I nod and can’t help the evil smile that creeps along my lips and then turns into laughter. Pike hesitates before allowing his smile to appear, and when I see it, I roll onto my back as my laughter grows louder. Clutching my belly, I feel deranged, like somehow I’m on top of the world, celebrating our devilish game, and basking in the glory of my growing black eye.
The past few years have been spent bonding a marriage to look like nothing other than a happy couple who is completely devoted and in love with one another. It seemed as if getting to this point of destruction would never come, but here it is in the grasp of our fingertips. And now the emotions of stress, loneliness, doubt, and determination come to fruition as they spill out of me in this crazy display of morbid laughter.
When we start to calm down and compose ourselves, I roll over to face Pike, asking, “Am I crazy?”
“Aren’t we all a little crazy?”
Smiling, I say, “A simple no would suffice.”
“No.”
I straighten my expression, and when Pike turns his head to look at me, I remind him, “I love you.”
“I know you do.”
“No,” I say. “You’ve never wavered on me. After all these years, you’ve always been my constant, from the moment we met when I was eight years old. You’re the best brother anyone could ever have, and I really love you.”
Turning on his side, his fingers feather along my swollen cheekbone as he leans in and kisses me, running his tongue along my bottom lip. I pull him in closer, tangling my legs with his as he shifts on top of me. We begin to undress each other, and I’m ready to take what only Pike has been able to give me. Moving my naked body with his, I reach down to grab his hardened dick and then guide it inside of me. And finally, I’m able to escape from everything around me.
WAKING UP IN my bed the next morning, the side of my face throbs in heated rhythm with my heartbeat. I haven’t put ice on it to help with the swelling because I need it to look as bad as possible. I know Pike felt like shit last night after hitting me the way he did—the way he had to—but I tried assuring him that I’m okay.
As I walk across the room and into the bathroom, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Pike was right, there’s a nasty black and blue bruise around my eye and along the crest of my cheek. I reach up to touch the swollen flesh and wince. The bruise is tender and the side of my face looks horrific.
It’s perfect.
I go ahead and take a quick shower and get dressed, slipping on a pair of jeans and a long cashmere sweater, dabbing on just a light touch of powder and lipgloss. The chime of my phone comes as I expected with Declan’s text.
Miss you.
I type my response.
Miss you too.
Come to my place. I need to touch you.
My devious smile grows while I type out my next text.
I can’t. I’m not feeling well.
You okay?
Just sick.
I’ll come pick you up and bring you here.
He responds just as I predicted, so I continue to goad him to me with my replies.
Thanks, but I’m just going to stay here today.
You avoiding me?
No. I just don’t feel good.
Then let me take care of you.
As I’m typing out my next text, the phone begins ringing in my hand, displaying Declan’s name on the screen.
“Why are you calling me?” I ask when I answer.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not. I told you; I’m not feeling well.”
“So instead of lying in your bed, lie in my bed. I’m coming to pick you up. Pack a bag,” he insists in a calm tone, but I resist, telling him, “Declan, no.”
He lets go of a sigh and then questions, “What’s going on?”
I pause, and with an uneven voice, lacking confidence, I murmur, “Nothing. Just . . . just nothing.”
“You’re lying to me.”
“Declan, please.”
“I’m on my way,” he snaps, hanging up before I can respond.
He’ll be here shortly, and I’ve no time to waste getting excited. I have to look the part, so I focus my attention on the one thing that always destroys me—my dad. I sit on one of the couches in the living room, stare out at the grey, snow-filled day, and let my mind drift to him, to my childhood, to everything that hurts me. I think about pink daisies, and the feel of my father’s whiskers poking me with his kisses. And then I think about the first time I went to his grave, coming face to face with the reality that he was really dead.
After a while, I’m not even thinking about Declan. I’m solely consumed with pain and sadness as I cry into my hands. My throat knots as the misery takes over, but the jerk of reality comes when the house phone rings, and I know Declan is here.
“Hello?” I say when I answer the call.
“Mrs. Vanderwal, this is Manuel. I have a Mr. McKinnon here to see you.”
“Um, yes. Go ahead and send him up, please.”
“Will do. Good day, miss.”
I hang up the phone as a few more tears seep out, and I let them linger on my skin as I wait for the knock, and when it comes, I look at my splotchy face, bloodshot eyes, and bruises in the hallway mirror before walking over, ducking my head down, and slowly inching the door open, saying, “Declan, you shouldn’t be here.”
“Let me in, Nina.”