by Tawna Fenske
“I think I’d like that,” she says. “I didn’t get the closure of attending his funeral. I never even knew closure was an option until—until—well, this is all very new.”
No kidding. “Give me a chance to talk to the others,” I tell her. “And then we’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you, James.” She smiles. “Brother.”
The word spears me through the gut, but I hold it together. “I’ll be in touch.”
I click off the call and take a deep breath. My house is silent. Eerily silent. Just the ticking of the antique clock in the corner, and the far-off yipping of coyotes.
I miss Lily.
I have my keys in hand before I’ve made up my mind to go to her. I’ve spent the whole day wishing I could talk with her, touch her, listen to her laughter.
Halfway up the path to her front door, I realize I’m being an asshole again by showing up unannounced. But before I can turn around, Lily throws open her front door and tosses me a smile that’s a warm ball of sunshine.
“Hey, you,” she says. “I was just going to call and ask if you wanted to—oh.”
I pull her into my arms, pressing my lips to hers and muffling whatever she was about to say. She twines her fingers around the back of my neck, and I lose myself in her kiss, her touch, the flowery scent of her hair as we fumble our way to her bedroom.
“In your spot, Magma,” Lily commands as we break apart long enough to tear off our clothes.
The dog obeys, settling in the corner as her mistress and I tumble onto the mattress. The frenzied energy, the desperate passion, it’s just like it was the first time.
So why does it feel different? Our first time together was an earthquake and a volcanic eruption all rolled into one. But this—this feels more like coming home. What did Isabella say?
It was like this puzzle piece just clicked into place. I can’t explain it, but I felt this—this sense of belonging.
“Lily. I can’t get enough of you.” I breathe the words against her throat, knowing I’m talking about more than physical sensation.
She gasps as I slide into her, then looks up and into my eyes. I angle up to hold her gaze, to lose myself completely in that moment. I’m motionless inside her, eyes locked with hers. There are a million things I want to say to her right now.
I’m my best self with you.
You’ve changed me for good.
I’m in love with you.
None of these are things I can say out loud, maybe not ever. But I set out to show her anyway.
I move slowly at first, sliding into her with a fluid energy that escalates to a full-fledged explosion of atoms and molecules and fiery hot need. We come together in a frantic burst of cries that echo off the rafters of her crisp, white bedroom with its bright spots of color.
And then we’re silent, still in each other’s arms.
It’s Lily who speaks first, brushing sweaty red curls off her forehead. “Wow.” She gives a breathless laugh. “What got into you?”
I pull her against me, heart pounding hard, aware of the fact that every molecule in my body has been rearranged. I’m changed, I know I am, and that’s all Lily’s doing.
I know I can’t say this, but I ache to say something. I’m seized by a soul-crushing need to unburden myself to another human. To Lily. To tell her my secrets and be seen—really seen—for the first time.
So I roll onto my side and brush the curls from her cheek.
And I begin to talk.
Chapter 13
LILY
I lie there in stunned stillness as James takes a few deep breaths and falls silent for the first time in almost an hour.
The light in my room has faded from pink sunset hues to purple twilight, but I don’t dare move. Not even to flick on a lamp or light some candles or shift my arm that’s gone to sleep. I just keep stroking his chest with my fingertips, coaxing out the words he so urgently needed to speak aloud.
“So that’s it,” I murmur at last. “That’s what you’ve been holding back. A secret sister no one else knows about.”
He hesitates. In that moment, I know there’s more. Something else he’s not sharing with me.
“A secret sister who’s part of a royal family,” he says at last, stroking a hand over my hair. “And she wants to meet us. All of us.”
I shift a little and my hip bumps his under the covers. Magma is dozing in the corner, but other than that, we’re alone in the stillness of this room. It’s like a confession booth with naked people and one snoring canine.
“How will you tell them?” I ask softly.
“I’m not sure.” He turns to look at me, green eyes searching mine. The vulnerability there nearly breaks my heart. “I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”
Pangs of emotion whack me right in the chest as I absorb the magnitude of his words. He came to me—me—with his secret. With an open-hearted plea for advice.
It’s not the first time a man’s confessed something in bed, but it’s so much bigger than anything I’ve heard before. This is James, Iceman, the guy who wears a tie to poker night. For him to open up to me, to trust me—
“The counselor.” I interrupt my own thoughts, remembering what Bree told me at career day. “Could you talk with her? Maybe ask how you should break it to them?”
He blinks a few times, the intensity in his eyes softening to something gentler. “That’s a good idea.” He strokes a hand over my hip, fingers light and feathery. “It would mean—it would mean talking to her alone, I imagine.”
“Probably smart,” I agree. The way his body just tensed is a good indication how he feels about that. “I’m guessing she’d have some professional expertise on how to do that. How to relay the news to the others without them feeling hurt or left out or lied to.”
His breath stalls in his chest. “You think they would? Feel that way, I mean?”
He already knows it’s possible, or he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. But I hear the question between the words.
