Page 23 of Light As A Feather
Pulling out my phone, I aim it at her. “Lean against the door frame.”
“I’m covered in mud, my hair is dripping wet, and…” she laughs. Her brows furrow in confusion, unable to imagine why this moment, why this photo.
“You look perfect to me, but if you’d prefer to be naked, I wouldn’t object.” That gets a smile out of her, a real one, not the one she gives people who demand it of her. I could crumble to my knees like a city lying in ruin, wiped out by the sheer glory of it.
“I bet.” She leans into the doorframe as asked, the loose sleeve of her sweater curling around her hand that she brings up to her mouth, hiding but seen so clearly through my lens. The sun peeks through the clouds at just this moment, gleaming off her chartreuse-toned hair, my green light across the vast water. Now that I’ve reached it, I don’t intend to allow that cursed distance to spread between us again.
“Welcome home, Sol.”
Hawthorne pulls me through the door and into the house that’s everything I ever wanted. Not just because it’s luxurious and filled with the things I love—my favorite colors, lush fabrics, fragments of memories—but because it’s been affectionately crafted with me in mind. Not as an afterthought, not as an inconvenience that requires accommodation, butfor me.
After so many years in hotels and a childhood in a home that felt like walking on eggshells, the ground I’m standing on welcomes me, holds me, and offers me a place to rest. Stepping over that threshold like this is all mine, that this is home, and I’m staying is sickeningly sweet, a dizzying dream that can’t be real. The arms around me are; the man before me is. But this feeling, can it last?
History tells me no. My gut tells me no.
But the pull to experience some blip of joy in a sea of suffering is far greater. It drags me under, and I let it swallow me. I encourage it to drown out that rational, grating voice that shouts its dissent, that yells about pattern recognition and a false sense of security.I don’t care. Nothing else matters.
In his arms, I find the safety I’ve been craving. The life we’d dreamed up all those years ago doesn’t seem so distant, doesn’t feel like delusion, doesn’t feel impossible as his lips meet mine.
“Home,” I whisper affectionately against him, needing to taste the satisfaction of it. “I’m home.” The deep hum of that word sends tingles across my scalp, a levity sweeping over my mind that I don’t even recognize. Is this happiness? Is it relief? I’m not quite sure, but it doesn’t matter. I seek out more of that feeling, crave the sugared sweetness of it. I usually turn away from unfamiliar flavors, but this I can’t resist.
“You’re home, and we’re getting mud all over our floors,” he laughs, that lightness emanating from him, too.
“Your mom would be pissed,” I respond, remembering fondly how easily I’d chat with her while I took off my shoes at the back door. This house was always open to me, always somewhere I could run to when things got bad. Before I can think about how much worse they’ve gotten, Hawthorne calls me back to the present.
“You better take those shoes off.” He sinks to his knees in front of me, and my stomach flips at the sight. Loosening the laces with deft hands, he removes each shoe, followed by one sock then the other—my preferred order. I’ve always hated the imbalance of one completely naked foot, but I wouldn’t care right now. Not when he’s looking up at me with those eyes.
Sliding his hand upward, he pushes my skirt away to reveal the snapdragon tattoos that extend from my ankle to my upper calf.
“Another one? So many new tattoos across this skin…I think this calls for a closer inspection.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” As he stands, his hands skate over the outside of my skirt, the press of satin silky smooth and seductive over my cold skin. With a sharp tug, he pulls down the zipper, and the fabric pools at my feet.
Wordlessly, I lift my arms so he can pull my sweater over my head, leaving me in just my bra and underwear. Following his lead, I undo the few buttons he has clasped on his shirt, revealing his defined torso. He breathes sharply through his teeth as my hands roam over the lean muscle.
“You’re cold. Let’s put on a fire, have some champagne, just…be.”
“That sounds perfect.” I look down at the mud caked on my shin, the same chalky texture I can feel on the side of my neck. There’s no way I can ignore it any longer, no way I can actually relax if my thoughts are constantly circling back to the wrongness of it. “But first, I need a shower.”
“Of course.”
“Will you join me?” The nervousness that makes it into my voice surprises even me, but he doesn’t let me retreat.
“Upstairs.” The demand in his voice is a snapping tease that hurries me up the staircase. His hands find my hips, directing me toward the bathroom that looks like it belongs in a spa, equipped with double rainfall showerheads, stunning glass panels, and onyx countertops inlaid with labradorite.
Stepping under the spray, I can’t help the groan that escapes me as the hot water cascades over me. I nearly melt into Hawthorne as he steps in behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. Soft purple light glows off the aubergine tiles that surround us.
“Is the water too hot?” Hawthorne asks as he steps away to center himself under his showerhead.
“No. It’s perfect.” What’s not perfect is the absence of him against me. I wrap myself around him, breathing in the rain and earth still on his skin one last time before the essential oils wafting from the floor overtake it.
“I’m not going anywhere; you know that, right?” He makes the promise so easily, like it’s a fact.
“I’ve just missed this, is all.” I rest my cheek against the hard muscle of his chest. “It’s been so long since I’ve been held. Since I’ve allowed myself to hold you. Since you’ve been real and present beneath my fingertips.”
“I know, and it’s been torturous.”
