Page 23 of Decking the Halls
I leave them with that, boots loud on the old wood floors, the air behind me thick with shock and Mom’s choked sobs. I take the stairs two at a time to my childhood room, grab the overnight bag I’d optimistically packed, and head out the side door before anyone can stop me. The house is in chaos behind me—voices raised, dishes clattering, Dad trying to restore order.
Not my problem anymore.
Outside, the rain has started again, a steady coastal drizzle that slicks the driveway and glistens under the yellow porch light. The bruise on my chest throbs, a physical echo of everything I’ve just burned down.
The drive to my apartment is torture. The road curves along the dark water, headlights catching something that might be sleet. Every red light feels like punishment, every slow turn another test of restraint. Knowing Edie’s waiting—probably still feeling the ghost of my hands, the mark of my mouth—makes me drive faster than I should.
When I pull into the garage, her Honda is parked in the visitor spot, droplets jeweled across its hood. She’s standing beside it in different clothes, jeans and a soft gray sweater that looks stolen from my high school closet. Her hair is down, and her skin is flushed from the chill.
“Hey,” she says, shy in a way that undoes me.
“Hey yourself.” I cross the wet pavement and pull her against me, needing confirmation of her warmth. “You okay?”
“Better now.” She melts against me, warm, even though her clothes are damp.
“Your family?” she asks.
“Losing their minds.” I can’t help the wry grin. “Nick shoved me.”
Her eyes widen. She touches my chest where the bruise is darkening, her fingertips feather-light. “He hurt you?”
“Worth it.” I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm. “Come on, let’s get inside before someone calls the cops for public indecency.”
My apartment is exactly as I left it, coffee mug on the counter, a jacket tossed over the couch, and the smell of motor oil lurking beneath a cheap apple-cinnamon air freshener. But Edie in the doorway changes everything. The space feels warmer, alive, like she belongs here.
“Want a drink?” I ask because it’s something to say, and my mouth needs preoccupying.
“Want you,” she says instead, and the words hit me like Nick’s hands. Only Ilikeit.
“Edie…”
“I’ve been feeling you inside me all through dessert.” Her voice trembles, but she keeps going. “Every time I moved, I could feel where you’d been. It made me so crazy I thought someone would notice.”
“Jesus.” I grab her waist, pulling her against me. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” She rocks her hips against mine, slow, deliberate. “I need you again. Need you to make me forget everything but your name.”
I kiss her hard, walking her backward through the apartment, bumping into walls and laughter breaking between gasps. “I need to see you properly this time,” I murmur against her mouth. “All of you.”
“Please,” she breathes.
In my bedroom, I force myself to slow down. The bathroom had been frantic. This, I want to savor. To make her feel how wanted she is.
“Strip,” I tell her softly. “Slowly.”
She hesitates but obeys, pulling the sweater over her head. The lamplight turns her skin gold, her hair dark silk over her shoulders. Her black lace bra is nearly transparent. My throat is dry. Then the jeans—unzipped, peeled down inch by inch, revealing matching underwear that I totally felt earlier but didn’t see.
“Leave the underwear,” I say when she reaches for the elastic. My voice lowers. “I want to unwrap you myself.”
“Your turn, then,” she cheekily says with her hands on her hips, as if I can’t already get enough of her index finger and pinky playing with her cute undies.
I pull my shirt off in one motion. I think a button pops off. I don’t care.
She barely contains an excited giggle. The dragon tattoo she’d glimpsed earlier coils up from my hip, its body winding across my ribs and curling over my heart. Beneath it, more ink. A phoenix on my shoulder, a broken compass on my wrist, things that meant a lot at the time, but, honestly, I’ve forgotten some of it since then. I’m always coming up with new things to get scrawled onto my skin. It would only be worse if I were male and Nick and I were identical twins. I’d want to be as different from him as I possibly could be. Crazy-colored hair, piercings, gauges, the works. Instead, I settle for tattoos in this female form.
“You’re like a work of art,” Edie whispers, washing her fingertips over me as she circles the dragon’s head.
I unclasp my bra and let it fall to the floor. Now, she can watch the dragon’s tongue flicker between my breasts. “You’rethe art. I’m just decorated.”
