The Wrong Kind of Love

by Lexi Ryan

  “Just so beautiful,” he says against my neck, again and again. Every time, he sinks deeper, pressing into me and coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter.

  “That’s it,” he whispers. “Just like that, sweetness. Let me feel you come.”

  Those words and the feel of his breath on my neck are my undoing. His urging hand grabs my ass as he finally thrusts hard and deep and fast. I arch under him, my whole body tensing against pleasure that is nearly too much, emotion filling my chest that I can’t deny. Then I come apart, squeezing around him as my body unravels.

  He thrusts again, and pleasure rolls through me a second time, right on the heels of the last wave. I gasp and curl my nails into his shoulder blades as he repeats the motion over and over, drawing out my orgasm. His tenderness washes me away—my fear, my anxiety, and my insecurities gone in this moment in his arms. He kisses me hard, his whole body tense as he holds back.

  “So beautiful. Like a fucking miracle in my arms.”

  I love you, Ethan. I don’t say it. I keep the words locked in my chest where they can’t hurt us, and I give him my body instead. I grip his shoulders, arch my back, squeeze around him, and urge him to take his own release.

  His strokes turn hard and fast and demanding, and when he shudders over me, I wait for the moment of loneliness that always comes at this part—when the man rolls away and disposes of the condom—but it doesn’t come, because Ethan doesn’t move off me. Not at first.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m good.”

  He nuzzles the crook of my neck and trails kisses across my collarbone, and when he does climb off the bed, his eyes meet mine, and I don’t feel lonely at all.

  Ethan

  “Would you call this a great birthday or the best birthday ever?”

  She laughs. “You don’t think much of yourself, do you?”

  I lift my head and nip at her shoulder, then kiss the spot. We’re naked in her bed, a tangle of limbs as we stare at each other. The alarm clock says it’s after one, and I’d break the damn thing against the wall if it would slow down time. We’ve gone through three condoms, and just looking at her gets me hard all over again. Sometime between the second and third round, I turned on the bedside lamp, unsatisfied with my limited view of her body in the moonlight. It’s on still, casting a soft glow across the bed. She doesn’t seem any more interested in turning it off to sleep than I am, and I’m glad. I’m not ready for our stolen night to end.

  “I kind of feel like it’s my birthday,” I whisper before planting another kiss on her soft lips. “You’re so fucking sweet.” I slide a hand down her body and cup her between her legs. “Are you sore?”

  She shrugs. “A little. But I don’t mind.”

  I pull my hand from between her legs before my dick decides we should start all over again. I find her hand, threading our fingers together. “Tell me about your mom.”

  She blinks at me. “What? Why would you ask about her?”

  I sweep her hair from her face. “She called you earlier. When we were in the kitchen? You were upset.”

  “The woman who called is my mother but not much of a mom.” She searches my eyes, and I feel like she’s trying to decide if I understand what that means, so I nod, and she continues. “Mom was an addict. Is an addict. My sister and I grew up in and out of foster care. For the first few years, Mom would fight to get us back. She’d clean up and get her act together so she could bring her girls home. The courts would let her have custody again, but she’d never stay clean, and before long we were shipped off to another family. They always kept . . .” She meets my eyes again and slowly shakes her head. “They always kept me and my sister together. I was grateful for that, but where my natural inclination was to do whatever was necessary to make our new family want to keep us, my sister’s was to do whatever was necessary to push them away. She didn’t want a new family. She wanted Mom. I think, on some level, she thought if she was bad enough they wouldn’t bother taking us away anymore. Or maybe she was just angry that the world had dealt us a shit hand from the beginning.” She shrugs. “My mother never forgave me for trying to make the best out of our new families. Why couldn’t I be loyal like my sister? Why did I want them to take me away again?”

