Chapter Ten
James
When I get home, Sadie is lying on the kitchen counter with her head in the sink, Nash standing beside her and washing her hair.
I’ve never seen them do this before, but I must admit, I haven’t paid attention to when and how or how often either of them wash their hair.
It’s not something I would ever consider.
And seeing him wash her hair in the sink isn’t something I would consider either.
Nash watches me as I walk over. Sadie must not realize I’m here, or if she does, she hasn’t reacted, but Nash’s gaze is pleading with me about something, begging me to do the right thing, though I have no idea what that right thing is. “It’s wash day,” he finally says.
“Oh. Okay.”
Sadie looks up at me, hair full of bubbles that Nash is rinsing out.
Do girls her age not wash their own hair? I’m not prepared for any of this.
I set my bag on the counter. “Do you…need any help?” I ask, hoping that’s not the wrong thing to say. The way Nash’s familiar brown eyes narrow at me, shooting daggers, tells me it absolutely was.
“She’s my sister. I’ve been doing this her whole life. I can handle it,” he snaps.
I don’t bother mentioning she’s my sister too. Nash is very protective of her and sees me as some kind of competition.
I have a million questions, but I don’t know how to ask them, and that just makes the hairs on my nape rise, make me feel useless and unwanted, two things I’ve always struggled with. How could I not when there’s never been a time in my life that I have been wanted?
Colton wants you. He’s willing to dom you without fucking you. That must mean he really cares in one way or another, right?
All that train of thought does is frustrate me even more. My feeling of inadequacy with my siblings and annoyance at my brain bringing Colton into it makes me snap, “Fine,” as though I’m a child. “I’ll be back out when you’re done to start dinner.”
I go straight to my room, closing the door behind me. I strip out of my slacks and button-up and change into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt.
Should I have been washing Sadie’s hair? Is there something I’m missing? How are we ever going to make this work when Nash clearly hates me so much?
I grab my cell and sit on the edge of my bed. To my surprise, there’s another text from Sir.
You should be proud of asking for what you want today. You’re not good at it because you haven’t had people in your life you could depend on. Am I right?
My chest tightens. Why is he asking me this? He’s just supposed to be telling me what to do and…I don’t know, planning my days for me or something.
My fingers linger over the screen. I don’t want to respond, don’t want to let him in, but I’m the one who asked him for this. How can I expect him to follow through if I’m not honest with him? If I don’t help him understand why I am the way I am, which will help him in what he’s giving me.
I’m only doing this because of our arrangement, I tell myself. That’s it. And I don’t have to give him all the details.
Me: Yes.
Okay. Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep that in mind. I’d like you to be as honest with me as you can. If there’s something you need, tell me. If there’s something from your past that affects your response to something I do or say, tell me that too.
My stomach twists. I…don’t like the idea of that, but I also want to make him proud. I want to be good for him. Sir is giving me this, so I can at least try and be as good for him as I can.
Me: Yes, Sir.
Thanks. I need to take care of something, so we’ll talk again tonight. What time do you typically go to bed?
Me: About ten or eleven.
I’ll message you at 9:30. Before that I’d like you to send me a text with your work schedule and any other weekly appointments you might have. You don’t have to tell me what they are, but I want to get an idea of what your weeks are like.
I shift uncomfortably, but…why is blood also rushing toward my groin? Why is my skin tingling and my dick beginning to chub?
Me: Yes, Sir. Thank you.
Good boy. We’ll talk soon.
I don’t respond right away, not sure what I would even say, so I work on writing out my weekly schedule on a piece of paper, then take a photo and send it to him.
He doesn’t respond, and I try not to stress about it.
He made it sound like he’s busy. It’s not because I did anything wrong.
I hate that my brain automatically goes there.
Nash and Sadie are done with her hair when I return. He’s in the living room, Sadie at the kitchen counter. “Sorry,” she says. “My hair is really thick and hard for me to do.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for. Is there anything you need me to get you?”
What special things do girls need for their hair?
“Um…maybe a good leave-in conditioner.”
“Okay. And you can always ask me for something if you need it. I’m not used to this, so I won’t know if you don’t tell me.”
