Page 42 of The Wrong Brother

I roll onto my side so I can watch him walk out of the room. I have no shame. His body is bonkers. I hear him turn the dryer on and then he comes back, taking the bedding from the floor and going back out. He comes back again a minute later with a neat stack of linens from my hall closet. I hop up, pulling off the bottom sheet and pillowcases. I take them out and add them to the washer, starting the load, and go back to my room to find my…whatever he is, my Rafferty, smoothing the sheets down. He climbs back onto the bed, still gloriously nude, and props up on his side. I slide in front of him, my knee between his legs, my arm over his side, my body pressed into his. I rest my head on his bicep, in the perfect position to continue kissing him.

I don’t want to worry about anything or overthink but I can’t seem to stop myself.

“What do we do now?”

“Whatever we want. More of this, I hope. Read books and talk about them. Watch shows. Eat food. More of this.” He pauses to press his lips to mine. “For sure more of this.”

“Have we ruined our friendship?”

He brushes my hair back off of my shoulder, his fingertips warm and firm on my jaw. His kiss is sensual, sending sparks down my body.

“Does it feel ruined to you?” I shake my head slightly as we kiss, pure contentment spreading over me. “I’d never let anything hurt you, Catherine.”

25

rafferty

Catherine is dozing against me, the afternoon sunlight making her literally radiant. Her snuggles are on level with her hugs. There aren’t words to describe how I’m feeling right now, although Catherine’s usage of transcendental was pretty on point. Everything about her does it for me. Always has. The thing that did me in though? The moment that had my heart in a vice grip, leaving every part of me solely in her possession? That fucking hand. We were as close as we could physically be. Every movement, every sound could be attributed to us as one body. And then she slid her hand down my arm, lacing our fingers together. It was everything I could ever want. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to adequately explain to her what that moment meant to me.

She’s holding my hand even now, her fingers loosely woven between mine on her ribcage. The way she makes me feel is addictive. It’s also terrifying. We have a month until that party. That’s a lot of time for me to fuck things up; it’s a lot of time for her to realize she can do much better than me. Catherine is beautiful, poised, and successful. If I were a better person I’d admit that the best thing for her would be for me to get her through this party and then step away so she has the chance to find someone worthy of her. I can’t even think about that, though. I’m too selfish.

I consider napping too but I don’t want to miss a single second of having Catherine naked and in my arms. This all feels too tenuous. I watch her sleeping, studying the soft curves of her side, the shadowed angle of her collarbone, the glow of the sun on her golden hair. If I were painting how this feels, how would I express it? What does golden hour contentment look like? I have an idea, like an itch that I can’t quite reach. I slip from the bed, pull on a pair of shorts and jog down to the parking lot to grab my easel and a canvas from the trunk of my car.

Catherine hasn’t moved when I tiptoe back in. I set up near the doorway. The light is streaming in from the window and her back is to me. I sketch the basic shapes, blocking it out in my mind then paint feverishly, desperate to get it down before it slips away. There’s the dip of waist and swell of hips. The long curve of leg. Peaches and pinks, skin in sunlight. The shadows of spine and shoulder blade, hinting at her perfect ass. A graceful sliver of neck under waves of shimmering gold. Pooling sheets and all around the warmth of afternoon sunshine. A peek of blue sky. I don’t need to look at Catherine or her surroundings. She’s imprinted in my mind’s eye. I’m close to the canvas, blending highlights and surveying shadows critically. Is the feeling right? I’m leaning back, turning my head from side to side, wrestling with whether I’m done or if it’s missing something. Warm hands slide over my shoulders to wrap around me.

“Is that me?” I nod, still unsure how I feel about it. Is it done? “It feels…warm. Comforting.”

I sigh. That’s it. It’s done. I put my brush down and stand up, stretching my back out. Catherine slipped on some kind of tank dress. She’s adorable. I clean my brushes and wash my hands while she watches, asking questions about the process. That finished, I stretch out on the couch. Catherine climbs into my lap and wraps my arms around her, stretching out against me. She’s stroking my arms, studying my tattoos, and giving me goosebumps.

“This is some serious arm porn, Raff. Maybe these guys are my favorite part of your body. Maybe. Hey,” she tips her head back to make eye contact, “speaking of strong arms, do you still paddle?”

My swallow sounds loud in my own ears.

“Uh, no.”

“Why? I thought you loved it and then you stopped. I always wondered why but once I tried to ask and Mom snapped at me. She rarely lost her temper so when she got mad and told me to mind my own business I never brought it up again.”

I clear my throat. I wish this subject could have been avoided. “I, uh, got suspended from the team sophomore year. By the time I was eligible again I was… It wasn’t an option anymore.”

“You got suspended? I don’t remember that. What happened?” She’s turned completely to look at me. There’s no hiding from that gaze.

“It was after we talked. On the stairs that one time.”

“Ok.” She looks like she’s waiting for me to continue. I was hoping that was going to be enough. I sigh, embarrassed.

“I got into a fight. Well, I picked a fight. With Makani.”

“Oh.OH!” There’s the understanding I didn’t want her to have. “You’re the one that beat the shit out of him my junior year?” I nod. “And you couldn’t paddle because of it?” I nod again. She hugs me, squeezing hard. “You lost paddling because of me?”

“He made you cry. I confronted him and he made it worse. I punched him, a lot, and I don’t regret it.”

“That can’t be it. I feel like you’re hiding things from me or I’m missing something obvious. Either way, I don’t like it. I’ve always been able to trust you to be honest.”

I sigh, keeping her against my chest. I don’t want to look into her eyes while I talk. I’ve never talked to anyone about this, outside of a therapist. The details have always been my burden alone.

“Paddling was supposed to be my ticket out. I had the height, there was a plan to work on the strength, and I was good at it. My parents never outright pushed me to be like Griffin but the weight of his accomplishments—the grades, the scholarships, who he is naturally—was always there. And I never measured up. Art was the only thing I ever loved, but it never felt like an option. It was too unreliable. Too frivolous. I saw how my parents struggled, to stay here.” I tip my head back against the cushion, keeping my eyes on the ceiling.

“I heard them talking when they thought we couldn’t hear, about how they wouldn’t have to work so hard if we lived somewhere else—how life would be easier on the mainland. But I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. This is home. I don’t want to go to the desert because houses are cheaper and groceries don’t cost as much or spoil so quickly. If Hawai‘i was what I wanted, then I had to give up art. At least professionally. I was going to paddle, get a scholarship, work hard on a team at whatever school wanted me and study for a degree in exercise science. I thought the classes on anatomy would ultimately help my painting and maybe I’d be able to take some art classes on the side.”

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