And then she laughs. “Wow. I mean, wow. Right? That was super dirty.”
I nod and roll onto my back, my heart pounding.
31
Grace
Spring turns to summer far too quickly. I’m not sure if I like it. It’s a reminder of time passing, of healing being slow.
Luke, on the other hand, likes the longer days. He’s unhurried in the morning, and making dinner together stretches longer into the night.
When he approached Sam about hiring a new executive team for the firm, and stepping back into just being founders and investors, Sam was more on board with that idea than Luke thought.
And suddenly, my husband became a house husband of a sort.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when he brought up the topic of babies, but I was. It had been a long time since we’d discussed it in our twenties, and agreed then that we weren’t interested in being young parents. Or maybe even parents at all.
“Why didn’t we ever have kids?” he asks, clearly not having the same memory of it that I do. We’re sitting on the terrace having brunch.
“Because you were an asshole,” I say lightly. “And things got rough there for a while.”
An understatement.
“Did you want babies? Did I keep that from you?”
“No,” I say honestly. “I wanted to make art.”
“Is that still the case?” There’s something about the way he says it, something searching and loaded, that I put down my espresso cup and give him my full attention.
“Why are you asking? Do you want kids?”
“I didn’t before. Now…”
“Then it’s the trauma speaking.”
“I’m not saying I do right now.” He shrugs. “And if you still don’t, then it’s a moot point. I want you.”
But if I wanted a baby… Conversations like this can’t be had in half-measure, with things left unsaid. Except I don’t want him to say the rest of it. Not now. “If you still feel the same way in six months, bring it up again.”
The corner of his mouth quirks, a tiny almost smile. “I will.”
But I think about the conversation for days afterward.
It’s one thing for me to decide to stay with him and renew our relationship despite the transgression. It would be another thing entirely to start a family with him. Can I be sure of his fidelity forever?
I’m shocked to realize that yes, I think I could be.
Only time will tell if that remains true.
And then there’s the outstanding question of whether I gave moving on enough of an attempt.
Would I be happier if I left? Hypothetically, yes. I can see that path.
He betrayed me. But he’s also dug deep and created a safe space for me to be real. Warts and all. Would I find that with someone else?
Maybe.
Another hypothetical.
I don’t know which path holds more happiness. That’s the truth. But I do know that this path is currently beautiful, full of happiness every day. That’s messy and complicated, but it feels much more tangible than the hypothetical.
He’s built me a path to happiness. The first few paving stones were fucking jagged. I never want to go back over them. But going forward? I believe him when he says it’s going to just get better. That when I’m sixty, I’ll look back and see two horrible, fucked-up years followed by twenty-five years of raw, unadulterated love.
Will it be worth the pain?
Only time will tell.
And I’m not ready to bring a baby into this family. Not yet.
It’s funny how thoughts twirl through our minds, morphing. It’s not like there was a direct line to whether or not I want babies—mid August, and the jury is still out on that—to me revisiting all the in-hindsight ways I was secretly kinky in my teens and twenties.
But looking back, I can remember individual purchases so clearly. And somewhere in storage, I remember with a start, I have a Daddy’s Girl t-shirt I bought at a music festival a decade ago.
When I’m down there, I find it readily, but then I start picking through Luke’s stuff, looking for any evidence of his relationship with Caitlyn.
I don’t find any, and I’m left with a sick, angry feeling in the pit of my stomach. Lizard brain reaction, my own counsellor would say. I’m two months into therapy, and I thought I was getting past those worries.
I can’t keep digging, can’t keep picking at this scab. Not if I want to stay with him. Not if I want to be happy.
I grab the t-shirt and run all the way up eight flights of stairs, bursting into our loft with a gasp.
He looks at me, setting down the book he’d been reading. Instantly, I know I have his full attention. “What do you need?”
Big, intense feelings well up inside me. I could cry right now. I could puke. I’m definitely shaking, because how long have I wanted this, how long have I wanted his gaze on me, his undivided attention and concern?
And now I have it, at considerable cost.
This is a brutal kind of beautiful. I clench my hands tight at my sides. I don’t cry. I don’t puke. I lift my chin. “I’m overwhelmed. Can you crowd out the bad feelings?”
“I can do that, baby. Put your head in Daddy’s lap.”
I scramble across the room and drop to my knees, pressing my face into his lap. I don’t understand why this feels so good, why it calms the storm inside me.
He combs his fingers through my hair, then rubs my neck. When I’m calm, I look up.
He’s smiling at me.
“I found something in the basement that I want to wear for you.”
“I want to see it.”
I blush as I hold it up, and he helps me stand. I pull off my shirt, and my bra, because this new shirt is definitely meant to be worn bare chested.
I tug the t-shirt down over my breasts, the cotton rubbing against my nipple. Holding on to the hem, I stretch the fabric in vain. There’s no way it’ll cover my belly button.
