by Gina Azzi
She nods, a shy smile on her lips. "Starving."
"Stay here. I'll fix us some plates."
I finish drying the last dish as Sierra snoozes on the couch. I'm relieved she ate a good bit of dinner, but moments after eating her eyelids grew heavy. She shook her head, smiling at me, embarrassed. I told her to take a rest while I cleaned up, and it took a lot of convincing on my part for her to finally collapse on the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs.
Checking out the fancy kitchen, I have no clue how to even use the dishwasher. Used to hand washing dishes, I straightened up the kitchen quickly, dividing the remaining pasta and sauce into glass containers for Sierra to heat up as leftovers.
Now standing in the kitchen, bracing my arms against the countertop, and watching the top of her head peeking up over the back of the sofa, I can't believe how comfortable things are between us. I didn't know what to expect, but it wasn't this—this natural ease and lack of awkwardness. It's like we've known each other for years and while that's technically true, we've never really spent time together, barely speaking until the last month or so. Guilt floods my chest as I remember all of the time I brushed off her friendly attempts at conversation. But I couldn’t give in to her persistent questions and flirty smile, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to let her go with just a chat and a laugh. I’ve always wanted Sierra and now I’ve had her, we’re having a baby, and I don’t want to let her go.
But would she really want to take a stab at a relationship with me if she wasn’t pregnant with my baby? If the answer is no, which it’s gotta be, then what’s the point of trying something now?
Because she’s having your baby. Because you care about her. Because she’s the only woman you could ever see yourself being committed to, having a family with, growing old next to.
I close my eyes as the thoughts assault my brain. I hate that stupid, irritating voice that always reminds you of the truths you try to bury away.
Sierra snores lightly and I smile, remembering the first time I met her. She was nineteen years-old and came to visit my sister over Christmas Break their sophomore year. I had been out of prison for several years and was trying really hard not to mix up with any trouble.
The moment I saw that jet-black hair hanging to her waist, the amusement flashing in her big eyes, and heard her laugh, uninhibited and sexy as hell, I knew she was trouble. Wild curves, long legs, and a sway to her hips that could tempt a priest, Sierra walks around like sin. But then she opened her mouth, and everything that fell out of it irked the shit out of me.
Because she was smart.
And funny.
And witty.
She was quick, had a great sense of humor, and was chill in a way that the girls I ran with weren't.
She spoke of ideas and art, of painting and colors. She liked to run her hands over things like the table or couch, as if she was connecting with the texture. She was so in tune, so present, so overwhelming, and God, I was so tempted.
I think she made it her personal mission to get me to speak or laugh the whole four days she stayed with us. But I shut her down, never giving more than the basic politeness required of a civil person. My mama would be so disappointed in me if she could see how I treated Sierra in our home. Even Daisy and Carter shot me weird looks from time to time. But I stuck to it, never giving Sierra more than was absolutely required. And she backed off.
Over the years, I ran into her randomly when she would come home with Daisy or pop up for a visit. But I never had a friendship with her. I never had the easygoing, natural relationship that Carter managed. Probably because I never thought of her like another sister the way Carter did. Nope. I always thought of Sierra as so much more. Being in close proximity to her and not being able to react was painful. And it pissed me off. No one got under my skin like this girl.
Until she did.
And now, I don't want her to go anywhere else.
Sierra clears her throat from the couch, turning to find me staring at her and I shift, embarrassed at being caught.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her voice shy.
I bite the corner of my mouth, unsure of how much to reveal. But what's the use in trying to stay away now? We're having a baby together. We will be connected and bound in the most significant way for the rest of our lives. I confessed my darkest secret. In this moment, Sierra probably knows more about me than anyone else in the world.
"The first time we met."
Her eyebrows arch in surprise, and she twists on the couch until she's kneeling on the cushions, her arms hanging over the back of the couch. "You were such a jerk."
I laugh, the sound loud and unexpected and Sierra's eyes widen.
