Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Dexter
I am stunned by what Alis has just revealed about her past with Dr. Ryan.
Spineless coward is giving him too much credit, in my opinion, but I’m not here to perpetuate the problem or stoke her pain.
I wish I knew what to say at this moment; wish I knew how to direct the anger I feel boiling up inside me.
My frustration must be evident from my facial expression because Alis looks like she’s trying to decipher my mood but can’t. That makes two of us.
In the absence of any words to rectify the situation, I lean forward and grasp her hand in mine, beckoning her closer, and pulling her into my lap. I may not have words, but I can hold her.
I brush an errant hair from her eye and tuck it behind her ear, pulling her closer by the back of her neck and pressing my forehead to hers.
“I’m so sorry that happened,” I whisper. And I am. I am torn apart that someone so hardworking, beautiful, and kind could be accused of something so disgusting and out-of-character.
“Thank you,” she whispers in response. “I’m sorry I disappeared.
You didn’t do anything wrong. Seeing him was a shock, and then I got stuck in my head reading in between the lines of everything he said about me.
” I remember thinking the same thing about his comments — they conveyed a double meaning I couldn’t quite grasp.
Now I see his words for what they were — sharp jabs, carefully placed to slice through Alis’s insecurities.
What I don’t understand is why he would attack her at all, no matter how subtly.
“I don’t think anyone can be expected to consider anyone else’s feelings when that type of emotional storm is raging inside,” I try to offer words of comfort to let her know I am not angry or upset with her, not now that I understand their history.
One thing I still need confirmed, however, is the woman in the living room. “The woman who spilled her wine — was that his wife?” Alis is nodding before I’ve finished my sentence.
“Yes. I didn’t realize it was her I had collided with until she shrieked ‘you!’ like I was some kind of harlot.
Hearing her voice, laced with so much disgust and accusation even nine years later…
It was too much. I think I went into self-preservation mode.
It was so similar to how I felt when the accident happened and everything exploded around me.
Maybe it was shock — I don’t know. I just knew I had to get out of there as quickly as possible, so I called a cab and planned my escape. ”
“And with everything happening, you still tried to prioritize my career over your emotional well-being?” I ask, now, more than ever, certain this is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life loving.
Her scrunched-up face is so adorable to look at right now.
She’s looking at me like I’m the daft one — questioning her commitment to seeing my hopes and dreams come to fruition.
“You couldn’t lose this opportunity because your girlfriend got upset about something that happened nine years ago. In what world is that fair?” I let out a soft laugh and shake my head, sliding my hands to either side of her neck and pulling her mouth to mine — effectively cutting off her rant.
The kiss is short but effective. Alis smiles against my lips and I know this is what we needed. To talk, to touch, to start working through her pain together.
I pull back slightly, just enough to meet her gaze so I can tell her what I’ve been yearning to tell her for weeks now. “I love you, Alis,” I say. My thumbs slide over her dimples as her smile lights up her face, eyes sparkling with joy at those few simple words.
“I love you, Dexter,” she replies and takes my mouth with hers again. Alis slides her fingers into my hair and grips tightly, deepening our kiss and pressing her chest into me.
Alis wastes no time; in a matter of seconds she has readjusted her body to straddle my lap, her core pressing into my growing erection.
We’re kissing, grasping at clothing and writhing against each other.
I break the kiss to lift her sleep tank over her head and I’m greeted by the sight of her bare chest. My God, she’s breathtaking.
I trace my fingertips up her ribcage to the sides of her breasts, my thumbs tracing the crease underneath and up around the sides of each mound. I haven’t touched anywhere near her nipples, but they are already puckered in anticipation.
Alis breathes heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly as I take my time tracing the contours of her chest and up to her neck.
It’s when I’m tracing her collarbone that I see it — a cluster of freckles on her left clavicle.
I’m suddenly hit with a sense of deja vu, as if I’ve done this before. Touched her before.
Rory? But, no, that doesn’t make any sense.
Rory was in college, on spring break with her friends.
I’m stuck on the patch of freckles, unable to tear away my focus from them as I sift through memories from, what, twelve, thirteen years ago?
