Dream House

by Stephanie Fournet

  “You know. The one that says love is patient. Love is kind.” He shifts from telling to reciting. “‘It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It does not dishonor others.’”

  He stops suddenly, the look in his eyes sharpening. Piercing mine. He swallows and then continues more slowly.

  “‘It is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered. It keeps no records of wrongs.’”

  My heart starts pounding harder for a whole host of other reasons. Reasons I can’t unravel and reasons I can.

  I have kept a long ledger of wrongs done to me. I’m the queen of keeping accounts of all the ways I’ve been wronged.

  Shit. Do I know anything about love?

  “‘Love does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth.’”

  Okay, that one I’m good at. Phew!

  “‘Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.’”

  Protecting and persevering I can do in my sleep.

  Trusting and hoping? Not so much.

  Lark goes quiet. I fall out of my self-absorbed thoughts into the look in his eyes. It’s a bottomless look like he’s seeing fathoms deep inside of me. Does he see how short I fall?

  “I-Is that the end?” I stammer.

  Lark swallows again and shakes his head.

  “‘Love never fails.’”

  Then he blinks twice as though awakening. “It goes on after that, of course. But that’s usually the part you hear at weddings.”

  I nod dumbly, unable to help myself when I measure St. Paul’s words against the man holding me.

  Love is patient. I picture Lark bouncing Baby Lola on his shoulder.

  Love is kind. He let me take a bath while he made Salisbury steak for my family.

  It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. Nope, I can’t say I’ve seen any of this from him.

  It does not dishonor others. No, never. Lark would never.

  It is not self-seeking. Three to one. That’s the ratio of orgasms between us. He’s given me three. I’ve given him one.

  It is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongdoing. Lark has not once brought up Maisy’s little crime spree in his room. Even my best friend cast a few spells on Maisy for her trespassing and petty theft. But Lark was willing to let her keep his pricey rainbow stone.

  Love does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth. Love always protects. From the moment Lark knew Nina was in danger, he offered her protection. He’s faced down the evil in her life and has given her the help she needed to get clear of her ex.

  Love always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

  Does he?

  If I can’t trust and I can’t hope, can he?

  Because if he can, maybe he could teach me. He’s quite good at everything else.

  “You’re not a bastard,” I say for the third time, meaning it wholeheartedly.

  “You keep saying that.” He narrows his eyes in a way that is supposed to look playful, but there’s something else behind them I can’t identify. Something that makes me worry he doesn’t believe me.

  “Because you haven’t acknowledged it,” I press.

  He arches a brow. “I can’t count the number of times my mom has said I was born to torment her.”

  I wince but quickly recover. “I’m sure she’s teasing.”

  Lark shrugs. “That’s where the joke comes from. Paul didn’t convert until he was a man in his thirties, and he did plenty of tormenting before then.” He’s grinning, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Every time Mom says that, I tell her she should have named me after St. Maria Goretti.”

  My brows climb. “Who’s that?”

  “An eleven-year-old virgin martyr and one of the youngest saints to be canonized.”

  I wince. “She was martyred at eleven years old?”

  That brow arches again. “Technically, she was stabbed fourteen times after refusing to have sex with this twenty-year-old guy.”

  I gasp.

  Lark nods. “Apparently, she forgave him before she expired.”

  I bite my bottom lip. “A-and you tell your mom she should have named you after this murdered child because…?”

  He snickers, the sound is all bitterness. “Because she died a virgin.”

  I stare at him.

  He gives me a conspiratorial look. “Mom’s big on virginity. At least before marriage. And then she’s big on procreation.” His eyes narrow. “And I’m a bit of a disappointment in that department.”

  My mouth falls open. “But you’re twenty-three years old.”

  Lark nods. “Which is a year older than Bear and Maggie were when they got married.”

  My eyes bug.

  “But I started disappointing her long before that,” he says. Again, he wears a smile that doesn’t look like a smile at all.

  I shouldn’t ask. I really shouldn’t ask.

  “H-How long?”

  Lark snorts and then breaks into real laughter. His eyes light up, and it’s a relief to see. “You really want to know?”

  I lick my lips. “Only if you want to tell me.”

  Grinning, Lark’s big hand spans his forehead and he rubs his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “Um, when I was twelve years old, she caught me chokin’ the chicken in the cow barn.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, Lark.”

  His fingers grip the front of his hair in a way that hurts my scalp. “Let me tell you, she f-reaked out.” His embarrassed smile makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

  “She told me I was committing the Sin of Onan and that I needed to go to confession.” I gasp again. He rolls his eyes. “I flat out refused. I told her I was not gonna tell Father Quibodeaux that I was polishing the pole in—“

  And now I can’t help it. I’m dying. Lark joins me, his face going red. I can’t resist. Laughing, I press a kiss to each of his pink cheeks.

  “I can’t believe I just told you that,” he mutters, shaking his head.

  This sends me into a new fit of laughter. “If it makes you feel any better, Tyler caught me committing the Sin of Onan at our dad’s house when I was fourteen.”

  Lark goes completely still. “He did?” His eyes are the size of Peppermint Patties.

