Page 3 of Wanting What's Wrong

The storm inside me goes from a category three to a five inan instant as I think of Trent under me, whispering,“It’s okay, it’s our secret. Just let me in a little bit,”as sounds and words burst from my lips.

The eye of the hurricane is bliss. Pure bliss, as his name mixes with my throaty gasps and moans.

I bite down on my lip, stifling the words and noises that threaten to give me away. My body is on autopilot and waves of the most delicious heat and relief pulse through me. I jerk and thrust myself into the pillow, as wetness gushes onto the fabric.

I collapse onto my side, curling in a panting heap on the lavender and white quilt my Great Aunt Katherine made for me when I was born. Every muscle throbs with the release. I open my mouth, tugging in a long, low breath as a rainbow of sparks flicker behind my closed lids.

I turn my head, laying my cheek on the soft quilt and open my eyes. I freeze. My heart now a lump in my throat. There’s ashadow, beneath the door. Two feet, blocking out the light from the hallway.

The hallway was dark when I came in here…

Oh my god.I wait. Listening. Embarrassment roars through me, making me queasy and chilled.

Whoever it is stays there. Waiting. As if ready to knock.

One, two, three, four, five,six, seven…

I hold my breath. And wait. The Taylor Swift poster on the back of my bedroom door scolds me.

After ten lifetimes, I draw breath into my burning lungs, the shadow moves away, and I cover my head with the pillow and scream.

Two

Kat

Two Years later

I’ve made seven-hundred and fifty-six tick marks in my journal since he left. Pages full of a rainbow-colored ink in bundles of five.

Trent gave me the small, white, leather journal the day he deployed. He told me to write down what I did every day so when he returned, I could read it to him, and he wouldn’t miss anything.

I never wrote a single word. Why, I’m not sure. Maybe because I wished so hard by some miracle he wouldn’t leave and then when he did, I pretended it wasn’t real. So, I just made tick marks. Counting down the days untilhe came home. I made the last little scratch mark yesterday and I’ve been holding my breath since.

I press my fingers to my lips, the scent of my freshly-applied Pink Poppy nail polish mingles with the summer air and a hint of jet fuel. There’s a tightness in my chest as my heart pitter-patters against my ribs. The engines on the plane whir over the excited conversation of the gathered crowd.

Everything else disappears as he steps off the long back ramp of the cargo jet wearing faded desert camo fatigues and combat boots. The sun beats down and catches the tan skin on his rippling forearms. His squared jaw flexes. Heat snakes rising from the asphalt tarmac make him look like he’s stepping right out of my dreams.

Guys like him are only supposed to exist in magazines, movies, or on billboards for underwear. But here he is, Trenton Reynolds III, my stepbrother.

Not a dream.

Not this time.

His high cheekbones, protruding brow and shocking blue eyes are the same as I remember. But his features are more pronounced. His forehead is furrowed and his nose has a new angle to it. So many things I’ve missed as well. Things I want to know and things I’m sure I don’t.

He holds his head high. Cocky as ever. His shoulders seem broader than when he left, his strength and presence magnetic, making the air around me buzz. After a couple steps, he leans slightly on a fellow soldier, walking with just the hint of a limp, and I remember how it felt when he told me he’d been shot. My heart aches to think of him in pain, and even more to think how close I came to losing him.

I watch him scan the crowd as I push up on my tiptoes. He’s searching the clustered knots of families, well-wishers, and crying women with new babies, all here to welcome their brave heroes home.

I squeeze my eyes shut, praying this isn’t another one of the hundreds of dreams I’ve had of this moment. Seven-hundred and fifty-six tick marks since I saw him last. And now I’m the only one left to welcome him home. The only surviving member of our family to greet our hero.

I was 18 when he left. A lifetime ago and only yesterday. He was my big brother and my greatest protector. He was a fighter, through and through. Didn’t matter if it was on the playground, acting like a pit-bull ready to tear the throat out of anyone that messed with me. Or late at night, holding me close after one of my nightmares. He was there for me in a way that nobody else was.

And now he’s finally home.

Home. Except, there is no home to go to. For a second, I think of the sheets I laid out next to the worn blue sofa in my apartment wishing I had a better pillow for him because I know he needs to rest. He needs comfort.

I draw a deep breath, my mouth and throat dry as I raise my hand and wave. The wind catches the hem of my sundress, the fabric flicking high on my thigh. Mixed in with the smell of my perfume, there’s something else. The unstoppable wetness that’s been leaking out of me since I got dressed this morning. Giving me away for him. My body betraying me.

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