Delane rolls her eyes. “That’s so corny.”
I shrug. “I love corn.” Then I leave, hoping Delane has a talk with Miller about life. Younger than both Miller and Beau, Delane has a real view of life that often makes me feel young at forty-two. She’s been through some shit, and she’s strong as hell for it.
Miller could learn a thing or two from her.
* * *
I pickedGoldie up at her place above the deli, and even though I thought the smell of sourdough baguette was hot, she had a different opinion.
One, I got to hear about the entire drive to my folks.
“It’s like pot. Seriously. The smell just stays in my hair, and I walk around all day dreaming of a baguette. It’s… seriously brutal.”
I eye her across the dark cab, one hand on the steering wheel, the other right where it needs to be–draped over her leg, pushing up her skirt as I stroke the soft inside of her inner thigh.
Never expected to learn shit about myself at forty-two, going on forty-three. And now that I’m all…in love… I’m wondering why I’m not on cloud nine.
I mean, I am, but I don’t know. I let go of the wheel as I shift into park, feeding my fingers through my beard in thought.
“Hey,” Goldie says softly, closing her legs so that her thigh brushes the back of my hand. My gaze goes to her. She’s fuckin’ beautiful, and the fact that she lets me fuck that waxed, sweet pussy and put my filthy hands all over her–I know I need to get a ring on that finger. I feel it in my bones.
“I left you open, and you didn’t take the shot,” she says, stroking up my forearm as she talks. “Dreaming of a baguette,” she repeats. “Hello?” With her other hand, she grabs her crotch over her skirt and says, using a husky voice, “I got a baguette for you.”
Fuckin’ hell. It ain’t like me to burst out laughing; the last time I did it, I think, was at the cabin with her, in fact. And with everything going through my mind tonight after talking to Miller, I’m glad she got me laughing.
After our mutual laughter wanes, I stare out the windshield and watch the flakes of snow that swim around outside. “I’m wondering if not telling my parents the truth about Meredith has been a mistake.” I look at her, my heart flexing when I see how focused she is on me.
Her supportive strokes up my forearms with her lean, soft fingers do everything right. “They deserve to know the truth, and at the time, I thought they couldn’t handle it. But now, even though I know it would hurt them to know, I wonder… who I am to decide who gets to know what?” I shove a hand through my hair, which is down and stringy from my time in and out of the snow today.
“Well,” she starts slowly, now linking our fingers together between her legs. Despite the fact we’re right near her pussy, it’s not sexual at all. But goddamn I feel so close to her right now. “I think if we talk about the benefits of telling them the truth and contrast those with the downside of them knowing, maybe we can figure it out.” She squeezes my hand. “Together.”
I nod and swallow the knot of confusing emotion. “Pro,” I start without preamble. “I would no longer be gatekeeping the truth. They would have all the facts, and there would be no secrets.”
Goldie chews the inside of her lip as I stare at her, thinking through the next pro. But I get stuck because, what really is a pro about this? Getting guilt off my shoulders seems to be what it all boils down to. Me. Being fuckin’ selfish.
“There’s no more pros. The only reason to tell them is not to feel shitty about not having told them,” I say, my voice rising in frustration. I’ve had this thought frequently throughout the years—telling them what really happened. But I’ve never had the balls to really face it.
“What’s a con?” I ask out loud, Goldie still emotionally supporting me in silence, holding my hand with one and stroking my arm with the other.
I face her. I swallow a thick lump of sadness. “It will destroy them.”
A tear breaks past her lashes and glissades down her cheek, but she speaks calmly. “If the weight of the truth is too heavy, that doesn’t mean it’s because you haven’t told them.”
I nod, breathless, trapped in a weird place between agony and heaven. Discussing my sweet kid sister with this incredibly complex and insanely smart woman I fell in love with almost overnight. Jesus Christ, life does move fast. Ferris Bueller was a goddamn genius.
“I’ve really grown a lot in my sessions with Dr. Longo,” she says softly, her head now tipped toward the headrest. Relaxed physically, she continues to show her love through touch as she speaks. “Maybe you can find a way—add some tools to your toolbelt—to handle it and really process everything that happened with Mere. And maybe that eventually leads to telling them. But maybe it doesn’t. And it just leads you to a place of holistic acceptance and devotion to mental health.”
Fuck. Going to therapy to help me process all this shit I’ve been stuffing down for years would be the ultimate respectful tribute to my sister, who lost her agonizing battle with her own mental health.
Why have I not thought of that before?
“I… love that,” I admire hoarsely because emotion is rampant inside me.
“Yeah?” she asks, her smile both sad and excited, and I love how invested she is emotionally for me. Like she’s as deeply invested in this shit as me.
“I love you,” I tell her, my voice rough and quiet. She blinks, and another tear falls, but we both ignore it. “And I will call Longo on Monday. I… need that, I think.”
She shrugs. “We all do from time to time.”