Page 35 of Little Bird
I close the door in her face, and I have to admit I feel a slight thrill of satisfaction at it.
I don’t wait to see whether she leaves the porch immediately or not. Gabe and Taryn—or at least Taryn—were up decorating for hours, and I want to see what they did with the great room. I walk quickly through the kitchen and into the space reserved for things like the fireplace and library and then stop, surprised.
The place looks completely changed. Garland winds along the beams above me, dripping with holly and mistletoe, and the tree takes up an entire corner of the room. It’s festooned in tinsel, lights, and decorations that I haven’t seen in years, and the floor is covered with Christmas rugs I didn’t even know we had. Stockings hang on the mantle over the fireplace, bells, holly boughs, and more decorations cover the walls, and there near the library is the stuffed reindeer.
I don’t even remember where that thing came from. It should be morbid, a dead creature standing in our living room, but someone wound tiny lights around its antlers and gave it a necklace of holly, and I swear to God it looks like it’s actually fucking smiling. A creature that was waiting for someone to notice it and bring it back out, who has now received the love it always wanted.
That love didn’t come from me or Gabe, that’s for sure.
It’s Taryn that did this.
She came into the room and changed everything, and I’m not only talking about the reindeer. And for the first time, I realize what it is that bothers me so much about Gabby. She’s perfectly fine, but fine isn’t good enough.
She’s not family. She’s just a paper stand-in for what Gabe and I are actually missing.
I look around the place, feeling like I’m looking at someone else’s house, but stop when I get to the couch. It’s covered in Christmas blankets and pillows, and there, snuggled in amongst them, is a tiny figure. Tousled blonde hair, cheeks flushed with sleep, and a Santa Claus hat on her head.
She does still sleep with her mouth slightly open.
And seeing her here, dead asleep amongst the Christmas things like she came from the same boxes as the decorations—like she was packed in a box, just waiting to be discovered and brought back to life—hits me like an arrow right to the heart. I put my hand to my chest, trying to contain the sudden emotion there, but it’s no good. Something is inside me, expanding at a rate too quick to manage, and I feel like I’m going to explode.
I’m having some sort of Christmas-flavored stroke, and Taryn is the one who started it.
I don’t think it’s just her, though. It’s the fact that I haven’t seen these decorations in years, or even had the heart to remember that Christmas is here. It’s the pancakes in the morning and the sudden presence of a woman in the house again.
This woman in particular.
This woman who called me in the middle of the night for help, but won’t tell me what’s wrong, and has instead come here and immediately started trying to take care of me and my son.
“You’ve gone insane,” I tell myself casually. “This isn’t a stroke. You’re losing your fucking mind.”
Still, I wander over to the couch, keeping my steps as quiet as possible, and stare down at the girl who’s behind it all. Taryn was full of rainbows and sunshine when she was here before. If her mother was a tornado, Taryn was the gentle spring breeze blowing dandelions across your cheeks. Laughter and shooting stars and gentle April drizzle.
This time, she’s blown into my life like a hurricane, with a power she didn’t have before. But she’s still the little girl I once knew. The one who gave me butterfly kisses and asked me again and again to let her have a horse. My hand drops to the bracelet I never take off, and I finger the charm there. Taryn gave it to me her first Christmas here, blushing shyly at the idea of giving me a bracelet with a star talisman on it, but saying she bought it with her own money, and she hoped I liked it.
I put it on that day and never took it off, and now, for the first time, I wonder what that means.
I wonder why she’s back, and what she needs from us.
And then, without another thought, I stoop and slide my hands under her, lifting her gently up into my arms. She can’t sleep down here. It’s not safe to leave the fire burning all night, and she’ll freeze, even with all those blankets on her. She needs her bed and the warmth of a small room, or she’ll get sick. I lift her to my chest and clutch her tightly against me, remembering how many times I carried her like this. I put my nose to her hair without intending to, and breathe her in.
Christ, she smells just like she used to. A mix of warmth and powder and something spicy I’ve never been able to identify.
And the familiarity of her, the fact that she’s here when she should have gone to her mother, sends another bolt through my heart and down into my dick. I arch my back at the sudden sensation, surprised, and it rouses her enough that she turns her face into my neck and breathes in suddenly.
“Gunner?” she asks, her voice hazy and full of sleep.
And fuck me, am I in trouble.
“Sleep, Little Bird,” I say gently.
She settles in my arms, her breath soft and warm against my neck, and I turn toward the stairs to take her to bed, reminding myself again and again that this is my stepdaughter, and she’s not here for me. That I can’t touch her and shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
Because she’s like a stream of water washing only me, if that water was more like hot chocolate. She’s sweet and strong and warm and comforting, and the moment I let myself take a sip, I know I won’t be able to stop drinking.
Which is why I can’t do it.
I somehow manage to get to her room without having another stroke or a heart attack and lay her down in her own bed. There. Safe and settled and secure, and right where she should be. I bend down, though, and pull her hair away from her face, spreading it across the pillow, the silky strands running through my fingers like water and her scent surrounding her like an aura. Then I pull the covers up, right to her chin. She would be more comfortable if she was in her pajamas, but I won’t even consider changing her. Still, I brush the pad of my finger across her cheekbone, checking to make sure she’s not too cold.