Will it be as bad as I think?
I angle up on my elbow and look into his eyes, hoping my hand on his chest is soothing and not irritating. “I think it’s impossible to know what sort of reaction you’re going to get,” I say slowly. “But bringing in a professional will show them you care about getting it right. That you’re doing your best. That you care how the news impacts them.”
“Maybe,” he repeats, and the hopefulness in his voice makes my chest ache. “I’ll call her. I want to do this soon. Tomorrow, if possible. I think it’s important not to let it fester.”
“That’s brave of you.” I stroke his chest again, aware of his heart beating hard and steady under my fingertips. “You’ll do great, James. I’m sure you will.”
“Thanks.” He plants a kiss on my forehead. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The words shiver through me, equal parts happiness and dread. I snuggle closer, trying to keep the darker thoughts at bay.
I’m on my way home from work the next day when it happens. Blowout. There’s a loud boom! and my pickup jerks to the right, lurching so hard the steering wheel yanks from my hands. Fighting for control, I ease onto the shoulder and sit there for a second catching my breath.
“Holy shit.”
I’m okay. I’m fine and not hurt, and I repeat this to myself over and over as I get out and survey the damage.
“Dammit.” The right rear tire is blown to shreds. These tires are only two seasons old, so I must have hit something. A nail or a hunk of metal or something. Or maybe it’s the early-summer heat of the asphalt combined with the weight of four dozen lava rock samples stashed in the bed of my truck.
Hands shaking, I move a box of samples to locate the spare. My heart sinks as my fingers press into flabby rubber. “Fucking flat.”
I know better than this. My mother taught me to change a tire when I was fifteen years old. Keeping my spare in good shape has been second nature for as long as I’ve been driving
.
But I’ve screwed up somehow, so I pull out my phone and call for roadside assistance.
It turns out they’re more than two hours away. “Sorry about that,” says the apologetic operator. “We’ve got three other service calls ahead of yours.”
I think about who else to call. Any of my girlfriends would come running, but I’m reluctant to bother them. Amber and Jade are busy with calving at the reindeer ranch. Blanka has a happy hour date. Bree is…well, she’s James’s sister, and is there a reason I shouldn’t just call him?
Archer women don’t need a man for anything.
It was something my mother always said to me, and her mother said it to her. A legacy of women determined to stand on their own two feet.
With those words echoing in my head, I pull out my phone and dial the number for the one person I know will be there for me no matter what.
“On my way, sweetie,” my grandma says on the other end of the line. “Just hold tight.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated in my grandmother’s kitchen with a glass of Chardonnay. Screw cocoa and cookies, my grandma knows the real antidote to a rough day.
“I talked to my friend at McCormick’s Auto,” she says. “They’ll have the tow truck haul it away within the hour, and we can pick it up tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” I pick at the water crackers she’s laid out on a plate next to squares of cheese cut into perfect bite-sized pieces. “You’re the best.”
She smiles and walks around the kitchen island with her own glass of wine. Hopping onto the seat beside me, she slings a startlingly muscular arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry that happened,” she says. “Car trouble’s a real pain in the ass.”
Did I mention how much I love my grandma? “I’m just glad you were there to bail me out.”
She smiles, but there’s something distant in it. “I’m always happy to help. You know that, right?”
“Of course.”
A flicker of worry crosses her face, and I don’t think I’ve imagined it. Something’s wrong.
“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?” Oh my God, she’s sick or dying or—
“Stop that,” she orders, dropping her arm from my shoulders and punching me in the shoulder. Hard. “I’m healthy as a horse. Healthier than you, Missy.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She could kick my ass with both legs tied behind her head, a maneuver made possible by forty years as a part-time yoga instructor.
Still, I inspect her for signs of damage. “You promise you’re all right?”
“Of course.” She picks up her wine and takes a sip. “I mean, I won’t live forever—”
“Yes, you will.” My voice is fierce, willing the words to be true. “I’ve got friends at the lab working with me on a serum of eternal life. We’ve almost cracked the formula. You’ll be the first person I give it to.”
She laughs and sips her wine. “Be that as it may, I’d like to know you have other options for people to call.”
“I have plenty of girlfriends. I could have called any of them.”
She lifts her wineglass again, giving me a side-eye over the rim. “What about gentleman friends?”
I snort into my own glass. “Haven’t you always told me that being dependent on a man is the dumbest thing a woman can do?”
She rolls her eyes and grabs a handful of pretzels from the ever-present bowl on her kitchen counter. “I’m not suggesting you quit your job and chain yourself barefoot to some man’s stove,” she says. “Just that there are certain needs only a man can attend to.”
That gets another snort from me. “I’m better at car repair than most men I know.”
“I wasn’t talking about car repair.”
“I have a nightstand full of battery-powered need attenders.”
My grandmother smiles. “Proud as that makes me, that’s not what I meant, either.”
“What did you mean?”
She’s quiet a long time. “You remember when we had the talk about the birds and the bees?” she says. “Complete with visual aids.”
