Chapter 9
Lila
Misery coats my insides as I sit on the couch, looking at the ginormous lit tree in front of me. Soft Christmas music pours in around us, smothering me in a warm cocoon of regret. Robert, Linda, and Nate, of course, don't seem affected by any of this.
Why would they? Linda and Nate weren't here when Mom used to make this a far more chaotic holiday.
They weren't here for the wrapping paper fights or the sitting up all night with hot cocoa waiting to catch "Santa" in the act, only to find it was Dad as a "diversion.
" They weren't here for the absolute joy of the holiday.
Now, I'm forced to sit prim and proper as they go about talking in low, murmured tones.
Everything is polite, quiet, and the very antithesis of what I was raised to believe Christmas should be.
There was no mad dash to open stockings.
No shouts of joy murmured around mouthfuls of donuts bought from down the street. No tinsel everywhere.
Hell, even Nate looks freshly shaven and clean. The shortened sides of his sharp, military haircut go into a perfectly brushed and styled bit of brown hair with not one strand out of place. Precision, excellence, even during the holidays it seems.
In fact, not one thing is out of place. Honestly, since Linda came into our lives, all the disorder seemed to slowly leech from the Bennett household as it transformed into something unrecognizable. It wasn't all at once. It wasn't an overthrow or a fast coup.
If it were, I might have been able to fight back, to claw back some of the entropy that made this house a home.
Unfortunately, it was like that damned frog soup.
If you want to cook a frog alive, you don't put him into boiling water.
He'd just jump out. Instead, you put him in cold water and slowly increase the temperature.
He'd acclimate and just boil to death… at least, that's how the Chemistry professor put it. And to think I never learned anything.
Swallowing the displeasure, I do my best to give a soft smile as I nibble on the cinnamon waffles.
They're delicious, to be sure. Sourdough, I believe.
At least, that's how I understand it. All I know is Linda keeps talking to a jar of weirdness, calling it Doughlivia Gluten-John and mentioning having to feed the baby. It all just looks so alien to me.
As delicious as it is, it's not chaos. It's not fun.
Every square is perfect, as if she sculpted them by hand.
Each well has just the right amount of syrup.
No sprinkles, no fun, just another bit of holiday veneer to hide all the pain behind.
Well… my pain at least. I'm sure Dad is quite happy now that he has another bond to shore up the broken one.
Glancing over at Nate, I take in his pinched expression as he glances down at the gifts. I'm not sure why. Once they knew he was coming home, the presents seemed to triple in size. He'll have something for sure.
I nibble on my thumbnail as I look over at my few gifts tucked into the pile. It's so hard to buy for someone when you don't even really know who they are. It's not like I have access to his SwiftCart account to see what he usually buys.
Heat washes over my cheeks as I glance at him again, my thighs pressing together as I remember that he knows exactly what I buy.
Every filthy thing. Ever since our conversation in the bathroom, he's been avoiding me.
Which makes sense. I'd probably avoid him too if I knew he bought strokers or something, if I knew he jerked off thinking about—fuck, what does he think about? Ugh. Why is everything so complicated?
I just need to get through until I can go back to school. Everything will be fine once I'm back at the dorms. Besides, this next semester actually has a class I'm excited for! So there's that bit of positivity I can count on.
Again, I look over at the pile of gifts as a small smile lifts my lips. Dad knows I'm taking my first design class, so maybe some of these things will help with that! In an instant, all my angst about Christmases past seems to melt away as I grab a forkful of my waffle.
Linda sees it and smiles so wide and genuine that I feel bad for my negative thoughts about her. It's not as if she came in and threw out all the fun… I just don't think she knows how to really let loose.
All that's left is to choke down this delicious breakfast and get on with it.
Unfortunately, it's like a shield I keep in front of me, chewing as I stretch out the time and space between now and the gifts.
All too soon, however, I'm stuck looking at an empty plate with a Jackson Pollock splatter of syrup, the only proof there was ever food at all.
With a large grin, Dad stands and claps his hands together. "Now that we're all done eating, let's clear away the dishes and get on with Christmas!"
By we, of course, he means me. Stepping around everyone, I gather the plates and take them into the kitchen. In the den, Dad and Linda talk and joke with Nate chiming in every so often. Tears burn my eyes as I rinse off the dishes and leave them to soak.
Soon, I'll be back at college. Soon, I'll be free.
"I guess it's time for Santa to pass out the gifts," Dad booms as he places his hands on his nonexistent stomach. "Nate, you move over a bit. You'll need some more space."
I do my best not to let my heart sink at Dad's words. Does this mean none of the bigger gifts are for me? Not that I've ever really been concerned with size and number. I'm not the type to count and keep score. It's always been the thought for me and not quantity.
Still though, it's the first Christmas with Nate in several years, so it's a bit hard to go from only-child mentality to remembering I have a brother…
stepbrother. He looks a tad uncomfortable as he does what he's asked.
Honestly, I can't tell if it's because he knows he's getting something that requires room or if it's because he has to sit closer to me, his thigh nearly touching mine on the couch, the heat of his body so close.
One by one, Dad passes everything out until no more gifts remain under the tree. All in all, they do seem evenly distributed between Nate and me, and for a moment, I feel like an awful, ungrateful kid for even being worried he'd get more. It was stupid and selfish.
In fact, as he starts opening everything, I can't help but feel a bit of excitement. Every gift is perfect for him, tailored for his job—a new high-end rucksack, a card for new boots, a tactical watch, and some fancy gadget he can take with him on the job.
