Though he didn’t doubt Laurel had been up for it, even enjoyed it… He shouldn’t have gone there. His kink was barbaric, the sex he liked best cruel and crass, but he’d never done that before—let his true emotions feed his fantasies. It felt unmistakably disturbing in the wake of the orgasm. Shame settled around him like a bad odor, one he’d not caught a whiff of in ages.
It was tempting to blame the alcohol, but too easy. Too cowardly. It was all on him. No matter how badly he’d needed the relief of sex, he shouldn’t have taken things there, not while he’d been upset with her. It didn’t matter that she’d welcomed it, or that she’d not used their safe word, or that she’d come. What mattered was how different it had felt, and if he’d picked up on that, there was no doubt she had as well. Normally when they got rough he wouldn’t hesitate to slap her ass or her thighs, call her a bitch or a cunt or any other mean thing, but something had held him back. He’d known it would’ve been wrong, feeling the way he had. That should’ve been warning enough. Even with consent, even with a history as intimate as theirs, there were limits within the limits. He’d stopped short of the harshest ones, but it didn’t make him feel any more justified now that his sweat and come had cooled.
He’d brought actual anger into bed with them. He felt actual anger toward her still, and laying here stewing in it with her body so close felt as toxic as the guilt.
He slipped from the covers and found his jeans and sweater in the dark, got his boots laced in the strips of light slipping in between the window blinds. He scrawled a note by the glow of the microwave clock. On the roof. Need to think. He set it atop his pillow, hoping she wouldn’t find occasion to read it, or to discover he’d left her.
He locked up and headed for the stairwell, hiked all the way up until the steps went from carpeted concrete to clanging metal, ending at the heavy door that led out onto the roof. It was never locked, though tonight it was ajar to boot. He pushed it out, welcomed a cool breeze on his face.
It smelled like spring. Like spring and…menthols. He glanced upwind, to the frayed folding lawn chair propped at the building’s far corner. A tumble of wavy auburn hair moved with the wind, seeming to snatch at the blue smoke drifting in Flynn’s direction. He crossed the roof.
“Heather.”
She whipped around, peering at him over the back of the chair. “Mike, Jesus. You fuckin’ scared me. What’re you doin’ up here so late?”
He sat on the ledge opposite her, planting his elbows on his knees. “Could ask you the same thing.”
“New Year’s resolution—no more smoking indoors. I figure I’ll smoke less if I have to come all the way up here.” She had a glass of wine in one hand, ashed her butt with the other. “Plus the landlord’s been on my ass.”
“You know it’s March, right?”
“It was too cold to start in January.”
He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back a smile. “Good for you.”
“Now you. What’re you up here for?”
“I dunno. Just needed some space.”
“Laurel sleeping over?”
He nodded.
“Get your ass off that ledge. Makes me fucking itchy.”
He moved to sit on the roof itself, back against the short wall.
Heather took a drag, eyes narrowed at him. “You two all right?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“You think?”
“She’s fine. She’s just about over it. You know, the pregnancy and all that.”
“The miscarriage.”
He winced. “Yeah. That.”
“And what about you?”
Flynn shrugged. “I’m glad she’s feeling better.”
“You’re such a lousy fuckin’ liar.”
“It’s true.” He was glad Laurel felt better. He just still felt like shit himself, was all.
She sipped her wine. “For real—why’re you up here, Mike?”
“I dunno. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Is one of you pissed at the other?”
He shrugged again, as good as nodding to someone who knew him as well as his sister did.
“Who?”
“Me. At her. Not pissed, though. Just… Fuck if I know. Annoyed, maybe.”
“About what?”
“Just… I dunno. That she’s over it, and it feels like I’m stuck back where we were two weeks ago. And annoyed because she still has no goddamn idea what she would’ve done about it, if the pregnancy hadn’t ended.”
“Why’s that annoying?”
“Because how the fuck do you not know? How do you lose a baby that way and not realize afterward what you felt about it?”
“Because miscarriage is fuckin’ confusing as shit,” Heather said, and took another long pull off her cigarette. “Take it from me. I had three—two babies I wasn’t ready for and another I really goddamn wanted. You feel everything, no matter what you think you should be feeling. You feel guilty and sad and responsible, every fuckin’ thing.”
“Laurel said she felt relieved.”
“Of course she did. It made the decision for her. I don’t blame her—it’s bound to be a shitty-ass choice to make. So what did you feel?”
“Sad.”
“And relieved?”
“No, not really. Just sad. And a little angry.”
“At Laurel?”
“No, of course not.” And was he actually angry at her now? Not really. What he felt was betrayed, only it wasn’t. He felt left behind. He still felt lost, and she was busy finding normal again. Better than normal, even.