  It was ages ago, but the memory still makes me cringe. “Yeah, he came into my room to borrow my earbuds, but I was… um… using them, and—”

  “What were you listening to?”

  Okay, now I’m the one who can’t believe I told him this. “Um... ‘Summer Love.’” My face is on fire. “Justin Timberlake.”

  Lark beams. “I remember when that song came out,” he says, sounding awed. “I was in fourth grade—Ow!”

  I hold his nipple in a death grip. “You did not just say that.”

  Laughing, he covers my hand with his. “I don’t mean it like that.”

  I pinch harder. “How do you mean it?”

  Still laughing, Lark works his thumb between my fingers, freeing his nipple, and rolls me onto my back. His naked weight pins me to the bed.

  “I mean if I’da known then that the girl I’d be crazy about in fourteen years liked to Jill-off, I wouldn’t have felt like such a perv during my formative years.”

  “Oh… well… okay then.” I wriggle my hand between us and pet his wronged nipple lovingly. “Sorry about the titty-twister.”

  Lark throws his head back in laughter.

  “You’re forgiven.”

  I wickedly narrow my eyes. “No need to go to confession?”

  He purses his lips in mock consideration. “For that? No.” He puts on a stern expression. “Masturbating to Justin Timberlake, now that’s a sin.”

  Now I laugh. “If I confess, do I have to stop doing it?”

  He hisses in his breath.

  “You still masturbate to Justin Timberlake?” His question is all air.

  I circle his nipple with one fingertip before letting my hand travel lower. “Not to Justin Timberlake,”
I say coyly. “Not these days, anyway.”

  His eyes blaze. “What, then?”

  I swallow, but the heat in his gaze makes me feel all confidence. Zero shame.

  I wriggle from underneath him, and he lifts his weight so I can reach my phone on my bedside table. I open my Spotify app and quickly find my Solo playlist. The eerily erotic notes of “Heaven” by Julia Michaels fill the room. And Michaels begins to sing, ironically, about religion and faith.

  Lark licks his lips like he’s dying of thirst. He presses up to his knees and the blankets slide down his back. If I had any doubt that he’s as turned on as I am again, there’s no room for that anymore.

  No room at all.

  “Show me.”

  It’s the last thing in the world I thought I’d do. But when he looks at me like that, it’s easy.

  So I show him.

  For about ten seconds. And then he grips himself.

  And. Oh. My. God.

  Watching him touching himself like that. Watching me.

  We’re not even through the three-minute song, when Lark is ripping open another condom.

  This time, when he collapses on me, both of us wrung out and drenched in sweat, I press a kiss to his ear.

  “I don’t think—” I have to pause to catch my breath, “your mother would like me very much.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  LARK

  She’s wrong.

  This is what I’m sure of as Stella sleeps in my arms.

  Mom would love her.

  I mean, sure, she’d definitely try to convert her to Catholicism. And she would have strong and vocal feelings about Pen’s occult practices.

  But any woman who could get me so tangled up Mom would adore. Because it would give her hope.

  Besides that, Stella has Maisy. Yeah, Stella’s not married. Has never been married, but for that fact, Mom would solidly place Stella in the Pro-Life camp, whether or not she actually is. And Mom would love Maisy, too. Like one of her own grandbabies.

  Who wouldn’t?

  But my mother would also welcome Maisy with open arms because she’d take her as proof that if Stella had one baby, she’d want lots more.

  With me.

  And if Mom knew I’d already fallen for Stella? And, why not admit it, for Maisy too? That would settle it. She’d be ready to hand over the Bienvenue name to both of them.

  I want Stella to be mine, but not that way. Not in that Old World way that makes her change her name, adopt my faith—a faith that is pretty shaky as far as faith goes—promise to raise any children we have accordingly. Including shaming them for the pleasure in their bodies, or how they might identify their gender, or who they might love.

  Stella twitches in her sleep as though she’s flinching from some dreamworld blow. A little frown knits between her brows. It’s so adorable, I’m tempted to kiss it. Instead, I press my palm to her back and rub in slow, soothing circles until her brow smooths.

  She mutters something that sounds like pancakes.

  I grin in spite of myself. Of course, Stella dreams about cooking breakfast. Taking care of us is on her mind even when she’s unconscious.

  Her bedside lamp still burns, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to turn it off, but maybe she’ll sleep better if I do. Moving slowly, I reach up and pull the little chain switch, plunging her room in darkness.

  When my eyes adjust, I see that her illuminated alarm clock marks the time at 2:12 a.m. I heard voices a while ago, but the house is quiet now.

  Still, I know I won’t sleep.

  In fact, I shouldn’t be here at all.

  Because I know what I’ve done is risky at best. Downright wrong at worst.

  Promise me you won’t set up another girl for heartbreak and humiliation like that. That’s what Mom asked of me after she found out Zoe and I had split. Don’t live like man and wife until you’re ready to be man and wife.

  I made no such promises, but when I look down at Stella’s peaceful silhouette, I wonder if I should have.

  Is she dreaming about pancakes and a Sunday breakfast where we wake up together, make coffee, cook plate after plate of short stacks for the whole family?

  Family?

  The word shouldn’t fit, but fuck me if it doesn’t.

