“You grew hair.” I traced the silky hair on his arms. “And a really, really big um . . .”
“A big what, Skye? Let me hear you say it.”
“A really, really big personality.”
“The thing about really, really big ‘personalities’ is that they really, really need a lot of attention. And just so you know, I’m always careful. This is the first time I’ve gone—”
“Sombrero-less?” I laughed. “I know you’d never do anything to put me at risk.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you love me.” There. The words were out and I couldn’t take them back. Let him deny what I’d seen in his eyes, what I knew was the truth.
Damian tensed, as if holding something in check. I held my breath, waiting for the mask to slip back on. My heart was going to break to the murmur of the ocean and the night wind rustling through palm trees. The lump in my throat grew to the size of a giant coconut.
“It’s true,” he said. “I’ve always loved you. Even when I hated you.”
Oh God oh God oh God oh God.
“Loved? Past tense?” I was pushing it, but my heart took a perilous leap.
“Loved. Love. What does it matter?” He pulled me into the cradle of his arms. “Love don’t die.”
“Are you feeding me one of your movie lines, Damian?”
“It’s a song.” He laughed. “My tastes have expanded.” His mouth covered my nipple, sending a warm shiver through me.
“Wait.” I pulled his head back up. “There’s something you should know.”
“I know.” His hands skimmed my waist possessively. “You love me, too.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Skye.” He smiled. “You unleashed a fucking strawberry storm on me.”
Damian reattached the mosquito net over the bed and we stood back, surveying my handiwork.
“She can’t cook, but she can sew,” he said.
“Damn right, I can sew. I learned from the best.”
“So stitching all those flowers onto MaMaLu’s scarves paid off?”
“It’s called embroidery, and yes. She taught me well.”
“I don’t know.” Damian tugged at the patched up mesh. “I think we need to put it to the test.”
“Are you suggesting an afternoon romp, because—”
I didn’t get too far. Damian had me under the netting before I could protest. Not that I would. Or could. Because Damian in love was a thing of beauty—intoxicating, addictive, demanding, attentive, and always, always hungry.
Days passed like that, a whirling dance of sensation and passion and discovery. Nights too. I started taking the birth control pills that were still in the handbag that Damian had stashed away. I’d missed a couple of weeks, but it couldn’t be helped.
Every morning, Damian went to pick mangoes for me, with strict instructions to not cook while he was gone. I made the bed, returning MaMaLu’s Lucky Strike box back under his pillow. Sometimes I sat with it, thumbing through the contents, trying to catch a whiff of her, but all I smelled was stale tobacco.
When Damian returned, we would sit on the verandah and have breakfast. We sat on the same chair, with me on his lap, although there were three others that were just as comfortable. I played with his hair. He let me, even though we both knew he hated it. He put sand in my belly button. I let him, even though I hated it. But that’s what made it special, allowing each other those small, personal liberties that only come with true intimacy.