Page 38 of Light As A Feather
My heart clenches with the regret that I wasn’t here to be the one to take care of her when she passed. But looking at the thoughtfully crafted display and stunning preservation, it’s obvious that Hawthorne spared no expense to ensure she was here for me when I came back.
Standing here in this incredible space he’s built for us, there’s no question that this man loves me. Honestly, I have a difficult time comprehending just how much, except that it must be as much as I love him.
But even love feels like too small a word, too pedestrian, to contain the magnitudes of everything he’s been to me. A best friend. A lover. A reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He’s the glue that holds my world together.
He deserves to hear that. He deserves my trust. There can’t be any more secrets between us. I have to believe that we can endure even this.
But first, I have to find him.
“Hawthorne,” I call out as I head toward the stairs. Standing at the banister, I listen for any clues as to what’s going on downstairs, but it’s silent.
Making my way to the kitchen, I have to pass through a velvet curtain that shields the interior from the aggressive natural light that always streams in through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the front portion of the house. I secure the rust fabric in the holdback that’s attached to the wall, revealing the mess that still blankets the kitchen.
Even in its disarray, it’s elegant—simple but not underwhelming—with its stained wood cabinets and matte black countertops. I lean against it, my eyes searching for any sight of him in the backyard, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I guess I might as well work on cleaning up while I wait. Give myself time to think through what the hell I’m going to say.
I push off the countertop, leaving behind the ghost of handprints, and instead of planning out how to confess one of my darkest secrets, my mind ponders what else would leave a mark like that. Would the silhouette of my body be imprinted upon it if I were laid out here with Hawthorne between my legs? I remember how good he looked eating me out in the mausoleum. How satisfying would it be to drip onto these countertops and into his waiting mouth?
The errant thought sends a bolt of hunger through me, and not for anything in that fridge. Memories of us fucking on everysurface of this house come to me clear as day, even with all the changes he’s made with the remodel.
One thing that was always true about us was that what we couldn’t convey with words, we always said with our bodies. It’s tempting to turn to that now, but we need to have a conversation. I need to lay everything on the table.
“You cleaned up?” Hawthorne seems genuinely surprised as he enters through the back door.
“You were gone a long time,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, but I wave it off with my hand.
“We need to talk,” I sigh.
“We do. First, I just want to say I understand why you feel the way you do about Jayden…kind of. But I need you to know, I meant what I said. I’m being honest with you.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I pause, suddenly needing a deep breath. “But that’s actually not what I wanted to talk about. There’s…” I clear my throat. “There’s something else I need to tell you, but I’m going to need something strong in my stomach before I do.” Needing a minute to catch my breath and harness my nerves, I set off to the living room where I’ll at least be more comfortable as I lay myself bare, and not in a fun way.
Sitting in one of the large chairs by the fireplace, I kick off my shoes—suddenly overwhelmed by their confines—and wrap a blanket around my shoulders. The tinkling of glassware and metal is sharp, every sound, every movement grating as Hawthorne makes our drinks. I sink into the chair more, trying to grasp at my scattered thoughts. The night that caused this ripple effect in our lives has haunted me for so long; it’s time to bring it out of the shadows.
“Let me know if this is okay.” He passes me the fizzing beverage. We both ignore the way the ice rattles when I grab it.
I don’t hesitate, tossing a large swig back. The earthy taste of gin collides with lemon juice as the drink blossoms tart and acidic on my tongue. I regret that decision instantly.
“Based on the fact that youwinced, I’m going to guess not,” he jokes, holding his hand out. “I’ll make you something else.
I used to love a Tom Collins, but after drinking too many nights drowning my sorrows about the shit lot I’ve been dealt, they’ve never been the same. Maybe this is a chance to associate a new memory with them, though. “It’s okay. The drink doesn’t matter, just the alcohol content. Thanks for the extra shot, by the way.”
He nods, then starts up the fireplace before taking a seat in the chair across from me. “I’m ready. Tell me.” There’s no trace of that beautiful smile of his when he looks up at me. Instead, dread casts a shadow over his face.
Buying myself a few more seconds, I take a long drink, hissing between my teeth at the sharpness of it. “Do you remember the night we played light as a feather?”
“Not something I could ever forget.” His eyes flick upward toward the streak of white that runs through his otherwise dark hair—a physical reminder that what happened to us was real.
“He wasn’t going to let you go.”
“But that’s why you made the deal, right? You wouldn’t banish him if he let me live…”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“What are you talking about?” Hawthorne sits up straighter, all of his attention on me.
“I lied.” My words are unsteady as they tangle with the onslaught of emotions that rise within me at the memory. Tossing back a large gulp of my drink, I buy myself time to find the gumption necessary to be honest, to finally spill my secret. “You have to understand that there was no other way. I was willing to do anything to save your life.”
