, and I didn’t like being judged. And I definitely didn’t like being estranged from Della at the worst possible time when we both needed each other.
Once the larger part of the crowd had entered, I inched closer to her, brushing her hand with mine.
Our skin sparked; the electricity between us crackling.
But she stepped out of my reach as one of Cassie’s friends who’d offered to hop into my bed with no strings attached smiled at me and pressed a fake kiss to my cheek before heading inside.
Out here, away from our old room where so many memories clung to the curtains and the photo that immortalised two children who didn’t know any better no longer condemned, I was clear-headed and disgusted with the way I’d acted.
I needed Della to understand I hadn’t meant to pull away, and things were still exactly the same as before. Not letting me touch her made me almost suicidal with the need to drag her away from nosy townsfolk and demand she talk to me, to accept my apology.
But then the service started, and it no longer felt right to be hurting over a relationship I still had when the relationship I’d shared with Patricia was gone forever.
The Wilsons, Della, and I headed somberly into the church.
Halfway down the aisle, Della tripped on the carpet runner, stumbling in Cassie’s borrowed heels.
I
caught her.
The touch was purely instinctual to protect her from falling—cupping her elbow, lashing my arm around her, pulling her close.
I steadied her, fighting the urge to kiss her, all while standing in the aisle surrounded by busybodies.
Had I just revealed I was more than just an overly attentive brother? Would people know we were more?
My worries were answered as knowing eyes brushed over us, making my heart fist and lungs burn.
Of course, people noticed.
We weren’t strangers here.
And our arrival back into their midst wasn’t unseen.
John was right that people wouldn’t understand, and Della was right to keep our relationship hidden.
Giving me a grimace, Della pulled away, and I coughed as if nothing had happened.
More eyes followed us as we continued to the front and the pew reserved for close family. My back prickled as people stared at us. It was nobody’s business, and I wanted to growl for them to stop, but I swallowed my temper, pushed the wariness from my mind, and focused on Patricia.
She deserved to be focused on.
Nothing else.
Sitting down, I kept my hands to myself and didn’t reach for Della’s as we listened to the priest give his spiel then, one by one, the Wilsons got up to speak.
Liam—no longer a silly boy who’d gotten naked with Della under the willow tree—delivered a speech of love and thanks that brought tears to everyone’s eyes. Adam—the oldest son we hadn’t met but was the reason for John’s charity toward us—painted a picture of a mother he adored. Cassie—dressed in black and shaking with sadness—did her best not to cry through her delivery, and John…
The big, gruff farmer who took us in and gave us shelter. The larger than life, generous man who’d become my only father figure, managed two sentences before breaking into a sob.
It fucking hurt to see a grown man who seemed utterly invincible shatter into pieces before the coffin of his dead wife.
I never wanted to live through that torture.
I never wanted to bury Della and live alone, just waiting for the day I could join her.
Tears danced over my own vision, not for Patricia’s loss but for John’s pain at being left behind. I was selfish to be almost grateful that, thanks to the ten-year-age difference between Della and me, I would logically be the one to go first.
I’d spent my entire life protecting Della from sadness and agony, only to admit in this matter, I couldn’t protect her.
I’d be a wreck, just like John.
Dressed in a too-big black shirt of his and too-short borrowed black slacks, my fists clenched as John held up his hands in surrender, shrugged an apology at the gathered crowd, then stumbled off the podium and crashed from the church.
Della flinched as the doors slammed closed, leaving everyone a little shell-shocked and slightly afraid.
The priest stood, saying the final words while Della chipped at the ice between us and touched my hand. Just a flutter, but it made me inhale as if she’d just given me air after a day of suffocating.
She wore a borrowed dress from Cassie—a black one piece that hugged her every curve, making her seem older, wiser, sadder. “You should go to him.”
I bent my head so I could whisper in her ear, “I don’t want to step on Liam’s and Adam’s toes.” They were his true sons, after all. However, looking where they sat next to Cassie, neither of them could console their father; the Wilson children were wrapped up in their own sad world of losing their mother.
John was on his own.
My heart hurt even more.
“You’re right.” Inhaling her scent of vanilla and caramel—recognising a shampoo she used to use as a child that was most likely still in the bathroom, restocked by Cassie or Patricia, I slipped from the pew as a hymn started. “You’ll be okay?”
She smiled softly, her standoffish behaviour gone. “I’ll be fine. You’ll find me after?”
“Of course. We need to talk.”
“I know.”
Holding her blue eyes for as long as I could, I stepped from the church and winced as the heavy doors cut me off from her.
The day was overcast and grey, matching the melancholy mood.
Striding forward in my weathered boots that didn’t match the black dress code, the top of my sock glinted with my well-used knife. Searching the graveyard with stone and cherub headstones, it didn’t take long to find John on a bench beneath a tree with white flowers, his head in his hands and large frame quaking.
Was it right to intrude when he was obviously suffering? Would I make it better or worse?