“It’s a little small,” I whisper, heat blooming in my cheeks. “But I like it.”
“I like it too.” Luke’s voice grates rough in the air between us and I jerk my head up. His eyes are dark and glittery. “So much. Come sit in my lap, baby girl. Show Daddy your shirt. I don’t think it’s too small.”
“No?” I crawl toward him. As soon as I’m within grabbing range, his hands are on me and I’m tumbling against him.
He’s got a condom in his pocket, because we’re fucking all the time now, and he has it on and is buried inside me before I’m all the way ready.
This is my filthiest, favouritest way to have sex.
Daddy needing me and making himself fit inside me when I’m too tight.
It’s fast and desperate and I start to whine, so I grab his hand and press it hard against my mouth.
Eyes wide, he clamps down, silencing me.
I come immediately.
He follows right after.
I sprawl in his lap once we’re disentangled, feeling silly and light and perfect. “That wasn’t too much?”
“No. That was hot.” He drags in a ragged breath. “Honestly, Grace, I don’t think you can go too far. If you want it, if it makes you hot, I’m in. Whatever you want. Whatever I can give you. Even if it’s not something that I’d have imagined before, if it gives you that gleam in your eye…it’s good.”
“Okay.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t bought little white panties yet,” he says with a chuckle, his lips rubbing against my temple.
No, I couldn’t. It would be too much. Too on the nose.
Too dirty.
Five hours later, I find myself standing in Walmart, figuring out what four-pack of white panties I should buy—if I can bring myself to do it, because I feel filthy.
Hot, uncomfortable flashes of desire zap through me. Luke’s fingers tracing the edges of the cotton, snapping the elastic.
Sliding underneath and groaning when he finds me wet and slick.
&n
bsp; Whispered confessions of want. Begging pleas for more. No, we can’t. Nobody will know. Please, Daddy.
Yeah, they shouldn’t sell these panties. They’re obscene.
And I can’t buy them. I’ll spontaneously combust at the register. Plus if Luke is home when I get back—which he will be—and if he helps me unload the groceries—sure to do—then I’ll die all over again when he picks up the underwear and knows what I’ve done.
So that’s exactly why I do buy them.
A perfectly innocent pack of women’s white panties.
I’m going to hell, but I’m going there happy.
32
Luke
December
My brother is skipping Christmas this year.
Only fair. Last year, I was a jerk to him, and so he skipped Christmas and reconnected with the love of his life. This year, they’re taking that same trip again.
But I miss him.
It’s quite the surprise to me to realize that.
We have a tree this year. Grace is currently lying on top of me on the couch, and we’re admiring our bang up decorating job.
She nestles her head under my chin and exhales, going soft. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever is on your mind.”
My first instinct is to say no, but there’s something about the soft weight of her that makes me pause. Do I want to talk? No, I’m not ready. Will I feel better if I share my burden with my spouse? Yes.
Why do I resist that so much? What am I afraid of?
“It’s stupid,” I mutter.
“Try me.”
“I miss Sam.”
“Oh, honey.” She props her chin on her hands and gives me a sad smile. “I think deep down he misses you, too. But all the work you’ve done with me, you’ll have to do with him, too.”
“Yeah.” I make a face.
She pokes me in the side and laughs.
“There’s something else on my mind, too.” I twirl a lock of her hair around my finger. “In the summer I asked you about kids.”
She stills. Her spine straightens, and she lifts her chin, as if the conversation is replaying in her mind. “You did.”
“You said I could bring it up again in six months.”
She laughs, a frown pulling her eyebrows together. “Did you set a calendar reminder?”
I shake my head, no. “It just came to me. It’s not urgent, but if you are willing to entertain the conversation, I’d like to talk about it.”
She relaxes again and rests her head on my shoulder. “We’ll always be a bit chaotic. That’s probably not good for kids.”
“Life is chaos, maybe we can teach them to survive it better than I was taught.”
That trips a soft, soothing sound out of her.
Was that a dirty trick? I don’t want to play games with her heart.
“And maybe we’d have two boys? Brothers? And we could teach them…”
She rises again, launching herself right up to my face. “Maybe,” she says. “Ask me again in six…” Her eyes are sparkling. “No, seven days.”
“A week?” That’s New Year’s Eve.
Alex’s annual house party, which Sam will be attending.
“Hazel and I have something planned. Up to you if you want to use that opportunity to talk to your brother.”
A week later, Grace and I show up at Alex’s place early, because she’s bringing art with her. Two pieces, both wall-mounted. They’re boxed up, and she’s being mysterious about them, but I’m clear on the fact that this is part of the surprise she’s worked on with Hazel.
But Sam and Hazel don’t arrive until much later, and when they do come in, he’s the one who looks reluctant.
