Page 51 of The Twins

On some days, I sleep there alone. The men understand that I occasionally require my privacy. They don’t force me to spend the night in their rooms, and I’m grateful for that.

My therapist says that I should be careful. There are niceties that should be a standard. Expressing gratitude is fine, but I should take certain behavior for granted.

The fact that they don’t abuse me, for example.

Abuse is abnormal.

I shouldn’t feel grateful for the absence of abuse. I should make sure that I don’t dive back into such a situation.

“Daddy is exhausted,” Charles jokes. A hot breeze enters the master bedroom, and he scoops me up for a kiss. “Let’s order pizza. I’ll order ten.”

I nod, slightly disappointed that he won’t cook for us today. He coons, “You want to eat my food?”

I nod once again, a pout covering my face.

“You’re such a good girl,” Charles says.

“It’s fine. You’ll cook for us when you’ve slept the night through,” I tell him, and he kisses me again. He had a long and strenuous night. He tries to sleep over the day, but he can’t sleep when I’m at work.

Unless I’m at home with one of them or in my room, my men don’t rest well.

“If you ask for it, I’ll do it,” he states.

Selfish is something I used to be. I don’t ask him to cook. We climb down the stairs to our living room lounge. While I click on Netflix to watch one of the shows we’ve started on Charles’ account, Charles orders. He knows what the twins like.

We’re a family.

We’ve built a glass house around us, and I hope that it’s as strong as our bonds.

I curl into Charles after he orders on his phone.

The show begins. We haven’t let the blinders down, and the final strays of sun peek inside, forming lines on my skin.

After the opening credits roll, a sex scene opens the show. Charles and I watch it when we need to cool down, to relax after a demanding day.

Two boys kiss on the show, touching each other. They look in love, and they look happy.

I peer up at Charles through my lashes. He looks over and beyond the television, fixating on something I don’t understand.

“They’re hot,” I blurt out, blushing. “Vegas made me watch gay porn once. It was fun.”

“Gay as in a man with another man?” Charles gasps.

“Yes, silly.” I nudge at him from the side.

“Is he trying to lure you away from us?” Charles asks, cursing in his mother tongue under his breath. I have heard those words often. They accompanied me in my worst moments. They’re dark and nasty, but when Charles says them, he peels off those layers of disgust and terror for me. “The only cocks a good girl sees are those of her partners.”

“I second that,” Vegas jokingly calls from the hallway.

They’re home. I didn’t hear them come in.

My heart throbs inside of my chest, pounding with pain for my men and their pasts.

I slide out of Charles’ hold, and he pauses the Netflix show we were watching. I rush into Vegas’ arms, inhaling his scent. He’s sweaty, and he smells like anguish. I touch his pecks, his stomach. I rub his lower back. He smooths into my embrace, whispering my name. Sugar puff. Sugar puff. Sugar puff.

“I don’t hate you,” I whisper to him.

“I’m sorry I hid from you.”

---