Page 1 of Wanting What's Wrong

Volume One

STEP-HERO

One

Kat

Welcome to the crossroads of terrified and awe-struck.

I press myself against the floral wallpaper of the hallway, wondering in all these years why I never noticed him leave the bathroom door open before? It’s only a few inches, three at most, but it feels ominous and purposeful.

Shower steam billows out into the darkness as I stare into the reflection in the bathroom mirror, salivating over his rippling muscles. His vivid tattoos. The deep V from his abdomen to his hips.

A God’s body.

Mystep-brother’sbody.

Holy heck-balls.

I should walk away.

I make the sign of the cross over my chest though I can’t remember the last time I went to church,andweare Baptist. That doesn’t seem to matter, I need to protect myself from impending sin.

Ihaveto walk away, for all that is good and holy. But I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off him. The brain/body/vagina connection here isstrong. It’s holding me in its clenching force field. Because I have never wanted anything the way I want him. Right.Now.

I’ve never loved anybody the way I love him, either.

The practical, reasonable parts of me say,I shouldn’t. I can’t.

But my pulsing Polly Pocket down low says,You should. You can.

The clear glass door hidesnothing. He is all carved angles, and muscles, and nakedness. His masculine body stutters my breath. A tight knot of tension low in my belly and between my legs gathers. He runs his hands over his hair, down his chest, soaping every hard, broad surface, until one hand takes a trip downtown.

I stifle my gasp, squeezing my inner muscles as the flutter in my core threatens to detonate.

Oh, Lord, so many sins to be forgiven…why now? Why tonight?

Tomorrow, he deploys, so today has been full of heartbreakinglasts.

Our last morning jog. Well,hejogged, I rode my bike. Our last round of mini golf together. Our last trip to the grocery. My last afternoon watching him sketching in the lawn chair out back, wishing I had an ounce of his artistic talent. Our last dinner, with all his favorites. Mom’s spaghetti and meatballs. Caesar salad. Black forest cake. And a side of mashed potatoes, too. Extra butter.

All through today, my parents have vacillated between crying and bursting with pride. My mom laugh-crying half the time, my dad so choked up all he could do was clear his throat and walk away whenever he tried to say anything. As for me, I’vebeen in a daze. Because Trent is my rock. Always has been. Always will be.

Unless he doesn’t come home.

I know that is a real possibility. He is an elite long-range sniper for the SEALS. Hugely important, incredibly dangerous. And, as I discovered late last night, scrolling through Reddit, also a very fancy way to saydead man walking.

Today, none of us addressed that. We couldn’t. But it hovered over us in the small, cornflower blue kitchen. At the dining room table where we’ve celebrated holidays and bemoaned another losing season for the Detroit Lions. The heaviness darkening the living room that’s a near copy of the one on that Archie Bunker show. An inescapable cliff of grief on the horizon.

Trent and I stayed up hours after Mom and Dad went to their room, finishing the dishes, trying to hold on to every last moment we have together. A day oflasts.

But tonight, I noticed a first. Tonight, he was looking at me, watching me, in a way I’ve not noticed before. He watched me in the reflection of the window above the sink and when I bent over to pick up a dropped fork. But every time I looked his back, his eyes would dart away.

We said goodnight a little before midnight. He opened his arms for a hug and I fell against him. “Love you, Kitty Kat,” he said, like always.

I managed an, “I love you, too,” through a half-strangled sob.

Walking to my room, I focused on the way the rust-colored shag carpet felt under my feet, the way the A/C window unit hissed—anything to distract me from that hard knot in my stomach. I tossed myself face down on my bed, kicking at nothing, tears stinging my eyes, thinking of all that awaited him. So much danger. So much risk.

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