"Finally," she exclaims, clasping her hands together. "Jesus. It's been my goal for the past however many years to get the great, stoic, moody Denver Kane to laugh. Really laugh. Just once. And now, I call you a jerk and you laugh." She tilts her head at me, a teasing grin spreading across her face.
"Don't tell anyone," I deadpan, walking over to the couch. She laughs, turning to face me and leaning back against the corner throw pillows.
"Swear it." She runs her fingers over her lips like a zipper and tosses the imaginary key.
I shake my head, bending forward and before I can overthink it, I kiss her locked lips, conversation forgotten. Her mouth is soft and sweet and she shifts under me, tugging me closer until I’m straddling her. Lacing my fingers in her hair, I slant my mouth over hers, anxious to pour all of the thoughts I can’t voice into this moment, this connection. Does she have any idea how much I want her? Want all of it with her? The baby and the family and the future? But can I go there? Is it fair to her?
She moans lightly and leans forward, her gestures growing hurried as her fingers nip under my T-shirt, working it up my chest and over my head.
I glance at her, take in the fevered flush of her cheeks, the heat in her eyes, the fullness of her lips. “You’re beautiful. So unbelievably beautiful.” I tell her before shielding her body with mine once more.
She squirms beneath me, her fingers popping the button on my jeans as I pull off her shirt, pausing to kiss the space above her naval, resting my cheek against the smooth skin of her stomach. I hear the soft sigh that falls from her lips and feel her fingers tug in my hair. I enjoy this moment, exposing a side of myself that I rarely show anyone but feel comfortable showing Sierra. After a minute, the stroking of her fingers in my hair has my mind fixated on other things and I continue to explore her body, vowing to never take one minute with her for granted ever again.
So caught up in the moment, I have no idea how much time passes when Sierra and I finally settle against the couch cushions, random pieces of clothing skewed across our bodies, other articles strewn on the floor.
I wipe my hand across my face, looking over at her from the corner of my eye. The moment I see her hesitant expression transform into one of confidence, I know that our encounter affected her as much as it did me, she’s just not going to admit it.
“So, are couches like your thing?” She quips, lifting an eyebrow at me.
“What?” I chuckle, trying to understand her thought process.
She raises her eyebrows at me and widens her eyes.
“Oh.” I laugh, biting my lip as I realize I haven’t ever laughed as much as I do in Sierra’s presence. “No. I’m not sure what’s going on. I can barely think straight around you; you make me lose my mind.” I shake my head to clear it so I follow our conversation.
Sierra beams at me. Literally. Her smile brightens her whole face until it’s like sunshine and I pull her closer until she rests her cheek against my chest. Rubbing my fingers up and down her arm, I kick my feet up on an ottoman and cuddle the woman I think I’ve fallen for without even trying. That’s right. I cuddle her.
“So, why were you so nasty?” She shifts her weight, snuggling deeper under the blanket and turning her head up to look at me.
Huh? What is she talking about? Once a
gain, I try to focus on the conversation but I’m having a tough time following her thoughts. “Nasty?”
“When we first met?”
I grin at her, tugging on the ends of her hair. “I wasn’t nasty. I was…”
"Sullen, moody, unfriendly, broody—"
"All right, all right, take it easy." I hold the hand that isn’t wrapped around her up in surrender. "I could have been nicer."
"You think?"
"You just…you pissed me off."
Her mouth falls open, shocked. "How did I manage that by being my sweet, polite, charming self?"
"Oh, you're sweet all right."
She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I tug her close again, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "I wanted you," I admit, the words rolling off my tongue in a rare showing of truth, which seems to be the new norm around Sierra. "Jesus, I wanted you. But you were off limits, and I knew it, so I just—"
"Tried to push me away?" Her voice is soft, her expression unreadable.
"Something like that."
She nods, chewing the corner of her lip. "That makes sense. Kind of. Not that it made it any easier; I thought, I don't know, that you hated me or something. That I was just your sister's annoying, stupid little friend."
