Page 56 of Oyster

CHAPTER 14

Relatives and friends, too squeamish to visit when my mum was dying, were only too happy to pop by offering their nosy condolences after she’d gone. In some ways, despite the claustrophobic chitchat and the endlesssorrys, I was grateful; they brought home-cooked dinners wrapped in tin foil, reminisced with my dad about old times, and made a fuss of Zoë. At least it kept us busy and on top of the housework. As long as no one saidit was a blessingor shit like that, then they could stay.

The morning after she’d gone, Max disappeared back to work, and we let him go, with a promise to stick close to the blokes over at Ars and not bugger off on his own.

Naturally, there was a mountain of paperwork to complete. Death—even an expected death—gave birth to an untold level of petty bureaucracy I hadn’t been prepared for. In comparison, the health and safety crap on my desk at work held appeal.

I didn’t have a chance to see Éti for five days, though we spoke often. Though she was in my head no matter what, her sweet voice in the background, calling my name. Her love accompanied me on my solitary early morning walks along the beach; it whispered on the ocean breeze drifting through mycracked window as I lay alone at night. My free hours were wasted staring out at the sea, tracking with my eyes where it began, pounding harmlessly at the shore up to where, in a boundless roar, it dipped and vanished over the horizon.

The island winds suited my mood, billowing through my mind, rustling happy memories of my mum folded up in there, like neatly laundered bedding. They served as a gentle reminder that not now—maybe not even any time soon—but someday, I’d enjoy unwrapping them, rejoicing in them, and my family would find our way back to each other. And, in those precious quiet moments alone, with Éti in my mind and waves crashing at my feet, each one heralding a new world being born, I felt like my mum’s child again, with her permission to grieve.

“Mon dieu, Éti, I want you so fucking bad. I want to taste you on my tongue. I need you. I want to fuck you hard and come deep inside you.”

I don’t know what Éti had been expecting a week after my mother passed, but not this. Not a rugby tackle onto that pristine fireside rug and an orgy of crude desire spilling from my lips. Seemed death had made me brutally horny. Shoving up her blouse, I yanked aside her bra.

If it shocked her, she hid it well. “Nico, slow down. Ça alors,I’m here—you’ve got me.”

Sex and bereavement. Sex and grief. Two words rarely lumped together on a page, never mind alluded to out loud. Yet here I was, discovering on the fly that they went hand in hand, fuck knows why. But right now, I didn’t give two shits about the psychology. A reflexive reaffirmation of life? A numbing anaesthetic from immeasurable pain? A tale as old as time, or a two-fingered YOLO?

Pinning her to the rug, I rutted against her, driving my tongue into her mouth. “Need you, Éti. Need you so bad.”

“It’s okay, Nico. And I need you too.”

I freed my dick from my trousers and hitched up her skirt. Even the touch of her warm skin on mine had me ready to spill.

“Sorry, Éti, I’m so, so sorry. I just have to…”

“It’s okay. Do it. Let me take care of you. I want it too, my love.”

It wasn’t all one-way; my girl was strong and pushed back. Her legs clamped to my waist, she yanked on my hair as I circled her, pressing my dick again and again hard between her thighs. Her hips rose as her firm body met me with every thrust, anchoring me in place as my knees slipped on the thick rug.

“Love you, Éti, need you, Éti.” Repeating it over and over, I pounded my dick against her, like a blunt cudgel, every harsh stroke, every crude word, hammering out all the desire and want and pain bottled inside. Eyes squeezed shut, I blanked out the world, until nothing else but this moment existed, this basic urge, this raw and living hunger. Three more strokes, then, hard and fast and in the most glorious spike of relief, I spilled all over her. Marking her flesh, crying out my joy even as it twisted into something else.

And came back down to reality.

Oh, God, I’d fucked up. With Éti, with my precious Éti, my shelter, my home, my love that came without warning. I’d fucked up.

“I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.”

I repeated it like a litany, as if I apologised enough times, she’d forgive me more. Rolling off her, I lay on my back, panting, covering my face with my hands. For days—weeks, probably—I’d been a glass case of fragile emotions; now new guilt piled into the mix. An overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness flooded my mind, and without warning, my eyes sprung a leak. I chokedand coughed as rivers of salt poured from my mouth and nose, running into my hair. Making a mess of the beautiful rug, but they wouldn’t stop. I just lay there, bawling my fucking eyes out. “Please say I didn’t hurt you. Please tell me that, Éti. Please.”

“Hush with that nonsense.” A hand pushed one of mine away; a finger pressed against my wet lips. Strong arms pulled me onto my side, so we faced each other, heads close enough to kiss. She tangled a leg through mine. “You didn’t hurt me. I wanted it, too.”

I shook my head violently, wiping away snot with my sleeve. “I hurt you—I must have. That wasn’t me. I’m not like that. You don’t want me like that.”

Tucking a few strands of my sodden hair back, she huffed. “I think I’ll be the judge of what I do and don’t desire, Monsieur La Forge.”

“And I’m sorry for crying. I’ve been so desperate to see you. And so fucking miserable. I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t. Don’t fight it.” The hand in my hair began a regular stroking, so soothing, so loving. Like maybe something my mum would have done. “Let it go. Let it all out, my angel.”

“I’m going to miss her, Éti,” I sobbed. “I never properly told her, but I loved her so much.”

“I know you did, my love. And you still do. Death doesn’t stop that. And she’ll have known. She’ll have seen it, I promise.”

“I’m doing my best to care for them, but I don’t know where to start.”

I never wanted the hair stroking to stop. My heavy eyelids closed as fatigue enveloped me. As my Éti enveloped me. “Love you, Éti,” I managed, fading to nothing. “So fucking much.”

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