Page 41 of Darkest Obsession

I always want to talk about daddy. It’s the only way I can feel like he’s here with me, if I tell the stories about my big Haitian daddy and his cooking, his gentle spirit, his loud laughter and the way he held onto us kids so fucking hard because he’d already lost one daughter and he couldn’t bear to lose another.

“Yeah.”

Our feet move together in the water. We have to keep fluttering so we don’t freeze. I was scared to put my feet in the water at first, but he promised that nothing would drag me into the deep. I don’t even mind the cold after a few minutes. I put my head on his shoulder and I tell him about the first time daddy took us to an amusement park when the twins were finally tall enough to get on the rides. We even got our mom to try a roller coaster with us. She didn’t realize what she was in for and her wig went flying. We never saw that damned wig again. He laughs at all the right parts in my story and he squeezes my hand, running his fingers along the inside of my palms. I feel better when I’m done and he leans over to kiss my cheek.

“Was that too much?” He whispers. His voice is so deep.

I shake my head. I don’t want to lose myself with him, but I want more than just a little kiss. Just because I’m not ready for sex doesn’t mean I don’t have… desires. I grab the lapels of his shirt and pull him back in for another kiss. Does that answer your question?

I part his lips with mine and slide my tongue into his mouth first. I’ve never moved us to tongue kissing on my own first. He lets me kiss him and then I touch his cheek, because I can’t stop myself. He shudders and moves closer to me. I’m not cold anymore. I rake my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. My heart races. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

He pulls away from me and kisses my neck before he sighs. He looks away when he’s going to say something I won’t like.

“I should stay away from you.”

“Nobody knows about us,” I reassure him. Then, I feel stupid and naïve for saying that. Nobody knowing doesn’t make this right. He runs his thumb over my palm, making pulling away from him even harder.

“Us? What are we, Sylvia?”

I look down at his pale hand wrapped around mine and my throat tightens. How the hell did I end up here? I’m the girl who asks her crush ‘what are we’, only to get shot down. I’m never the one who wants to slow things down.

“We’re friends.”

“Hm,” he murmurs. “Do we kiss like friends?”

“Don’t.”

“Okay,” he whispers. “I just want to kiss you.”

I press my fingers to his lips as he leans close to me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I just told him all about daddy, but he hasn’t said a word about his mom. I know he misses her. It sucks that this horrible thing had to bring us together, but at least we finally have someone at this school to talk to about this stuff.

“What?” He murmurs, kissing my finger as I hold it to his lips.

“Your mom,” he whispers. “Do you miss her today too?”

He shrugs. “She would hate the person I’ve become. But yeah, I miss her.”

“You don’t know that she would hate who you’ve become.”

“I’ve done horrible things. I’ve been cruel. I’ve been selfish. I don’t deserve a girl at all. I don’t deserve a girl like you.”

He pushes my hair out of my face, lingering on one of the coils. He loves teasing and playing with my hair, always finding ways to sneak around my strict no-touching-my-natural-hair-like-that rules.

“Stop,” I tell him. “You’re too dramatic.”

“I’m far too many things at once.”

He kisses my cheek again. “She loved me, Sylvia. She was the only person who ever did, no matter how many times I messed up. Will anyone ever love you the way your mum did? I don’t think it’s possible.”

Love. We’re just friends. This might be fun and exciting, but it’s infatuation, not love. He’s not the type of guy I can fall in love with. He isn’t Haitian. I’ve never seen him dance, but I’m guessing he doesn’t have any rhythm. I like him. I like his weird white boy outfits with the dress shirts and the corduroys all the time, but how could I bring him home to Denise and Teresa?

He’s not like Crispin. My sister’s fiancé is perfect.

My hound isn’t perfect. He’s not good for me and I know that. There are dozens of reasons that we can’t be together. Before I can kiss him again, or ask him more questions about growing up, my phone buzzes.

“Want to answer?” he murmurs.

I don’t, but the phone call is from Clover. I have to answer. I don’t want anyone finding out how I’ve been spending my evenings. Not yet, at least. Not until I know what the hell this weirdness is. I just wish I could ask Amina… but I can’t.