Page 15 of Wrap Around
When he said it out loud on the ice—that he noticed I was hard too, I panicked. First, that someone near us might have heard. That one of the guys or a fan with especially good hearing would have figured us out. Then it would get out. Broadcasted for the entire world, finding its way back home to my father, my mother, and the congregation that raised me.
To everyone who still sees me as something I’m not.
How could he say that? How dare he look me in the eye like he wasn’t ashamed? Like he doesn’t have a wife and daughter and an entire life that means more than our fleeting moment of weakness ever will. He should be just as sick over it as I am. He should’ve buried it, hidden it, burned it to ashes and pretended none of it ever happened.
Instead, he laughed at me. And I knew then that every moment he has tormented me, all the flirting and temptation, it’s all been on purpose.
And it boiled over. All of it. The shame, the rage, the fear. It wrapped around my heart like the thorns on my tattoo, pulled tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see past it all.
I didn’t even realize I was moving until he hit the boards.
Lily clears her throat. She’s standing in the doorway wearing a pair of black leggings, a white tank top, and a plaid flannel that must be Silas' because it's way too big on her. Her hair is swept back in a messy bun, and there's something purple smeared on her cheek. She looks tired, but beautiful. The same as she did the day I left, but a decade older rather than just a few years. I suppose being a teen mom would do that.
"You're here," she says, voice soft with disbelief. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I, uh…. I figured it was time."
She doesn't say anything else. Doesn't chastise me or chew me out for being a shitty brother. She steps forward and throws her arms around me.
My hesitation makes it awkward at first, but it quickly settles into something warm and familiar. When I notice her shoulders shaking, I hold her even tighter.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into her temple, pressing a kiss there.
She pulls back and wipes at her eyes. Just like when we were kids, she pretends she wasn't crying and I go along with it, but I'd be lying if I said it's just for her. Neither of us has ever handled emotion very well. Our father wasn’t abusive like Silas’ was, but he was stern and guided us through life with an iron fist, micromanaging every expression, every move. It was our role to be examples to the other youth in our community. We were to be above reproach, never weak enough to succumb to something as trivial as emotions.
"Your hair," I say, to fill the silence, and I reach up to push a loose bang behind her ear.
She touches it self-consciously, smoothing a few loose tendrils. "I cut it after Addy was born," she says, and then lets out a small huff when she notices my eyebrows raised. "What was one more disappointment when I'd been the walking embodiment of shame for nine months?"
There were many women in our congregation that didn't follow the tradition of not cutting their hair, but as the pastor's daughter, Lily had to follow more rules than most. Much like our mother, she was discouraged from speaking her mind, raising her voice, cutting her hair, or even wearing pants. She almost wasn’t allowed to go to public school with us when we aged out of the homeschool co-op our church was part of. Our whole co-op group, which consisted of five kids, including the three of us, bandedtogether to advocate for her to go. One of the stipulations was that she was absolutely forbidden to do any sort of after-school clubs or activities that weren’t Christian-based. She desperately wanted to be part of the science club but was stuck with Bible Club.
Looking back, it's no wonder my father blamed me for not keeping my sister out of trouble. Her safety and well-being were my responsibility when we were outside the church grounds.
"I didn't mean to imply anything about that," I say gently. "I just meant that you look different."
"I am different," she says, pushing the door open wider before she turns and walks into the house. I follow, slipping out of my shoes just inside the door.
"This is nice." Despite only living here for a few weeks, the house already feels warm and lived-in. There are pictures on the walls, and toys on the floor. Baby powder and vanilla hang in the air, mostly masking the faint scent of paint.
"It's a far cry from the trailer behind Mama and Daddy’s place, that's for sure." She opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of tea, pouring me a glass without even asking, she knows I can't turn down a cold glass of sweet tea.
I accept the glass with a murmured thanks and take several deep gulps. "Good Lord, that tastes like home. It’s just not the same when I try to make it, and sweet tea is not a thing up here."
"Good to hear. Hopefully, it'll be some incentive to come back around." She gives me a teasing smile, her dimples popping, and then winks.
When she walks out of the kitchen, I follow. "I didn't mean to avoid you."
"Liar," she says, raising an eyebrow.
I huff and take a spot opposite her on the couch. The problem with growing up so close, is that she knows me better than anyone else in this world. She knows all my tells. We were ten months apart, but we were like twins. More often than not, she could read my mind, my expressions, any moods as well as her own.
Her smile falters. "I know I disappointed you," she says quietly. "Believe me, I know I disappointed everyone. I was all but shunned back home. None of our old friends would talk to me. Hell, I was lucky Daddy let me stay at all, and even then it was only because Silas married me."
There's something in her voice that makes my stomach cramp. After what I saw in the hallway, and the conversations I've overheard between her and Silas, I’d gotten the impression that they were happy and in love. But her words are tinged with sadness and regret.
I look over at her sharply. "Are you unhappy with Silas?"
She gives me a look. "Gideon…"
