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He snatches my hand, crushing my fingers in a vise. I wince, and he lets go. The viciousness of his grip, the stress pulsing inside him—is he even aware of it?
I put my free hand on top of his, gently brushing it over his tense knuckles.Do you want me to stop asking?
Rex hisses, then moans, like he’s never felt a comforting touch before.
His eyes close, then flutter open, those pupils slowly expanding.
“You aren’t alone anymore,” I whisper.
A strangled breath snakes past his lips, like I ripped it from him. He blinks, and finally, one lone tear slides down his face.
The sight of it carves my heart in half.
“Will you tell me about a memory that stayed with you?” I slowly wipe his tear away.
He shuts his eyes again and leans back in the recliner. I pull back to give him more space, but he stops me with his hand.
This time, his touch is gentle, and I imagine this is how he’d be in the bedroom—a tempest wreaking havoc on your body, followed by careful worship and soulful kisses.
If you were lucky to see that side of him.
“I found my calling when I was six,” he begins, his voice raw.
His thumb traces sensuous circles on the back of my hand and the tingles spark on my skin like fireflies on a warm summer night.
“It was at Mom’s funeral…”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Age Six, Thirty-One Years Ago
I can’t stop fidgeting.
My dress shirt is rough on my skin as I stare at the big mirror inside the boys’ room at the church. I’m waiting while Ryland uses the bathroom and Maxwell washes his hands. Dad has Ethan and baby Lana in the pews. Ethan won’t stop crying and Dad won’t speak. Lana sleeps all day. Lucky her.
I stare at the mirror again.
I look like a penguin in my black suit and white shirt.
A sad penguin.
I never write about penguins in my stories. They can only waddle around and swim. They are cute and cuddly. They don’t scare away monsters like Kazoo the T-Rex does. I hug the fuzzy green dinosaur closer to my chest and sniff it.
It smells like Mom—it’s faint, but still there. She hugged it the night before she died.
Mom loved penguins more than T-Rexes. She was supposed to take me to the Central Park Zoo to see them next week.
I hiccup, the itch on my arm worsening. A beach ball sized lump is stuck in my throat.
We won’t go to the zoo togetherever again.
She won’t be able to wear her favorite penguin apron, cook in the kitchen while I stand on the big stool next to her, helping her with tomatoes, carrots, as she cooks her beef ragu pasta and stew.
She’d listen to my stories—dragons who hated spinach, fairies who turned broccoli into big trees so little kids didn’t have to eat them.
It’s so itchy. My skin is on fire.
Darting a glance at Maxwell, I find him huddled under the window, reading a scrap of paper. He’s supposed to give a speech at the funeral. He said it was his duty as the oldest Anderson son.