Before I could make up my mind, John looked up, his red-rimmed eyes heavily lined and wrinkles more pronounced than before. His hair was whiter, his body not as fit, but the quick flash of power and authority he’d always had made him sit up straighter and clear his throat. “Ren.”
We’d seen each other this morning after Della and I had finished getting dressed in borrowed clothes and joined the Wilsons in their kitchen. We’d all shared an awkward reunion over toast and jam with strong coffee. Conversation hadn’t exactly been flowing, and apart from a clasped arm and bear hug, John hadn’t talked to us.
I’d understood his silence.
His grief was a physical thing, throttling his voice and heart.
But now, his face lit up, focusing on me and not on his dead wife—grateful for a reprieve. “Sit with me, my boy.” He snapped his fingers. “Sorry, not boy.” Wiping away the moisture on his cheeks, he chuckled softly. “Della would kill me for calling you that. She was rather adamant your name was Ren.”
I matched his chuckle, hiding a cough. “You’re right. It was a pet peeve of hers. Probably because I told her over and over again that my name was Ren and never to use anything else.”
I didn’t think I’d told him much of my sale to the Mclary’s, but sitting beside him, I offered up a piece of myself. “Her parents didn’t care what my name was. As a baby, she would’ve heard them call me boy. I guess something deep-seated like that can have strange consequences.”
John nodded, his eyes clearer, happy to focus on other things. “Sounds like that might be the case.”
We sat in silence for a bit. Apologises and kind words danced on my tongue, but nothing felt right. I didn’t want to hurt him deeper by saying the wrong thing. So I said nothing at all, hoping he knew how sorry I was in our shared silence.
Finally, he sighed heavily. “You lost, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Glancing at him, I raised an eyebrow. “Lost what?”
“The battle on keeping her as your sister.”
Heat flushed my skin as I dropped my gaze to the ground. “Ah.”
“Yes, ah.” Reclining, he rubbed his mouth with his hairy hand and shook his head gently. “How long have you two, eh…”
“Two years.”
“Are you happy?”
I looked at the sky with an almost wistful exhale. “I was until this morning.” Looking at him, I shared my idiotic fears. “I screwed up a little. I guess being back here has tangled my thoughts somewhat.”
“Understandable.”
“I hate it. I hate this feeling of distance. I-I’m so afraid of losing her. I love her so much, but no matter how much I want to, I can’t protect her from everything. One day I’ll lo—” I cut myself off, horror drowning me. “Fuck, John. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. Shit—”
“It’s okay.” He patted my shoulder. “I get it. I feel the same way about Patty.” He buckled as if someone had shot him. “Felt. I felt the same way about Patty.” He swallowed a few times, getting his grief under control. “I loved that woman, and I know the fear you’re living with because I’ve felt it myself. I think everyone feels it when they love something so much.”
I slouched, cupping my hands between my legs. “How are you coping now the worst has happened?” It was a terrible thing to ask, but I had to know. I had to understand how broken I would be
if Della ever left me. Either by choice or death.
John took his time, staring at the headstones in front of us. “I’m still alive, against my better wishes, but I have a family relying on me. I can’t give up because I owe Patty to keep going. You can’t fear the end, Ren. Not when you have so much to look forward to.”
His words hovered between us.
I should’ve continued to let them hover. Instead, I blurted, “Della got pregnant. Ectopic. She got sick. It showed me just how much I’ve been avoiding the future, and that I can’t anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” His gruff voice calmed me somehow. “You know, I never liked seeing Patricia pregnant. I know some men say it’s the best thing they’ll ever experience—seeing their wives fat with their unborn child, but not me.” Shaking his head, his tone thickened. “I never relaxed until she’d given birth and was back at home happy, and bossy, and just as full of life as normal. Only then did I let myself focus on my new child.”
I’d forgotten how easy it was to talk to John.
Forgotten how nice it was to have someone to confide in when I wrapped myself up in knots. Even on a day like today.
“Thank you.” I nodded, coughing again. “That helps. Especially when I keep thinking I’m the worst man alive for hating the thought of Della getting pregnant, only to crave a family with her one day.”
John smiled sadly. “You’re not the worst. If you’re anything like you were before, you’re the opposite of worst.” Slipping back into a reclined position, he asked, “So, I’m guessing your last name…you’ve kept it? Do you introduce her as your wife instead of your sister?”
My heart skipped. “Look, we can talk about this another time. I-I don’t feel right. Today should be about—”
“Pat would want to know how you two are doing. Same as me. My grief isn’t going anywhere, Ren. Believe me. It’s nice to have a reprieve.” He cocked his chin. “Go on. Fill me in.”
I sighed again, amazed that in a few minutes of conversation, John had successfully brought up all my greatest fears and somehow given me freedom to discuss them. “Well, I put her through high-school. I watched her date assholes who didn’t deserve her. I hurt her by sleeping with women, all while doing my best to fight what I felt for her—”
Ren and Della: Boxed Set (Ribbon Duet Book 3) Page 68