  “Jesus.” I slide my hand behind her back and pull her body against mine, then I roll to my back, taking her with me. She curls into me, her hands between our bodies, the side of her face against my chest. I told myself I didn’t miss this. Told myself I didn’t need it or want it. But maybe that’s because I’d never imagined someone like Nic. “Did she take any responsibility for her role in your situation?”

  “She didn’t see it that way. Not when my twin was so actively trying to ruin our chances for a new family. Mom didn’t understand that I just needed to be accepted somewhere.”

  “What did your sister do?”

  “Every time we got placed in a new home, she was a terror. I constantly covered for her. If she broke things on purpose, I’d tell our family I’d done it by accident. I worked hard to make them like me, and I knew they’d be able to forgive me easier than her, the sullen twin. I did my chores and hers. I did extra. We fell into this sick routine where my sister would sabotage and I would repair. Sabotage and repair. When we were in seventh grade, she hated her teacher and wanted to switch places at school. I agreed to do it because she’d been in trouble so many times that I was afraid they’d send her away if she kept it up.”

  “You could really pull that off?”

  “We’re identical. No one ever suspected.”

  “Didn’t you get sick of covering for her?”

  “It wasn’t all bad. She was my best friend. She was all I had, the only constant in my life. And as crazy and destructive as she could be, she applied that same ferocity to her love for me. If kids were mean to me at school, they’d have to face her. If a foster brother bullied me or tried to convince me to do something I didn’t want to do, she’d raise hell to protect me.”

  “I bet that’s why you’re so amazing with children. You know what it’s like to need an adult to see you.” I tense as an awful thought comes to me. “Were you . . . safe?”

  “Mostly.” She flattens her palm against my chest and traces my tattoos with her fingers. “I’ve heard horror stories about foster homes and the things that happen to little girls, so believe me when I say we were lucky. The people who cared for us didn’t abuse us. Not sexually or physically, at least. But fighting to be loved takes its own sort of toll on you. Trying to prove that you’re worth someone’s love wears on you.”

  “Is that why you have your tattoo?”

  Her fingers still where they’ve been tracing my phoenix, and she sits up and looks down at the ink beneath her breast. I graze it with my knuckles.

  I noticed it the night we met. I saw the word love and didn’t give much thought to whether there was more. But tonight, when I was memorizing her body in the glow of the bedside lamp, I saw that I underestimated her ink that night nearly as much as I underestimated her the next day.

  I skim my fingers over the words inked on her skin and read them again.

  My love is enough.

  My fingers freeze, and I realize the “i” of the “is” is a semicolon. It’s not until I’m tracing it with my fingers that I realize my hands are shaking. “It has a semicolon.” Elena had a semicolon too. Hers was on her wrist. A lot of fucking good it did her.

  Elena told me the meaning of the semicolon the day she came home with it. “It means I could end it, but I’m continuing to go on anyway.” She was so proud of it—so hopeful that inking some punctuation on her wrist could save her. I pretended to be happy too, but inside, I was devastated that she needed it.

  I flick my eyes to Nic’s, needing to ask but not wanting to. I’ve pushed my worry about her depression from my mind since the day I saw her prescription, but now it’s back and heavier than before. How do you ask someone if they have their depression under control? How do you adm
it you’re not strong enough to carry them if they don’t? “Why did you decide to get the semicolon?”

  “I like the sentiment of it. It brought me comfort when I needed it.” She bites down on her lip, and when she forces a smile, I know it’s for my benefit, and my heart aches. I don’t want her faking any smiles for me. “Despite what my mother thinks, I loved her so much. I desperately wanted to save her from the darkness, but I couldn’t. I tried to be the perfect daughter, to never show my own disappointment, sadness, or fear. I truly believed that if we could just be good enough, the darkness wouldn’t swallow her up again, but it always came back. Eventually I had to accept that there was nothing I could do, and of course, since I’m really crappy at relationships, it has other meanings too.”

  I stroke my thumb over the words. “Like what?”