Sadie nods, then goes back to her drawing.
As I season and tenderize the chicken, I feel her gaze on me from time to time.
She watches me while I start the roasted potatoes, put the chicken on the stove, and as I wash and cut broccoli.
I should probably say something to her, but I don’t know what.
It’s different speaking to students in my classes because they’re older and, well, they aren’t a sibling I’m still trying to adjust to having.
Still, I try to rack my brain for something to talk to her about, but I realize I know nothing about her.
“How’s school?”
Sadie shrugs. “Okay.”
“Have you made any friends?”
“No.” She doesn’t look up from her art, which then reminds me I do know something about her.
“It’ll happen. It just takes some time.” But the truth is, it doesn’t always happen.
I didn’t have friends when I was her age, not when I was Nash’s age either, and as I stand there watching her, I realize how much I don’t want that fate for them.
“Maybe we can bring something nice for the class. Cupcakes?” Are they allowed to do that? Will that make the other kids like her?
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, working on leaves in a tree. “But thank you,” she says softer.
“You’re welcome. Let me know if you change your mind.
” She nods but doesn’t reply, and I try to think of what else to tell her, wanting to do the best I can in this moment because for the first time, it feels like I’m not screwing up with them.
“You’re very good at drawing. Maybe we can find you an art class. ”
Sadie’s head snaps up, her eyes wide, the only burst of excitement I’ve ever seen there, before they dim again. “It’s too much. You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I’d like to.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.” She looks behind her at her brother, who has earbuds in and isn’t paying attention to us. “Nash likes basketball.”
Well, that’s good to know. I’d begun to think he didn’t like anything except Sadie.
“He wanted to play on the team last year, but he couldn’t.”
Basketball. Okay. I can handle that. I don’t know anything about the game myself, but I can figure out basketball.
It takes me a moment to realize what this little girl is doing, that she’s trying to find a way for me to do something nice for Nash because she cares about him and wants something nice for him, but also, maybe so Nash and I find a way to connect too.
“Thank you, Sadie. I appreciate your help. As I said before, I’m not very good at this.”
“You do more for us than she did.”
Her words hit me square in the chest, punch right through and rip the air from my lungs. Why did she have us if she couldn’t love us? Why was she as bad to them as she was to me?
Before I have the chance to say anything else—though what I would say, I don’t know—Nash walks over. “What are you working on, Sades?”
“A park with lots of trees.”
“What else are you going to put in it?”
The two of them lose themselves in a discussion there, sister sharing with her brother all the things she plans to draw.
He listens to her, asks questions, engaged with her as though he’s her father, and honestly, in all the ways that count, he is.
Nash has spent eleven years taking responsibility for Sadie because Sandra couldn’t be bothered with them and I wasn’t there.
I step away, flipping the chicken, then checking on the potatoes.
Sadie and Nash eat at the counter together while I sit at the kitchen table. Nash helps her with her homework while I do dishes, and then they disappear to their room, leaving me alone.
I straighten up the couch, the cushions out of place from Nash sitting there, then lock up, turn out the lights, and close my bedroom door behind me.
It’s only eight, and since I still have some time before Sir messages, I try to work on lesson plans and go through assignments, but my thoughts volley between him and the kids. I feel so lost when it comes to all of them that I fixate on it because that’s how my brain works.
I’m startled when my phone rings, and I recognize Sir’s number. I haven’t figured out what to put in the contacts for his name yet. It must be something no one can figure out. Not that anyone has access to my phone, but you never know, and why the hell is he calling?
“I thought we’d be messaging!” I say instead of hello.
He chuckles, the words rolling off his shoulders like everything does. Like he hasn’t hurt a day in his life. Everything seems to feel easy to him, and I wish I could say the same.
“I changed my mind. That’s no way to talk to your Sir, is it?”
No, no it’s not. “I just didn’t expect it.”
“I decided I want to hear your voice. I like the little sounds you make, how your voice changes from stiff to almost dreamy when I’m telling you what to do.”
My mouth drops open. “No it doesn’t.”