“Be home by ten, Della,” I said softly.
She looked over her shoulder with blonde hair cascading with a single blue ribbon glittering amongst the gold. “I will.” She blew me a kiss before giggling at something the boy said in her ear.
Sweet sixteen.
Just like my original discomfort and desire to skip over such a birthday, my resolution solidified with another memory of my own sweet sixteen.
Cassie had said I deserved something special.
I’d had my first blow job in the shadows of a stable.
Now, Della was sixteen and laughing with a boy I wanted to punch in the goddamn face.
I couldn’t stop whatever she would or would not do.
All I could do was celebrate my twenty-six birthday on my own.
I paid for our uneatened burgers.
I returned home to an empty apartment.
And I sat and watched the clock strike nine then ten then eleven and still Della didn’t come home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
REN
* * * * * *
2016
A FEW WEEKS later, Della asked me the dreaded question.
The one I’d been expecting ever since I’d seen her happiness hanging with the group of kids from school on our birthday.
“Ren?”
I looked up from where I was trying to yank a splinter from my thumb. The bastard had gone in deep, and I’d left it for too long, ensuring a red infection and minor swelling. It was a fence’s fault, catching me as I’d corralled the cows into the yard for milking. “Yeah?” I asked, distracted with a needle and tweezers.
Her bare feet appeared beneath my vision where I sat hunched at the dinged-up kitchen table. “It can wait. Do you need help?”
I smiled at her tangled hair from a long day and the pyjamas with a repeating decal of Cupid’s arrows and hearts all over her arms and legs. Having her stand there ready for bed and eyes hooded with tiredness, I could almost forget she was slipping further from my reach.
Strange how you could miss someone when they were apart of everything you did.
Before I could reply, she stole the needle, pulled up the only other chair, and yanked my hand toward her.
“Careful,” I warned as she prodded me with the sharp tip.
“I have to break a few layers of skin. You left it too long. It’s grown over.”
I groaned. “Great.”
“Hold still.” She bent over me, her hair obscuring her face and tickling the tops of my jean-covered thighs. I hadn’t had a shower from work, and the dust and filth from working cows all day dirtied her cleanliness.
Not that she cared as she bent closer and diligently dug into my thumb.
I flinched occasionally, but somehow, she managed not to hurt me even though a bead of blood kept welling, causing her to wipe it away with her own finger, continuing her splinter hunt.
She needed a napkin or something to prevent my blood from staining her fingers, but I daren’t stop her. I might not let her resume stabbing me otherwise.
The scent of vanilla rose from her hair, hinting she’d bought a different shampoo than her usual. She still smelled of the girl I’d known for sixteen years, but there was a new smell, too.
Something that made my heart chug harder the longer she huddled close.
She was so real, so fragile, so beautiful.
My fingers begged to be allowed to run through her hair, to bring her close, to hold her because I missed her so goddamn much.
As she tended to my wound, a yearning gathered that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
I missed being touched.
I missed being kissed.
I missed affection that didn’t come with a price of losing my soul.
By the time she finally dislodged the splinter, I struggled to breathe, and my thoughts were full of killing rabbits and tractor mechanics—anything to keep my body in check and appropriate boundaries in place.
I told myself it was because I hadn’t been close to anyone in so long, all the while truth danced behind my lies.
I was waking up; seeing things I didn’t want to see. Feeling things I definitely didn’t want to feel.
She blew curls from her eyes as she planted the tweezers on the table with an accomplished flourish. “There you are. It’s out.” Scooting up, she darted down the small corridor to the bathroom and came back with some antiseptic cream from the chipped-glass medicine cabinet.
She stole my hand again, and with soft, capable fingers, spread some of the cream over the puncture she’d caused, then wrapped my thumb in a Band Aid.
She patted my knuckles like a good nurse and smiled. “Well, you’ll survive. That’s the good news. The bad news is you might lose the thumb.”
“Ha-ha.” I chuckled. “Hope I don’t. Can’t afford to lose another finger.”
Her gaze fell to my missing pinkie, and some of her playfulness faded.
Standing quickly, I did my best not to scatter pieces of silage and grain from feeding the cows onto the floor.