If they got it so right for him, does that mean they may have gotten it right for me?
Just three more small gifts remain, and I know they're the ones I bought for him.
I look over at and bite down on my thumbnail again.
In contrast, they're stupid and juvenile.
But then, it's not as if I truly understand what he does for the military.
We just don't talk about stuff like that.
Honestly… we just don't talk. Until the Chemistry debacle, we barely spoke two words to each other.
As much as I hate to admit it, I'd sometimes forget he existed at all.
Even when we were together at home, he was busy in high school with his studies and friends while I was having sleepovers and movie nights.
It's not like we really ran in the same circles. Still though, with him coming home, I felt it was only right to give him something. Now, I worry he'll know just how little I think of him and just how pathetic our relationship really is.
Maybe it's good, though. Maybe this interaction will be exactly what I need to get the last bit of inappropriate lust out of my heart and mind. If he sees just how immature I am, then there's no hope of anything. It will mean I misread all our interactions, all our times bumping into each other.
Of course I misread them, I chide myself for the millionth time. There's no way in hell he feels anything for me. He's made it clear I'm his annoying little sister. Step not included.
As much as I want to pull the gifts away, to tell them to just ignore them, I don't. It would cause much more of a scene and put unnecessary attention on me. And so, I sit there, heart in my throat as he grabs the first one.
His long, strong fingers brush against the wrapping paper, making my insides clench with an unholy need that has no business around the family Christmas tree.
Slick gathers between my thighs as I watch those fingers work, remembering how they felt on my skin when he spanked me.
How many times since he's been home have I imagined them on me, sliding between my legs, pushing inside my pussy, stretching me open?
Hell, I practically begged him to spank me again in the bathroom, but he refused.
He’s clearly the strong one here. Not me.
When he shoots me a smile as he works at the tape, I have to keep reminding myself it's just friendly. Nothing more. He can’t smell my arousal as I watch him doing the most innocent, mundane thing. If he did, so would Dad. He for sure would say something.
"You didn't have to get me anything." Nate murmurs as the paper flies to the ground.
"Right," I shoot back, pushing out the inappropriate thoughts. "And give you leverage over me? I think not."
After a few moments, he finally unwraps it and opens the small box. There, nestled in the thick foam, is a worry coin. Not that he really has anything to worry about. He picks it up and reads the front out loud.
"You are the bomb dot com." His lips split into a large grin as he looks over at me.
"That's hilarious. I can't wait to show my coworkers.
" Turning it over, he reads the back. "Even when times look tough, even when danger lurks or surrounds, you are the calm.
You are the inevitable. You are the rock. "
Everything goes silent as he rubs his fingers over the raised words, those same fingers I want on my body, touching me, claiming me.
This time, when he looks at me, there's something else, something I can't define.
He stares at me for several moments before speaking again.
His gaze is intense, almost hungry, as it makes me struggle for air.
"Is this how you see me?"
Uncomfortable at his sudden intensity, I squirm on the sofa, my pussy clenching, as arousal soaks through my underwear.
"I mean, you work with explosives, I think.
I thought you'd like it. I don't know if you ever freak out at your job, but I figured if you did, it would be nice to have something to ground yourself with. "
"Ha!" he cries out, his demeanor shifting. "Perfect pun! I love that. Thank you. I will carry it with me, always."
Both Dad and Linda laugh, and soon, all three of them are doubled over. I stare at them as confusion furrows my brow. "I- I'm sorry," I murmur. "I don't get it."
"It's okay," Nate chuckles. "Even if you didn't mean to, it was perfect. Grounding wires? Grounded? I love it even more."
My stupid brain clings to his words, transforming them into a far different declaration of love. In my mind’s eye, I imagine him saying those words in a different context, in his bedroom, with me beneath him. Shaking my head, I wave my hand at the remaining two gifts.
"Pretty sure these won't have quite the same impact."
Quickly, he unwraps a similar tactical set Dad and Linda got to him to help in the field. Only this one is much smaller and fits on his keyring. Good to know I was at least in the ballpark. When he opens the gloves, he gives me a quick smile before trying them on.
"Perfect. I love them. All of them. Thank you, Lila, Mom, and Robert. This was certainly an unexpected surprise."
"You're the son I never had," Dad boomed, his face full of pride and love. "No way in heck you'd come home to an empty tree. I treat both of my kids equally."
But we're not, that insidious voice slithers into my brain again. That part has been made painfully clear.
Dad seems far happier with Nate than with me. Never once have I heard him belittle his job or try to get him to do something else. Not like me and my "scribbles." At least with Nate, he's doing something to protect the country. What am I doing? Making new buildings for people? So revolutionary.
I get it. I hate it, but I get it. Dad and Nate can relate. They can talk shop, guns, security, things I'll have no hope of knowing anything about. The only positive is knowing Nate seems just as uncomfortable with his statement as I am.
Clearing his throat, my stepbrother points to my gifts. "I believe it's your turn now."
My stomach wraps up in knots as I reach out to assess the gifts. Could this year be different? Could this year be the first since Mom died that I might actually get something I need or want?
Looking down at my pile, I try to make out any familiar shapes that could imply soaps and pamper stuff like I get every year. But then, I still won't know until I open them. I never know. Each year I get excited only to find some variation on a different body wash set and loofah.
Once Dad gives me the nod, I pick up the first one and hold it tentatively in my hands. The smothered smile Linda gives me makes me think it's something altogether different than usual. Do I dare hope?