It was a week — an incredible week, but a fleeting moment. A blip on the radar of my life.
“Dexter?” Alis asks, worry lacing her tone. “What is it?” she asks.
I clear my throat and shake my head to clear it. There’s no way. The math doesn’t add up. “It’s nothing,” I say, and I drop a kiss to the patch of freckles. It’s when I’m pulling away and giving them one last glance before continuing my exploration of her body that I see it — the constellation.
“Andromeda,” I breathe.
“What?” she asks. Does she not know her freckles are a constellation or did she not hear what I said?
“Andromeda,” I say louder, looking up to her face to watch her reaction.
She smiles, laughing lightly, and confirms what I’ve said.
“You’re only the third person to notice that.
My grandmother taught me about constellations when I was a kid and she showed me how my birthmark makes the constellation Andromeda.
One other person pointed it out once, but that’s it. ”
I’m certain that Alis and Rory are one and the same, but I need her to realize who I am without my telling her.
I don’t know why, but it’s important that she makes the connection herself.
I decide to prompt her on this unexpected journey to reunification, teasing, “For anyone to notice a constellation of freckles on your collarbone they’d have to be pretty intimately acquainted with that area, no?
” Alis blushes, my insinuation and her reluctance to confirm my suspicions clear in her expression.
She’s not going to offer any more explanation, whether out of embarrassment or in an attempt to spare me thoughts of her with another man.
She needs more prompting, for me to tug on the leash of her memories.
I know she’s fighting internally to stay in this moment and not veer off into thoughts of someone else, but I need her there.
“Tell me about him,” I say, kissing up the side of her neck. My hands continue their exploration of her bare skin. Alis is breathless when she asks, “You want me to tell you about another man while I’m half-naked on your lap?”
“Tell. Me,” I assert, nipping at her ear before continuing with languid kisses down her neck and back to her freckles.
Alis presses her core more firmly against me and starts to rock her hips, rubbing her clit up and down my shaft through our shorts. “Dexter,” she pants, speeding the motion of her hips in an attempt to distract me from pressing for more details.
I grip her hips and hold her firm, removing my mouth from her shoulder where I was poised to continue tasting down her arm.
“I want to hear it,” I say.
“Why? What if I don’t want to share that with you?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to share anything with me? Afraid I’ll get jealous at the thought of you with someone else?” I smirk, letting my confidence and, let’s be honest, cockiness shine through.
Alis huffs, “No. That story is just… it’s awkward.” Awkward? That week was anything but awkward for me.
“Why was it awkward?” I inquire. “Now I’m even more curious.
Now you have to tell me.” I’m teasing and she knows it, still, that signature shy expression appears on her face and I see her clearly.
Twelve years younger, blue sundress blowing in the wind, laughing at something one of the other guys in our group said while recounting tales of frat parties past. I remember watching her, thinking she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
Wide open, carefree, overflowing with happiness and joy.
And her sister, oh my God, I remember Belle.
Before I can think deeper into how incredible a coincidence we’ve found ourselves in, Alis says, “I met him on a cruise during spring break of my senior year.” Senior year? Wait. I do the math — holy shit, she was eighteen. I was twenty-two? No. Twenty-three.
“I met this guy, and we spent the week together. I didn’t even tell him my name.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I went to introduce myself to him and Belle cut in telling him my name was Rory.
Not technically a lie, but like I said that day in your office, I’ve never gone by Rory because I didn’t want to make people think of Gilmore Girls. ”
I vaguely remember mention of this from when Abigail introduced us at the beginning of the school year.
Alis continues, “Belle told me that I didn’t have to feel self-conscious because Rory could be anyone she wanted to be.
She knew I needed to let loose and enjoy myself, and, I don’t know, I liked being able to recreate myself that week. ”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I say, “You didn’t have to recreate yourself. You were your truest self that week.”
My hands tense on her hips, but Alis is too busy brushing off my comment to notice. “Whatever. How would you know? You weren’t there.” She swats at my chest, “Do you want to hear the story or not?”