53. Chapter Fifty-Three
In the last five days, Trinte and I only separate when it’s time for our adult responsibilities. Every night, I’m curled next to him after he makes dinner. This man can cook. Since I can’t cook if my life depended on it, I’m a spoiled little Sprite.
Tonight, though, I have a bit of a surprise for him. We’ve avoided deep conversations this whole week, but everything he talked about at breakfast the other day has my brain churning on ways to help.
So I’m going to introduce him to something that helped me years ago.
We’re finishing dinner, drinking Heimlocks, when I say, “We’re going to do something after this.”
Trinte raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? Does it involve you taking your pants off?”
I grin. We’ve been insatiable for one another, even without sex on the table. He still hasn’t let me return the favor with my mouth, but everything else has definitely been on the table.
“Unfortunately, not this time.”
He gathers our empty plates. “Then what is it?”
“A surprise.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
He stops midway to the kitchen, still holding the plates. “Kyrielle, I don’t like surprises.”
I’ve learned Trinte does this, getting immediately stubborn about something that makes him even slightly uncomfortable. As far as I’ve observed, no one else is the recipient of his clear rebuffs. Everyone else gets snark or deflecting jokes.
I suppose it makes me lucky to see this version. It’s him trying to communicate a boundary without wearing a mask. While I respect that, everyone deserves a fun surprise once in a while.
“Do you trust me?”
He narrows his eyes. “Of course I trust you. But the last time I let you surprise me, it led to committing murder.”
I laugh. “I promise, no murder tonight.”
Trinte purses his lips and continues walking to the kitchen. “I’m fairly certain you would’ve said the same thing at the start of that evening as well.”
“Okay,” I relent. “I don’t plan on committing murder today.”
“Oh good; just involuntary manslaughter vibes, then?”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
He glares at me while we wash the dishes. I grin, drinking the rest of my beer. When he’s done, Trinte gives me a flat look, tossing a dish towel onto the corner. “I love you, but sometimes I worry I’ve fallen in love with a psychopath who wants pickles on her pizza and happily burns off dicks.”
“You’re sometimes worried about it?” I tease, searching for my jacket.
“I would have zero survival instincts if you didn’t worry me at least a little bit,” he retorts, watching me search for the jacket. “What are you looking for?”
“My jacket.” I sigh. “I think I left it at home when I picked things up today.”
Trinte immediately looks uncomfortable as he says, “I might have one you could use.”
“Yours would be way too big,” I point out, smiling.
His eyes slowly trail to his hallway closet. “Okay, don’t get mad, but I have one that would fit you.”
“Eww, some other woman’s jacket?” I cringe at the thought.
“Not … exactly.” He walks to the closet. I’ve never opened that door, so it’s a surprise when he reveals multiple matching black hoodies, all with tags still attached. He pulls one off a hanger and offers it. “It’s my old stash of hoodies for … night time guests.”
“Nighttime guests.” I say flatly.
He tosses the jacket, rolling his eyes. I catch it, immediately sniffing for someone else’s scent. It only smells like brand new fabric.
“Yes, Kyrielle,” he says, exasperated. “One-night stands.”
I narrow my eyes. “How many hoodies are in there?”
He quickly shuts the door, blocking me from opening it. “Enough. I’ll donate them. Don’t worry about it.”
“How many?” I ask, partially jealous, partially amused. It’s annoyingly thoughtful. He mumbles something under his breath. I cup my ear with a hand. “What?”
“Eight,” he says heatedly. “Now seven.”
Looking at him like he’s lost his mind, I ask, “I’m not slut shaming, but how many one-night stands did you have?”
“Enough.” The way he presses his lips together, I know he’s not going to expand further on the subject. It’s not like I’m unaware that he’s had sexual partners. No one gets that good with their tongue by having only a couple of dalliances.
This moment reminds me of the night of the-murder-we-won’t-be-repeating, where he said sex has become twisted in his mind. Now it makes more sense. I’ll never fault him for however his trauma influenced his choices.
Slipping the hoodie on and zipping it up, I say, “I wish my one-night stands had been this courteous.”
He exhales in relief. “Yes, well, I tried.”
Ripping the tag off, I place it in his hand. “You’re donating those jackets tomorrow.”
“Alright,” he agrees quickly, most likely relieved I’m not pissed off.
We still aren’t ‘officially’ in a relationship, but we’ve both made it clear in other ways that there’s no one else welcome to be a part of the picture.
As long as I know he isn’t going elsewhere for the sex we aren’t having, I’m completely fine with waiting.
And there is nothing about Trinte that would make me believe he’d consider doing that. He’s far too obsessed with me.
Grinning at the thought, I say, “Ready?”
His expression darkens. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
Hopping up, I grab his cheeks and yank him down, smooshing his face against mine. “You’re going to trust me, and you’re going to like it.”
“Debatable,” he murmurs, but kisses me deeply before I let him go.
I open the front door. “Let’s go, handsome. Time for your surprise.”
Rolling his eyes, Trinte mutters. “Goody.”
***
“We’re burning dolls?” Trinte says, looking around the group of people holding paper mache dolls of different sizes and features. Some are general shapes; others resemble creatures like Orcs, Cyclops, Sprites, and even some Dragons in their full form.
We’re at a park where candles and lanterns offer a soft glow. Dozens of people, from all ages and walks of life, chatter as they prepare their dolls.