  “Since my sister and I were labeled ‘difficult,’ we never got a permanent placement. We were moved from one family to another, and when we were teenagers, we were placed in a group home. That was when I decided I’d have to make my own family. I’ve been in one serious romantic relationship after another since I was sixteen. Afterward, I’d beat myself up for any moment I wasn’t supportive and happy and sexy . . .”

  I shake my head. “But you’re all those things.”

  “I’m some of those things sometimes, but no one can be all of them all the time.” She places her hand over mine, and our fingers skim over the words together. My love is enough. “It’s a reminder that what I have to offer is enough. When the darkness came back for my mom and when my relationships inevitably failed, I needed to remember my love was enough. That even when I fall short, I’m worthy of love and happiness. I cling to that when the darkness comes for me.”

  I lift my gaze to hers and hold my breath, as if I’m waiting for her to take it back. I don’t want her to struggle with the darkness. Not when I failed Elena. Not when I know what it can do to a family.

  “I’m okay, Ethan,” she says softly. “I was telling you the truth when we talked about this before. I’m stable. But there were times that I felt like I was being sucked under. I’m okay now, but staying okay isn’t always as simple for me as it is for other people.”

  “You’re so damn happy.” I grimace the second the words leave my tongue. I, of all people, know mental health isn’t something that can be easily observed. We all show the world the faces we think we must.

  “Most of the time. But sometimes cheerfulness is just a defense mechanism.” She licks her lips. “We all cope in different ways. I’m over-the-top enthusiastic. But I’m okay, and I’m long past feeling ashamed of the moments I’m not.” She chuckles softly. “So, there are the bazillion reasons behind my silly tattoo.”

  “It’s not silly.” My chest feels tight, and emotions sit on my tongue in a jumble I desperately want to translate to words but can’t. So, I wrap my arms around her and bring her back down to the bed, rolling until she’s under me. Then I dip my head, lift her arm to have better access to the ink on her skin, and lower my open mouth to kiss her tattoo. And when I lift my lips, I hover there for long, tormented moments, trying to breathe in the words I needed for myself in the hardest years before Elena’s death. The words I needed after.

  My love is enough.

  But my love wasn’t. It wasn’t for Elena, and I’m terrified it won’t be for Nic.

  Nicole

  I wake to the sound of pounding feet and little-girl giggles.

  Ethan springs up beside me. “Fuck.” He jumps out of bed, drags a hand through his hair, and looks wildly around my bedroom. “Where are my clothes?”

  “The living room.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Can you distract them?” His voice is still husky with sleep. “If you get them into the kitchen, I’ll sneak downstairs to my bedroom. Shit. I didn’t expect them back so early.”

  It’s not that I expected him to announce to the world that we slept together, or even that I’d want Lilly to know, but I could have gone without starting today with the harsh reminder that last night was a one-time thing he doesn’t want his family to know about. It stings even though I don’t want it to, hurts even though I agree.

  “Sure. No problem.” I pull on some yoga pants, a sports bra, and a T-shirt—lazy Sunday attire—and finger-comb my hair before heading downstairs.

  Perhaps Ethan’s eagerness to get away from me this morning is for the best. Last night, alone in the lamplight, the connection between us was so powerful that it was easy to forget he still thinks I’m my sister. This morning, with the sunlight pouring in the windows and the sound of his daughter’s laughter filling the house, I’m all too aware of my lie.

  I don’t have to lure Shay and Lilly into the kitchen because they’re already there, Shay working over the coffee pot while Lilly pours herself a bowl of cereal.

  “You two are back early,” I say.

  Shay presses the button to brew and turns to smile at me. “I only had wholegrain, no-sugar-added cereals at my house, and Lilly insisted on having Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast.”

  Lilly grins shamelessly and shrugs. “I know what I like.”

  Shay looks me over. “You’re tousled.”

  “I just got out of bed.”

  “Hmm.”

  The steps creak, and Shay peeks around me before I can stop her. I have no doubt she’s spotting Ethan. I imagine him racing down the stairs with a towel around his hips.

