17. Brook
“So he gave you the best orgasm of your life. With his tongue. And instead of begging for more—and there is nothing wrong with demanding what you need—you ran away?” Celeste leans back on the sofa and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I guess I just didn’t expect it. I don’t usually… Never mind. I guess it’s the past, and what we could have been that came rushing back.”
“But wasn’t he your first?” Saar moves into a downward dog.
She missed her yoga practice for this emergency meeting, so she’s adding poses into the conversation.
“He was my first kiss, and he’d have been my first everything, but—”
I watch my hands. I’ve never confided this to anyone else, and maybe that’s part of the problem. Keeping things locked inside doesn’t allow them to move away.
Saar collapses to the floor, understanding the gravity of the moment. She crosses her legs. “You can tell us, sweetie.”
Celeste rubs my back. “Whatever you feel comfortable with.”
“We are the youngest of the bunch, and we were very close growing up. Like us against the world, we bonded over hating how we were always babied or ignored, or… you know, silly sibling stuff. It grew into something bigger, and I guess along with raging teenage hormones, we couldn’t fight the attraction anymore. But it was weird at the same time because we were brother and sister.
“So we started sneaking around. I mean we’re not blood relatives, but still… we knew everyone would judge us. One night, Baldo came to my room and we weren’t careful, and my dad caught us. We were just kissing, but all hell broke loose, and our parents were so upset.
“But we couldn’t stop. I loved him so much and he loved me, so we made a plan to run away. Baldo turned eighteen six months before me and he was able to access some of his trust fund then, so we decided to leave together.”
“Chérie, that is so romantic,” Celeste sighs.
“Hold your verdict, there is no happy ending.” I chuckle humorlessly and then tell them the rest of the story.
How horribly our escape night went and how Baldo ran away without me, and I was left dealing with trauma no girl or woman should ever experience.
Somehow I get through the story without crying, and with every word I feel more liberated. Like my attachment to the unfortunate events is getting looser with every word.
I told the story once to my therapist, but that felt clinical, just giving the facts so she could fix me.
There is no judgment. No pity from the two women here. They just keep a safe place for me to share.
In sharing with my friends, something sets me free. Like the shackles of the past have been broken, not yet fully redeeming me, but disconnecting from me.
And I’m reminded that my past doesn’t have to define me.
And there is one thing I know beyond any doubt, I need to tell the story one more time.
To my husband.
* * *
I fidget with the napkin for the hundredth time. Dinner is in the oven, our counter corner set up. Only Baldo is missing.
I considered calling him to find out when he’s coming home, but after the way we left things last night, I don’t want to nag him.
But if I’m stuck here waiting much longer, I might chicken out. Am I even strong enough to tell the story twice in one day?
Celeste thinks it would be easier. The longer I wait the harder it will be, and the farther apart I grow from Baldo. Not that we’re together.
I pop a few Skittles into my mouth. My favorite comfort food is not doing it for me today.
The front door finally clicks, and I grab the bottle of wine and pour myself a glass, my hand shaking.
I take a fortifying sip. It tastes like shit after the candy. And it doesn’t do shit—I’m only more nervous.
It’s not so much that I want to tell him my side of our story, but that after the way we left things last night and this morning, there is another shitty conversation needed before we dive into the even shittier one.
Baldo halts in the entrance to the kitchen, a flash of surprise passing through his face before the typical arrogant, stony expression settles in.
“I ate in the city.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry, anyway.” I put another candy into my mouth.
“Obviously.” He quirks an eyebrow, eyeing the small bag in my hand.
“Oh, do you want one?” Maybe we can bond over Skittles.
He makes a face like I offered him a poisoned pile of mud. “I don’t eat candy, and I hate Skittles.”
“What? That’s grounds for divorce. Who hates Skittles?”
He looks at me unimpressed. Right. Stalling is not the way to go.
“I was hoping we could talk.” My throat tightens with the words.
A loud beeping interrupts the moment and I jump, spilling the colorful round candy. Baldo narrows his eyes, puzzled by my reaction.
Great, he must think I’m crazy, and I keep confirming it for him.
My phone dances on the counter, and we both look at the screen at the same time. Rupert Montgomery.
I groan, scrunching my face. He’s the last person I want to deal with right now.
Baldo looks at me and I shake my head.
I’m aware that I’m acting like a lunatic. Or a child. But I’ve been gathering courage all day, and this interruption would derail me.
Haven’t the Montgomerys disrupted enough already?
Baldo gives an exasperated sigh, hits the answer button and beckons with his head for me to speak.
“Hello?” I squeak.
I guess all my reactions paint a pitiful picture, because Baldo steps closer and puts his hand on the small of my back. Despite our relationship being frozen in an uncomfortable limbo, he offers his silent support.
Because that’s the man he is. Silent confidence with sincere kindness. Most of the time. He could improve on the execution though, because he can be a jerk.
But there is an undeniable compassion the man probably tries to hide. Actions speak louder than words and all that.
Like when he ditched an important event to hold my hair while I puked. Saar told me his business partner was pissed about that.
Or when he changed his entire life to marry me.
The heat from his hand curls through me, and instinctively I lean into his touch.
“Brooklyn, I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” My great uncle starts with an accusation.
His attitude erases all my other thoughts. I roll my eyes and straighten up. “What do you need?”
Baldo nods his approval with my stance.
“I wanted to invite you and Baldassare to dinner on Friday.”
God, I hate how he calls us both by our full given names. My great uncle would look great in a coffin with a wailing widow throwing herself at him, knowing she’s the one who poisoned him. Not the time for these visions, Brook. Not the time.
We can’t have dinner with him. Nooooo, I mouth, dropping my head to the counter and banging it softly.
We’re nowhere near ready to fake it in front of my scrutinizing great uncle.
“Rupert,” Baldo says jovially. “I’m here with Brook. Thank you for your invitation, but we’ll have to decline.”
A moment of silence descends on the other side of the line while I stare wide-eyed at Baldo, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Why is that? As you know, I raised concerns about the validity of your marriage, and I think it’s important we meet to clear any objections.”
“Well, Rupert, I appreciate that you’re trying to fulfill your duties as the executor of the will to the last ridiculous stipulation, but Brook and I are not available on Friday.”
“I’d strongly suggest you make yourself available.”
God, this might not be the best time to rebel. I chew on my cuticle, considering agreeing to the dinner.
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” Baldo says coldly. I don’t necessarily love when he takes this tone with me, but it’s fucking sexy now. “But since you’re concerned about the validity of our marriage, you’ll be pleased to hear we can’t accept your dinner invitation because we’re leaving tomorrow.”
I bite my lip to stifle a chuckle, grateful for Baldo’s no-bullshit attitude.
My glee turns to shock when he adds, “On our honeymoon.”