Chapter 21 #2
His gaze dips to my body again for the briefest moment, and he shifts to hold his clenched hands in front of his crotch.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Is he—is he turned on?
Is he hiding an erection?
Surely not.
I’m not a disaster. I’m a strong woman working through some shit.
But I can see where I look like a disaster to him, and he has enough on his plate.
He shouldn’t be turned on by a ride on the hot mess express to Disasterville.
“We should talk about yesterday,” he says in a rush.
I fist my hands, one still holding my phone, and prop them on my hips. “Why?”
“Because—because I don’t usually drink that much.”
“Never thought you did.”
The Cluckinator voices her assumption that she does, in fact, think he drinks that much.
Once more, his eyeballs stray in the direction of my breasts and my pussy.
I turn in a circle. “This better? Getting the whole view?”
“Sorry. Sorry. It’s—I’m used to Pip doing this. It’s not normal for you.”
“Like what you see?”
“Fuck, Cricket, don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what? Don’t talk about the elephant in the room? The part where you more or less told me when you were drunk that you like me? That you’re moving to keep Lavender safe? That you’re a vagina expert and you keep looking at mine?”
“Technically I’m looking at your mons pubis. I’d have to be between your—fuck. Never mind.”
“You are such the child of a pelvic floor therapist.”
“I just want you to know that I’m not an irresponsible parent,” he says.
“Dude. You have four full-time built-in co-parents and a regular rotation of other helpers. You never cuss in front of Lav. Or yell at her or the cat, even when they glitter your entire house. You give her room to explore the world but in a way that she knows she’s safe and loved.
And I didn’t even think you drank at all until yesterday.
Clearly, one day is all it takes to convince me that you’re a fraud and a terrible father.
Or maybe I’m not the only one who needs to face her fears and insecurities.
Maybe you need to take a good long look at why you think you’re a bad dad when you are clearly not. ”
He visibly swallows.
Are his eyes going dark?
I’m being a sarcastic ass, and he’s swallowing and getting all large-pupiled.
What the actual fuck is going on here?
“Oh my god, do you like being scolded?”
He shakes his head.
“Are you getting hard?”
“Can we not?” he grits out, which I take to mean yes.
Yes, he is.
He’s turned on by me.
I have faded stretch marks on my hips because I developed so quickly in puberty, to the perpetual chagrin of my mother.
I have a nipple hair, which would probably also horrify her.
My bush is an out-of-control beast.
I bribed a chicken to follow me into the barrel cellar to help give me the courage to do this.
I’m more or less yelling at him because I’m angry at everyone and everything right now.
And he’s turned on.
Dammit.
Now I have to swallow. And my eyelids are getting heavy. “No one’s keeping you here.”
“Mad looks good on you.” His voice is husky. “I’m glad you finally got mad. Good for you.”
My voice is husky. “I don’t get mad.”
“Do you get even?”
“No. I’m a sunshine optimist who sees the best in everyone.”
“My dad would say that’s a coping mechanism.”
“Your dad Thor?”
“That’s his name.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. My grandparents had a thing for Norse mythology.”
We’re talking about his parents and grandparents and his eyes are getting darker and darker and he’s spreading his hands wider and wider over his junk, this time shooting a look at The Cluckinator, who’s turned her back on us like she doesn’t want to witness this now.
“Do you have an Aunt Freya too?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Dammit.” I crack up.
I don’t want to crack up.
I want to hang on to my fury.
But the rage is slipping away, and warmth is taking its place.
Warmth in my breasts.
In my heart.
In my vagina.
Just like yesterday.
Dammit.
“My dad’s a trained psychologist,” Heath says, like he’s trying to concentrate on his parents to keep from facing what’s happening. My skin feels like lightning’s about to strike. “Specializes in childhood trauma. Treats both kids and adults.”
“Naturally,” I murmur.
“But he left it to be a handyman when the stress got to be too much.”
“Tell me he doesn’t make jokes about Thor’s hammer.”
He visibly swallows. Then swallows again. “Could any dad worth his salt resist?”
Is wine flammable? Will all of these barrels combust if Heath keeps staring at me like he wants to inspect my vagina for himself?
While we’re in here talking about his parents?
There’s something wrong with both of us.
“Aunt Freya’s a preschool teacher.”
“Heath.”
He sucks in a breath and looks up at the cavernous ceiling like he doesn’t want me to say his name.
“What would your parents say about you avoiding the elephant?” I ask.
“They’d tell me I’ll face it when I’m ready.”
“Are you for fucking real? My parents would tell me to suck it up and deal with it.”
“Yes. I’m for fucking real.” His voice is hoarse now. “I’m glad you’re letting yourself be angry. That’s healthy. It’s good. Glad you were finally ready and that you’re not holding it in. Holding it in is bad.”
“You’re turned on by me practicing good mental health strategies?”
“I—yes.” His face is a bearded, crooked-nosed beet. The purple kind of beets. “Good for you. I—yeah. I’ll let you get back to it.”
He turns on his heel and flees toward the exit behind the barrels, the door slamming loudly enough for me to hear it close.
Leaving me suddenly feeling alone.
But oddly, not naked.
Not exposed.
Comforted.
Accepted.
Encouraged.
I look at my chicken, who stares at me briefly before ducking under the lowest rail of barrels.
Then I look at my phone.
And then at my body.
At my nipple hair and my stretch marks and my pubic hair and the tiny dimples of cellulite on my thighs.
I turn my camera back on and stare at my own face with it, not recording.
At my brown eyes that I’ve always loved. My hair that gives me personality. And I have good lips. A strong nose. Cheekbones too.
My eyes leak.
“You’re beautiful, Cricket,” I whisper to myself. “You’re beautiful. I think so. And that’s what matters.”
My body sags, and I suddenly need to sit down.
All of the anger, all of the rage, all of the fury—it’s soaking into the barrels now.
No longer hiding inside of me.
I’ve set it free.
“I’m beautiful,” I repeat to the barrel cellar.
The Cluckinator bagocks in agreement.
I can’t do a GrippaBeav channel.
I don’t have that inside of me.
And my friends here—my family, the family of my heart—they wouldn’t want me to.
“I’m beautiful, and I’m strong, I’m not alone, and I can help save this place,” I tell my chicken.
She waddles next to me, plops down, and clucks softly.
I don’t know how, but god, I have to save this place.