  “That’s interesting,” she says. “What was Ethan doing upstairs without his pants?”

  “Would you shut up?” I growl.

  “Can I eat my cereal in front of the TV?” Lilly asks.

  “Why don’t you go to the basement?” Shay says. She’s grinning, but I suspect Lilly isn’t the source of her amusement. “Just promise you won’t spill on the sofa, or your daddy will make me pay to have it cleaned.”

  “Yes!” Lilly says. “I promise!”

  My eyes go wide as I remember why the child shouldn’t eat her breakfast in the living room.

  Shay winks at me. “I told Lilly you must have been doing laundry, and that’s why there were clothes everywhere.”

  My face is on fire and I put my hand over it. “Oh my God . . .”

  She laughs and shakes her head before holding up her hands. “I’m not judging. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best thing that ever happened to that grumpy man. If it would make him happy, I’d take her once a week so you two could do your thing.”

  I shake my head. “There’s no thing. We don’t have a thing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She pours herself a cup of coffee. “We’ve been worried about him for a long time. Even before Elena died.”

  “Don’t worry about Ethan. He wouldn’t want you to. He’s a good dad.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute,” she says. “But he’s been different. The whole thing with Elena changed him. I think it would change anybody, but . . .” She puts down her coffee and gives me a sad smile. “I thought he’d buried part of himself with Elena, but I was wrong. I see that part again when he’s with you.”

  If that were true, would he have been so panicked waking up beside me this morning? I shake my head. “Don’t do that. Don’t see things that aren’t there just because it makes a good story.”

  “I already told you, I’m not a writer. I just report on what I observe.”

  I rub the back of my neck. “We’re attracted to each other.”

  “No kidding.” She fills a mug with coffee and pushes it into my hands. “Everyone who shares a room with you two knows that. But what’s between you isn’t just attraction. He’s been attracted to women since Elena died. You’re different. You bring him to life again.”

  I swallow hard and stare at my coffee. It’s not that I don’t like what she’s saying. It’s that I like it too much. “I didn’t come to Jackson Harbor looking for love, Shay. The opposite is true, in fact. I’ve been in one toxic relationship after another since I was sixteen. I’ve cut myself off.”<
br />
  “What if this one’s not toxic?” Shay asks, but I don’t get the chance to answer, because Ethan comes into the kitchen.

  “What if what’s not toxic?”

  “Nothing,” I blurt, and I beg Shay with my eyes to stay quiet. I don’t need her playing matchmaker. Not when this is such a mess.

  “I think I’ll take my coffee to the basement and see what Lilly’s watching,” Shay says. She winks at me and hustles out of the room.

  “Your sister knows we slept together last night.”

  “Okay.” He crosses the kitchen. When he stops in front of me, he folds his arms and scans my face. “And why do I feel like you’re about to tell me it was a mistake?”

  I swallow hard. “Wasn’t it?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “It wasn’t for me, but maybe it was for you.”

  You’re my boss. The excuse sits useless on my tongue, and I don’t insult him by using it. We both know that if that really mattered to me or to him, last night wouldn’t have happened. “You’re still in love with your wife,” I finally say. When pain slashes across his face, I almost wish I could take the words back.

  “She was my wife. She gave me my daughter. I’ll always love her for that, but I . . .” He cups my face in his big hand. “Fuck, Nic, I’ve been suffocating with grief for three years, and when I touch you, I can breathe again.”

  But I can’t breathe when I know I’ve lied to you.

  “But maybe this isn’t about me. Are you still in love with your ex-fiancé?”

  Am I in love with Marcus? How can I be in love with a man I don’t even know? The man I thought I knew wouldn’t have betrayed me like that. I’m still hurt, but in hindsight, my love for Marcus looks just like my love for every other man I’ve devoted my life to since I was a teenager desperate for something resembling family. Unhealthy and one-sided. The wrong kind of love.