Page 81 of The Kiss of Deception

An unpracticed scowl steals his smile, and I stifle a laugh.

“It’s just an observation, love. You don’t have the brawl in you to end a football game with all your appendages intact.” I ogle his chest in a very deliberate way, almost unable to conceal all the things I shouldn’t be thinking. “Or the shoulders.”

He blinks, a slow smirk stretching his lips. “You know you don’t have to use this conversation as an excuse to check me out. Feel free to ogle me all you want, at any time and for no particular reason other than you want to. Because you like what you see.”

I force the full weight of my blank stare on him, waiting until he squirms a little. Only then do I recover our previous topic.

“So… you’re not like your father i—”

I’ve never been interrupted quicker. “No. I would never leave my wife and my kid.”

My heart twists in my chest, choking the breath out of my lungs. Words are long gone, evaporated with the air.

All this time, Miles has been carrying this hurt without complaint. What else is he hiding behind those dimples?

So many things I want to ask… I don’t know where to start. I think I hear a sigh, or maybe I see it exit his parted lips, but all my focus is on digesting this vital piece of information from a man I’d been so mightily self-assured I knew everything about.

The heaviness inside me weighs me down. Without thought, I plop down. This time my head rests on his lap.

The pad of his forefinger traces my tattoo with a soft question. “Can I ask about your little heart?”

The change of subject is deafening, but I decide to reciprocate the courtesy of not pressing for answers he isn’t ready to volunteer.

“Someone once told me I wore my heart on my sleeve, that I should keep it concealed.”

Another piece of me I’d never shared before.

How many times did I hear those scolding words as a little girl?

Discipline your expression, Zoe. You wear your feelings on your face. That won’t do you any favors. The sooner you understand, the better.

I had thought, naively, that the harsh tone had been only for my own good. With age came awareness. When my dreams didn’t match his expectations, the hardest realization was that it hadn’t been for my benefit.

“So I decided to wear it somewhere else, somewhere everyone could see it.”

My final act of rebellion, the metaphorical cutting of the cord with Grandfather Hopkins.

Or so I convinced myself.

Because the cord remained intact. It still traps me, and it’s strangulating.

He’s still inside my head, except it’s my voice I hear. My voice which he had thoroughly shaped with each reprimand, each praise, each instruction. It’s my voice telling myself I’m not good enough—I must try harder to be something else, something better. It’s my voice telling me to remain unflappable, impenetrable, in utter fucking control. But the words are his.

I’ve been living according to his gospel. It comes in handy, after all. It keeps people at a distance, away where they can’t see through the thin layer of polished ice and recognize what lies beyond: all my insufficiencies, all the ways I fall short.

But hasn’t Miles seen all that? And he’s still here, looking at me like… I don’t know how, but I like the way he looks at me.

Maybe it’s time to truly break free. Maybe breaking free doesn't mean I must bare myself to the whole world. Maybe it’s only my own world that deserves my vulnerability.

Vulnerability isn’t only courage. It’s trust in its bravest shape.

I trust him. I want to be brave, no matter how much it scares me.

“Thank you.” My voice is a barely audible rasp. I clear my throat, try again. “For taking care of me. And for being my friend.”

He doesn’t realize the lengths of my gratitude, but one day, I hope I can tell him all the things I’m thankful for.

“Is that who I am, Zoe?” The brush of his finger becomes firmer, a press against the ink of my delicate heart. “Your friend?”

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