“I remember.” Graphically. I was the only eight-year-old to learn the phrase multiple orgasms. “You were very thorough.”
“I wanted you to have all the information,” she says.
“God bless you for it.”
We each take a sip of wine, as my grandma gathers her thoughts. “I taught you about sex because I thought it was important,” she says. “I still do. But maybe I didn’t spend enough time teaching you that intimacy’s important, too.”
“I have no problems with intimacy.” Even as I say it, I hear how hollow the words are. “I talk with my girlfriends about everything. Hopes and fears and dreams.”
“And that’s commendable,” she says. “I admire you for forming a posse of smart, powerful women you can rely on in a crunch.”
“Then what?” I sip my wine. “What’s missing in my life?”
“You tell me.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I hold my tongue. I grab a few peanut M&Ms from the bowl next to the pretzels. They’re surprisingly good with the Chardonnay, but I’m having trouble swallowing past the big, dumb lump in my throat.
“I’ve been seeing a man.” I have no idea why I just told her that.
My grandmother nods, not surprised. “Of course you are.”
Because I always am. But that’s not what I meant.
“No, it’s different,” I clarify. “Not my usual friends with benefits thing.”
“I know that, too.”
How could she? “He and I haven’t even discussed it.”
My grandmother smiles, laugh lines crinkling like crepe paper around her eyes. “I see it in your face, dear. I see that you’re happy and in love and utterly terrified of those things because you know better than anyone how they can be snatched away.”
My eyes sting, and I blink back the sudden flood of tears. I’m so not a crier. I’m the friend whose shoulder everyone cries on, not the other way around.
I think about the look in James’s eyes as he spilled his secret. As the floodgates opened, and he let the words flow. As he showed the parts of him he’s shown to no one else. The trust, the safety, the sense of security in another person.
Never in my life have I wanted that from someone else.
But I want it now.
And my grandma’s right, that scares the ever-loving hell out of me.
“That right there,” my grandma says. “That look in your eyes? Equal parts terror and longing?”
I look down at the M&Ms. “Maybe it’s nausea. I don’t think these go together.”
“No.” She shakes her head slowly. “It’s love.”
It can’t be.
“I can’t love him.” I whisper the words like I’m trying to convince myself they’re true. “That’s not possible.”
“Anything’s possible, sweetheart.” My grandma squeezes me close and clinks her wineglass against mine. “Don’t you remember your mama teaching you that?”
I nod, struggling to find my voice. “But she taught me to be independent.”
“And so did I.” She smiles her kind, generous smile that makes my heart get tight. “The trick is mashing all those lessons into something that works for you. You and no one else.”
I take a sip of wine, wondering if it’s really that easy. If I’ve been missing something all along.
“I’m afraid of what could happen if—” If what? If I get attached? If I tell him how I’m feeling?
I can’t give voice to any of that, but my grandma seems to hear it. She smiles and puts an arm around me. “Screw that,” she says. “Be afraid of what could happen if you don’t give this a shot.”
Blinking back tears again, I reach for another handful of M&Ms. Could it really be that simple?
My grandma answers again, even though I haven’t spoken. “You won’t know until you try.”
Chapter 14
JAMES
“The timeli
ne seems aggressive.” Sean sets down a sheaf of papers on the conference table and sighs. “I feel like we’re rushing to make it happen and—”
“Let’s pause for a moment, Sean.” Dr. Hooter gives my brother her wise and constipated look. “Remember, if you catch yourself throwing the word ‘like’ into a statement that you think is about feelings, it’s actually more of a judgment.”
She drones on a bit longer about the Compassionate Communication model and the importance of sharing feelings and needs instead of judgments, but I’ve already tuned her out.
I feel like this meeting is dragging on forever.
I feel like Dr. Hooter might never shut up.
I feel like this is a waste of time.
Fine, I see her point about using “like.”
I stifle my own judgmental thoughts while Dr. Hooter coaches my brother through expressing his concerns in a spirit of compassionate sharing or some shit like that.
“I feel overwhelmed and stressed.” Sean has his arms crossed over his chest, but he’s giving it the ol’ college try. “I need calmness and breathing room and some free time to spend with my hot new wife.”
“Very good, Sean.” Dr. Hooter beams, while Bree leans across the end of the conference table and gives him a one-armed hug.
“I want those things, too.” Bree straightens in her chair, dabbing at the corner of her eye. “I’ve been worried that if I didn’t push for an aggressive timeline, you guys would think I’d lost my edge. That I got engaged and pregnant and now I can’t hack it in the business world.”
“Dude.” Jonathan shakes his head, palms flat on the table. “You could be knocked up with quadruplets and still break the balls of ninety-five percent of the guys I’ve met in the business world.”
Mark grunts his agreement. “Fuckin’ A.”
Pleased with the progress we’ve made, Doctor Hooter turns to me. That’s our cue, the moment we spent all day preparing for at her private office.
