Page 7 of Dark & Deceitful

Sufficiently clean and smooth, I turn off the water and open my glass shower door coated in steam. The noises from before have disappeared. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing Dark is likely gone, which means special time with Sunshine—also bacon. Because yum.

Out of a heated bin, I claim a fluffy black towel, wrap it around my wet self, and trail droplets of water across the tiled bathroom floor and into the bedroom. There, I find a shirtless, gray-haired, bearded man sitting on my bed with a wooden tray laden with juice and food. The same tray I used to serve my children breakfast in bed on their birthdays when they were little.

Sunshine pats the spot next to him—my side of the mattress.

Not caring if I look like a drowned rat, I tuck my towel tighter around my chest and don’t bother getting dressed before eating because that stack of French toast has my mouth watering.

“Sorry about that.” Sunshine squeezes my leg as I sit down, then covers me again with the blankets, careful not to topple the tray.

I snatch a slice of bacon, lean back against the headboard, close my eyes, and bite. The pleasured sigh that rises would be embarrassing if I were in any other company. With Sunshine, I don’t worry about a thing. Not once has this man ever judged me. For that, I’m grateful.

Taking my time, I chew and swallow through the entire slice, savoring the salty pork, savoring the moment, centering myself. Doing as my mother taught me, I fall into a state of peace, no longer bogged down by Dark’s presence. This is my home. My bed. I’m free. I’m happy. I’m me.

Giving me all the time in the world to adjust, Sunshine waits for my eyes to open, and when they do, he’s right there, my pillar, eating his bacon, wearing the kindest of eye-crinkling smiles. “Hey there, Sweets.”

A soft, relieved smile surfaces. “Hi, Colton. I know I didn’t have time to say it, but I missed you.”

Blowing out a breath as if he needed to hear those words after the fight with his son, Sunshine draws the tray up the bed, closer for us to reach. “I missed you, too. Now let’s get you fed, so I take you to your gifts. Yeah?” He sets my fork on my plate and drizzles syrup over the slices of French toast he made just for me.

On a nod, I grab my food and set it on my lap, not caring the slightest that I’m naked from the waist down under the covers or that my ex’s father is eating in bed with me. This isn’t a first, nor will it be a last.

“Do you remember the first time you made me French toast and bacon?” I ask as I cut a hardy piece with the side of my fork.

“It was the morning we had your mother’s celebration of life.”

It was.

“We’d only met, what? A few weeks before?” I draw from memory. It was so long ago.

“Yes, and you’ve been ours ever since.”

A calm, all-encompassing warmth flows through me from the top of my head down to the tips of my black-painted toes at Sunshine’s words. Ihavebeen theirs ever since.

THREE

Past

Age 16

Holdingmy mother's frail hand, covered with bruises from all her IV pokes, I commit every breath she takes, every soft smile and moment with her to memory, and wrap it up with a bow to carry for the rest of my life. Every second is a gift I refuse to squander. We don’t have much time left. She’s already lived longer than we expected.

She’s my person.

My only person.

Once she’s gone, I don’t know what I’ll do. We never thought that far. Our house is gone–foreclosed on months after she got sick. We hadn’t even owned it for a year. It’s a blessing we could even get her in here—the hospice wing of a nursing home, hours from where we last called home. During the day, I’m here with her through the good and the bad. At night, I sleep in our van in the parking lot outside. The nurses know what I’m doing, and thankfully, they haven’t called CPS. Not yet anyhow.

We have a week left, maybe two. Stage four pancreatic cancer is a sneaky bastard. The yellowing of Mom’s skin, the frailty, the brittle nails and hair, and the pain, it’s the worst. She sleeps almost all the time now.

“Kali.” Mom’s voice cracks with exhaustion as her hand squeezes mine with what little strength she has left, and her eyes remain shut.

“I’m here, Mom.” I scoot closer to the bed, should she open her eyes today and want to see me. That happens less and less now—a minute or two here and there.

“Did I ever tell you of the time I had a foursome in a tent at a peace rally?” she rasps barely above a whisper.

Chuckling, I shake my head at the story she most definitely told me when I was far too young to understand what a foursome meant. “Yes, Mom. You did.”

She releases her own version of laughter. It’s weak, but I’ll take anything I can get. “You should try it.”

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