  And if Stella wakes up to find me here beside her, will she see us that way? Will she be another woman humiliated and heartbroken?

  The thought churns my stomach.

  In the darkness, my will caves and I press a kiss to her forehead and hold her just a little tighter in my arms.

  I don’t want to leave her bed.

  I don’t want to leave Stella.

  But if she wakes up alone in the morning, she’ll never expect more from me than I can give.

  Hating myself, I slip out of her bed, dress quietly, shut her door softly behind me, and climb the stairs. A line of light shines under Nina’s door. I make out her muffled voice, followed by Tyler’s lower, slower one.

  The rest of the adults in this house probably already know what we’ve been up to, but I have no desire to answer for my actions right now, so like a coward, I step softly down the hall and close my door without a sound.

  And for hours, I stare at the ceiling, my insides writhing like snakes.

  I must have crashed at some point because when I come to the next morning, my room is flooded with light and my guts are full of guilt. Yeah, I hate them.

  The house downstairs teems with noise.

  I crack open my door and scan the second floor. All of my roommates’ doors are open. Everyone’s downstairs. Judging by the clanking of cast iron against stovetop, breakfast is in the making.

  Which means Stella’s awake. She knows I walked away from her. She knows what a bastard I really am now. There’s no denying it.

  But, God, already I want to apologize.

  I feel like absolute shit.

  I want to fall to my knees in front of all of them and beg her forgiveness.

  I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and decide a shower has to come first. If anyone is in doubt about what went on last night, one look at me would dissolve that in a hurry. My hair stands on end as though sexy fingers played with it all night.

  Which they did.

  There’s a hickey two inches above my left nipple. And another one on the round of my right shoulder.

  And I smell like sex.

  Correction. I smell like Stella. Like heaven’s own aphrodisiac. The scent in my nose is enough to make me shamefully hard again. I grab a towel and a change of clothes and lock myself in the bathroom.

  A cold shower is no worse than I deserve, and when I emerge scrubbed clean—at least on the outside—I dress quickly, determined to get downstairs and find some way to pull Stella aside from the rest of the household and try my damndest to explain.

  Explain how sorry I am that I’m all wrong for her.

  I’m rehearsing the speech in my head as I descend the stairs. When I step into the kitchen, it hits me too late that the room is tense, the voices of my roommates raised in two overlapping conversations.

  “No, Uncle T, you have to wait until it bubbles before you flip ‘em—“ Maisy insists. She’s balanced on a chair by the stove, while Tyler stares at the skillet, spatula in hand.

  “They didn’t say who they were?” Nina asks Pen. They’re both standing by the open fridge, frowns of dismay on their faces.

  “She’s right, T,” Livy calls from the table, her eyes never leaving the book in front of her, her tea cup held in one hand.

  “We just told them to—“ Pen’s eyes land on me. They go wide with surprise, and then they harden. “Oh. You sonofa—”

  All eyes snap to me, and it’s then I realize one pair—the most important pair—is missing.

  “Where’s Stella?”

  Pen’s knuckles perch on her bony hips. Her mouth turns down in a sour purse. “Probably right where you left her.” Her head shimmies from left to right as she glares at me. “It
all makes sense now.”

  My stomach fills with lead. “What makes sense?”

  Pen bats her eyes at me, but there’s nothing fun or friendly in the gesture. Her look is pure acid. “Why she’s just not feeling up for Sunday breakfast this mornin’.” Her lip curls as her laser eyes cut up and down my body. “When she texted me an hour ago to see to Maisy, I had a whole other idea about her reasons, but I see now I was wrong.”

  Oh, shit.

  A quick sweep of the room shows me that Nina’s forgotten about the open fridge, Livy’s lost interest in her book, and Tyler has abandoned the pancakes. Maisy’s the only one who isn’t glaring at me. But she’s paying close attention. I see that much.

  “Lark, what did you do?” Nina’s question is all accusation.

  “What’s wrong, Pen?” Maisy asks, turning a look of alarm to Stella’s best friend.

  “You did not.” Livy hisses at me.

  “I didn’t—” I start to defend, but who am I kidding?

  I did.

  I fucked up.

  And everyone here knows it.

  Even Maisy.

  “Did you break something, Bark?” she asks, concern in her voice.

  “Sure did,” Pen mutters.

  “I… t...ol..d you—” Tyler growls. One look at him, and adrenal glands fire. He wants to beat the shit out of me, and I’m going to let him.

  Still, I put up my hands. “I just need to—” But that’s as far as I get. Not because Tyler lunges at me like he’s poised to do.

  But because something small bounces off my temple. I frown at the blueberry that lands and rolls across the floor.

  I turn to the table. A dish of blueberries and strawberries sits in front of a glaring Livy.

  “What the—”

  “Nice aim, honey, but you’re supposed to throw it through their door,” Pen says enigmatically.

  “Oh. Darn.” Livy’s tone is flat, ringing false. “I forgot.”

  I raise both hands now. “Guys, I know I messed up. I just—”

  “How many guys you see here?” Livy fires off, scowling around the room. “I just see one. He’s about to slaughter a pig, but everyone else in here identifies as female.”