Love is an act.
What we just did. The way our bodies and minds partnered to please each other—to put the other first—was making love. I’m in awe as I lie here beneath her, her body still trembling from aftershocks, my body slack from my release only a moment ago.
The kissing.
The careful attention shown.
The connection.
The words spoken.
The pace.
The quiet assurances.
The rhythm.
The climax.
Every last detail was an act of love.
I’ve never been given this gift.
I’ve never given this gift, not like this.
Which makes me treasure it even more because even though we’re not in love, the transfer of love was so damn real.
I smile at her when she looks at me. “You took my hate and turned it into love.”
She smiles back. “Gladly. You took mine, too, Seamus.” It’s her soft place to land voice.
I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart and initiate an embrace.
We wrap each other up in a tangle of limbs.
The hug lasts hours.
It endures deep sleep and emerges intact on the other side.
“Morning, neighbor.” I know she’s smiling before I open my eyes.
“Morning, neighbor.” I’m smiling, too, until my hangover announces its intention to ruin my day. My stomach is queasy, and my head is ferociously reminding me that it doesn’t like wine.
After I use her bathroom and dress, I sit down on the corner of Faith’s bed. She’s wearing the horrendous BBQ t-shirt again. I stare at the letters when I speak. I stare so hard that after a few seconds they’re not letters any longer. “Miranda took my kids. They’re gone.” My voice is hollow, like my heart.
When she doesn’t say anything, I pry my gaze from the blur of color on her shirt and meet her eyes. They’ve turned to liquid, sliding down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “How?”
“Lies. She’s an evil bitch.”
“What kind of lies? You’re a great dad, Seamus.” Her voice is calm, but the tears are still flowing.
“Apparently, I’m a drug user who’s dating a prosti—” I cut myself off because I can’t say it. I don’t want to drag her into my nightmare.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out before she finishes for me. “Prostitute. She thinks because I’m a stripper, I’m a prostitute.”
I nod. “It’s worse. She’s has signed statements from men who claim they’ve paid for sex. With you.”
The tears are no longer silent. A hiccup sets off a deluge. “I’ve never, Seamus. You have to believe me. It takes everything in me to dance in front of strangers. Everything in me. It’s degrading and makes me feel like an object, rather than a human being. I could never have sex with a stranger.” She squats down in front of me and puts her hands on my knees. She’s looking at me through mascara smeared eyes. “Last night was only the second time I’ve had sex, but it was the only time it mattered. What I gave you last night was special. You have no idea how special. I wouldn’t do that with some random guy.”
I hold her face in my hands. “I know, Faith.” I do know. What happened between us last night was special. “I’m sure she paid people to write the statements. Or, hell, for all I know she wrote them. Like I said, she’s evil.” Faith’s so fragile, so pure; I still can’t erase the image of her topless on a stage from my mind. It doesn’t reconcile with the person I know. “Why do you do it? Strip, I mean. I know you said it’s part of your research, but there has to be more.”
“I need the money.” She sounds a little ashamed and a lot determined.
“Get a roommate,” I challenge.
She looks around the room. “Where are they going to sleep? Not too many roommates like to share a bed, Seamus. This space isn’t exactly conducive to more than one bed.”
I nod. “Move somewhere else and get a roommate?”
She shakes her head. “My lease is almost up, but for now, I need to be here.” She’s adamant.
“Why?”
“Research,” she says simply.
I shake my head at her evasiveness. “Research is not the answer to everything.”
She closes her eyes as if she’s frustrated. “It’s my everything. I’m trying to find my birth mother. I thought maybe I could save some money and pay someone to help me search. I need to figure out who I am.”
I scrub my hands over my face and mutter in agreement, “I need to forget who I am,” before I look at her and say, “And you need to keep searching for your mom. That’s important.”
“You know who you are, Seamus. Don’t forget. You need to fight for him. You need to fight for your kids. Get them back. They belong with you.”
I nod. And then I huff. “It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Get them back.” I huff again and run my hands through my hair. “Short of driving to Seattle and kidnapping them, it feels impossible.” I look at her glare and correct myself, “It’s not impossible. I know that, but it’s daunting, you know? Like searching for your birth mother. Miranda has me by the balls. And she has money. I don’t. That makes the fight that much harder.”