He follows me to the sign-up table. “Yep. It’s a process called Lyriquoi, which means ‘lighting the darkness.’ You buy a doll, write down things you want to be free of, or what you hope for. Together, we’ll light our dolls on fire to release it all to the goddesses.”
“That’s beautiful,” he says, albeit begrudgingly. He’s still sour about making this a surprise.
Linking my arm with his, I beam. “It is! I did this with Orliana a few years ago, and I feel like it helped. Maybe it’ll help you?”
Trinte glances down at me with a small smile. “Only one way to find out.”
After we pay for our dolls, we walk over to the shelves offering different options. I make an immediate beeline for a pink heart so big, my arms can barely hold it. Trinte eyes each option carefully, face twisted in thought. When he stops in front of a blue dragon, I know he’s made his choice.
He picks it up by the wing, inspects it, then looks at me. “Now what?”
I wave for him to follow me. “Now we write on them.”
Tables and chairs are provided for the crowd of people writing on their dolls. We sit across from one another and I hand him a black marker.
He takes it, staring at his dragon. Giving him space to contemplate, I scribble different things on my heart; Huracio’s name; different words like fear, anger, and shame; my mother’s name; Trinte’s father’s name.
I write hopes, like opening my own self-defense gym and finally finding the magic I’ve been seeking my whole life.
When I’m done, he’s still staring at his, having not written a word. Recapping my marker, I murmur, “You don’t have to write anything if you don’t want to.”
That bright blue eye shimmers with tears. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Smiling, I show him my paper mache heart where I wrote his father’s name. “You can start by putting down some names like this.”
This actually doesn’t appear to help as he angrily wipes away an escaped tear. Tossing the marker onto the table, he says, “I don’t see how burning random words will do anything, Kyrielle.”
His reticence is unsurprising. Trinte clearly wants to be free of his trauma, but I think deep down, he’s afraid of knowing who he is beyond it.
Lowering my voice further, to avoid drawing attention, I say, “Sometimes, symbolism can be a powerful thing, Trinte.” I pluck at the sleeve of the jacket I will not be keeping.
“This jacket, and the seven others in your closet, are symbols of a life you’ve lived.
Donating them means the end and beginning of something, right? ”
With a slightly petulant glare, he says, “Yes …”
“How will it make you feel when they’re gone and no longer needed?”
Trinte contemplates the question. “Relieved.”
“And all you did was donate jackets. Inanimate objects with no meaning applied other than what you’ve given them, right?”
Shaking his head, Trinte smiles. “How have I gotten so lucky?”
I sit back with a smirk. Motioning to the dragon, I say, “By earning it. Just try it out, Trinte. It might be more helpful than you think.”
He grumbles as he starts writing again. And continues to write.
I’m trying to give him privacy, but when he turns the dragon to write on the other side, I’m stunned to see so many names.
Not just his father's — women’s names, too.
He’s resurrecting unspoken pains, his hand flying over the blue paper mache.
While he scrawls, I ask conversationally, “Do you happen to have the addresses for any of these people?”
He looks up. “Huh?”
“I mean, I’m not saying I’ll murder some of them, but—”
Trinte’s expression flattens. “You’re not murdering women I’ve slept with.”
I look at the dozens of names. “You sure some of them won’t be missed?”
A muscle feathers in his jaw as he returns to his task.
“Forgive a girl for asking to avenge her partner,” I mutter, huffing out in frustration.
Trinte’s eyes meet mine again, probably hung up on the word ‘partner,’ but he looks away quickly, clearly on a roll. I cross my arms, watching him write name after name. Thank the goddesses I’m secure in my position with him, because a girl would have a complex at the amount of names.
When he recaps the marker, I ask, “Did you really buy this many jackets?”
Trinte groans. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“If you buy me a hoodie, just for me, and not from the depths of a hallway closet, I might tone it down.”
“Fine. I’ll buy you a hoodie.”
“Two.”
“Two hoodies.”
“Three.”
“The third can be one of mine.”
I scoff. “I already own all of those.”
Trinte laughs, shaking his head. “How are you both a blessing and a curse?”
I smile sweetly, batting my eyelashes. “Because Fortuna has a sense of humor.”
Trinte stands, grabbing his dragon. “Indeed, I believe you are correct.” He looks around. “What now?”
I grab my heart and point to an open area where people are slowly forming a circle. “Now is the optional activity before burning.”
His mouth twitches. “Optional activity?”
I forge ahead, knowing full well he’s going to show stubbornness in five seconds. “Yes, people have the opportunity to share what they’ve written, if they want.”
Five … four … three …
“I’m not doing that.”
I chuckle, bumping his arm with my shoulder. “No one said you needed to. That’s the definition of optional.”
“Still not doing it,” he grumbles, standing next to me as we find a spot in the partial circle.
The burning circle has a bonfire in the center, with unlit torches in a pile nearby. They’re intended to be placed onto the dolls to initiate the burning. While I could easily burn it myself, again, the symbology is important.
A guide announces it’s almost time for the sharing to begin. Trinte’s clammy hand grabs mine. I’m hoping this turns into something beneficial, but time will tell.
Finally, it’s time. The circle is closed, with dozens of people quietly waiting for the sharing to begin.
Holding Trinte’s hand tightly, sweat be damned, we listen to the stories.