I recognize that expression. That was me last year. And that was part of what is causing him this discomfort right now.
Grace swoops over to them, welcoming them both, and getting right to the point. Hazel nods, and then Alex—clearly in on it—turns down the music and gets everyone’s attention before handing the floor to Hazel, explaining that he was thrilled to host an impromptu art moment.
Impromptu my ass.
“I’m going to be reading two poems for you. From Broken to Whole and A Full Exploration of the Aftermath. They are pieces I developed as part of a project with my dear friend, Grace Dunn, inspired by her very first art show.”
Grace stepped forward. “Thank you to Alex for allowing us this brief indulgence. We’re grateful for the opportunity to share with friends and family this intimate project, inspired as Hazel mentioned by a show I did in university called The Art/Lit Project. It was a joy to work collaboratively with Hazel on these pieces. My sculptures hang on Alex’s wall behind Hazel. On the left is From Broken to Whole, and on the right is A Full Exploration of the Aftermath.”
My heart pounds in my chest as Hazel reads her poems. They’re beautiful and raw and vague enough they could be about anything. They’re in keeping with the style of Grace’s work in general, but I know what this really is.
It’s an opening for two stubborn brothers to share a little something.
Fucking hell.
When they finish, Sam and I both approach them, because of course we’re fucking proud. Of them. Not each other. Not anymore.
So I clap him on the shoulder, as we do, Preston style, and I jerk my head to the kitchen. “Let’s grab a beer.”
He clears his throat and follows. We each grab a bottle, then I head upstairs, looking for some quiet. I find it in a spare room.
“I owe you an apology—” I start, at the same time as he says, “Look, Grace really wants—”
He stops.
I start again.
“I’ve handled the firm stuff not that well, and it’s because of some relationship stuff Grace and I have been going through. I think tonight’s performance was their way of pushing us to talk.”
“Hazel sort of nudged me in that direction, yeah.” He frowns. “Is it addiction? Alex thought—we weren’t gossiping, but—”
“No. Not really.”
“It’s okay, you know. Grace once told me that recovering from trauma means that you need to come to terms with the ways you coped with the pain.”
A hot, searing pain slices across my chest. “This is different.”
“Is it?”
I don’t answer that.
And my silence speaks volumes—and maybe Sam has always seen that I am capable of the absolute worst.
His face pales. “You cheated on her.”
“Yeah. It’s done. In the past.”
“Fuck you. I should—” He drags in a breath. “And Hazel knew?”
“I don’t know what she knows. That’s between her and Grace. They need some secrets, maybe. It’s hard to be in love with Preston men.”
Sam shakes his head. “I spent the last year waiting for Grace to leave you because she had outgrown your relationship. And you’re telling me she was working on repairing it? In secret? To protect you? You don’t deserve her.”
“Of course I don’t. But I’m damn glad she doesn’t agree.”
“And we’re not fucking Preston men. Not really.”
“Well, yeah. Sure. But in nature versus nurture, at least in my case, nature didn’t do me any favours.”
“Mine either.” Sam growls. “You know what? I was so mad at you for so long. But it was really Dad.”
“Me, too. But I turned into him. That’s fair.”
Sam makes a face. “Do you ever think about the fact that we don’t know who our real fathers are? For sure?”
“Nope.” I grab him by the shoulder and squeeze. “It doesn’t matter. We have each other.”
“Grace make you go therapy?”
“I go willingly.”
“Took me a while.”
“It’s good, though, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
Sam stands and shoves his hands in his pocke
ts. “I love you.”
Ah, fuck it. I haul him in for a tight hug. “I love you, too. So fucking much.”
“And if you ever hurt Grace again, I’ll murder you in your sleep.”
“Never, brother. I promise you, that will never happen.”
He claps me on the shoulder and we go back downstairs.
As soon as I hit the bottom of the landing, Grace’s gaze is locked on my face. All good, I mouth.
I love you, she says back. And she says it with her whole body, lighting up.
I press my hand to my chest. I love you, too, little bird.
THE END
Thank you so much for reading Shame! If you would like a little more of Grace and Luke, I have a collection of bonus material available here! This is a collection of happy vignettes that take place over the next eighteen years.
And turn the page for two poems from the Art/Lit project
The Art/Lit Project
By Grace Dunn and Aibhlin Moon
Broken to Whole
by Aibhlin Moon
From broken to whole
Brittle to soft
This is her goal
His goal
And yet
The path between broken and whole
Is barbed
The journey from brittle to soft
Is treacherous
Soft is effort
Whole is precarious
So they must be careful
Together
A Full Exploration of the Aftermath
by Aibhlin Moon
A full exploration of the aftermath
Of an explosion
A fracture
A cut
Requires careful
Thorough
Relentless observation
And that painstaking process
Hurts
Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2) Page 14