"Nah." My fingers draw lazy eights over her shoulder. "I definitely never hated you, although yeah, you used to annoy the crap out of me. You used to show up and be charming and funny and wear your tight jeans and little shirts and my blood would boil because I knew you were unattainable.”
She snorts, a small smile passing over her lips. “Until now.”
“Now I just feel like I won the lottery.” I admit.
She looks up at me, her big eyes serious. “Really? You’re not upset at all about the baby?”
I shake my head slowly, trying to sort out my thoughts so I can explain them. I rub my hand over the stubble on my chin before tucking a piece of hair behind Sierra’s ear. “I’m not upset at all. To be honest, I’m really happy that I’m having a baby with you and not someone else. I know this isn’t what you or I planned and maybe we wouldn’t be here,” I gesture to the apartment, “if you weren’t pregnant. But I’m okay with that. I just worry that you’re not.”
She watches me quietly, as if searching for the truth in my eyes, the sincerity in my words. “I’m scared.”
I hold her closer, my chest constricting at the emotion in her words.
“But I’m not unhappy.” She moves her hand to cover her stomach. “I’m already in love with this little peanut.”
I drop my hand to cover hers and squeeze her fingers lightly. “I know what you mean.”
“When I first called you –”
“I freaked out.”
“Kind of.”
I drop my head back against the cushions and blow out a deep breath. “That was less about you being pregnant and more about my relationship with my dad, clearing my name, a bunch of random thoughts that collided in that moment. I never meant to make you feel like I wasn’t happy about the baby.”
“And you’re happy it’s with me?”
I nod, leaning forward to kiss her.
She sighs, snuggling into my side and we sit in a comfortable silence for several minutes.
"Hey, you still paint and stuff?" I ask her suddenly, remembering how passionate she was about art.
"What?"
"Painting and art. You were always into that, talking about colors and shadows and lighting. You still do it?"
"You actually listened when I talked?
"Every now and then. Don't get a big head about it or anything."
She smiles, the simple gesture lighting up her face like summertime. "Yeah. I do. Come on, I want to show you something." She pushes herself off of me, standing from the couch.
Reaching down, she offers me her hand and I take it, the gesture meaning more than a simple help up from the couch. She squeezes my fingers lightly, I squeeze back, a silent understanding passing between us.
We're in this, whatever this is, together.
11
Sierra
I'm nervous, my hands growing clammy and my heartrate ticking up with each step we take toward the studio. It's not that I've never shown my art to anyone before. I have. But with Denver, now, it's just different. I want him to like it, to feel it, to see me and understand me through my painting, so yeah, I'm nervous. Because what if he doesn't get it? What if he just thinks it's, I don't know, meh? Then what? Painting is my soul, it's who I am, and it's something I hope to share with my children. If Denver doesn't understand how important it is to me, how my brushes are practically an extension of my fingers, I know I'll look at him differently.
And I don't want to.
Because when I look at Denver, really look at him, past the sexy man-bun and the intriguing scrolls of ink that line his arms, I like what I see. And the more that he opens up to me, really talks to me and confides in me, the more I feel myself start to freefall past like into love.
"What's this?" he asks, just before I push open the studio door.
"James, my stepdad, had this studio made for me years ago. It's where I create," I say for lack of a better term. Opening the door, I flip on the lights and step inside, Denver close behind me.
He doesn't say anything for several seconds, and my heart dips dangerously low to the ground. Just before it crashes at my feet, a gasp, a sharp inhale of breath tickling the back of my neck sounds behind me, and my heart hovers, waiting for his words.
"This is…wow. You're incredible, Sierra," he whispers, awe and shock lacing his tone.
And my heart, my stupid, passionate, romantic heart, swoops and soars until it's higher than the Empire State Building.
"You did these? All of them?" Denver drops my fingers, turning in a slow circle, his eyes scanning over canvas after canvas lining the studio, in some places stacked three or four deep.
"Yeah."
"You're really talented." He looks at me sharply, as if seeing me for the first time, as if seeing me.
I bite back my smile and manage to tame the happy dance that is desperate to break free. Opting for casual, I shrug. "Thanks. I love painting. Like I love it. It's just, I don't even know how to explain it."
"Try."
"It's who I am. It's my purpose. My passion. When I'm having a shitty day or upset about something, it's how I cope. When I'm happy and excited, energy literally tingles my fingertips until I have a brush in my hand. It's an extension of who I am."
He watches me as I talk, his eyes curious, his face smooth. After a moment, he nods, as if to himself, confirming a thought or a belief. "I had no idea you were this good. That it was for, I don't know, real."
I laugh. "It's seriously my life."
"It should be. You shouldn't waste a talent like this. How'd you even get into painting? Is your family a bunch of, I don't know, famous artists or something?" He gestures around the studio, his eyes trailing to the door and the rest of the penthouse as if to make his point.
"Hardly. My family is, well, we're kind of a hot mess."
His gaze swings back to me, and a bark of laughter echoes in the space. "What do you mean?"
I nod toward a couch lining one wall of the studio, and we walk over to it. Clearing off a pile of blank canvases and a box of paints, we sit down. I tuck my knees up under my chin and hug my knees into my chest, choosing my words carefully.
"My mom is Scottish. My dad is an American Indian."
"Like a Native American?"
"Yeah. We're part of the Navajo tribe. Our people live mostly in Arizona. My dad's family is large and intricate and quite high up in the hierarchy. At one time, he was in a position to play an important role in our society. But then, he met Mom. She was doing an exchange program at a college in Arizona and they met at a bar."
A sigh falls from Denver's mouth, and I shift my gaze to him. He's watching me intently, hanging on to my words as if my family history is somehow interesting and not a series of mistakes and
desperate choices.
"They fell in love, and Dad left the reservation, pretty much turned his back on our people, and married Mom. She finished her degree and they settled outside of Phoenix. They were happy for a few years, had Lachlan and me. But after a while, Dad hated the mundane routine of being a family man. He was a free spirit, always had been. It's probably why Mom was attracted to him in the first place, if I'm being honest. He wanted to paint and create and dream and inspire. To be inspired. Mom wanted him to get a reliable job that would, in addition to her salary, ensure consistent mortgage payments and start saving for my and Lach's college funds."
"Makes sense."
"Yeah, well, Dad didn't see it that way. He started gambling, getting mixed up in poker games and big betting. I guess he was really unhappy, maybe even depressed. Anyway, he grew more and more unreliable, and Mom become exasperated and felt like she was raising us on her own. Eventually, he split. Went back to the reservation. Except by that time, his favor with the community had fallen. Before he left the reservation, he advocated for decreasing the presence of alcohol and wanted to crack down on bootlegging. He wanted to ensure that the reservation school lunches were well balanced, and kids had extracurricular activities to join in order to curtail the rise in obesity among the younger generations. And then he shows up years later, overweight, incredibly unhealthy, and a gambler. It was bad.”
Den squeezes my fingers lightly, and I offer him a small smile.
"After Dad left, Mom moved us to the East Coast, to New Jersey. She found a job in New York through one of her college friends and began commuting in and out of the city. At night, she worked as a seamstress, doing the work from home so she was with Lachlan and me but still earning money. She went to a conference in New York one day for her job and met James. I mean, years passed in between with us making it work but when she met James, everything changed. James is Scottish, too, and owns a massive PR and marketing company, the biggest in the UK with offices in Ireland, Scotland, and England. He lived in London, so suddenly we began spending loads of time there. Mom and he fell in love quickly but took their relationship slowly because of us kids. Mom had me and Lach to think about, and James had his son, Callum, to consider. But we all hit it off. To be honest, Callum and I are nearly as close as Lach and me. After Mom and James married, James bought the penthouse in New York, so Lach and I would always have a home in the States. We moved to London, and I finished high school there. But for college, I wanted to be closer to Dad, to get to know his side of the family, meet my grandmother, so I applied to ASU."
