Page 96 of Midnight Confessions

“Please, Winter, call me Richard. This is my home, make yourself comfortable.”

“Of course, Richard.” She smiles shyly, glancing in my direction.

“I didn’t know your father worked for Hill and Ash,” I say. “I work with them a lot, actually.”

“You never asked.” Her eyes sparkle pink and bright orange as the sun sets deeper into the ocean, its reflection slivering lights across the water directly into her eyes.

I realize, she’s right, I never did ask. We’ve talked about many things; Her friends, her shithead exes, her job, and hobbies… We laid in bed for hours talking about our childhoods, high school, and college. We talked about her family and mine, but I’ve never asked specific questions about them. More importantly, I’ve never asked about her mother.

I looked up Jolie's accident, of course. After Winter told me that her mother was dead, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. So, I searched for newspaper articles about her accident and finally contacted the court for documents of the trial where the driver of the car was convicted of manslaughter.

The accident was gruesome. It wasn’t her fault. She was turning left at an intersection and was side swiped by a drunk driver who ran a red light. She was trapped in the car for six hours while they tried to pry the steering wheel from her abdomen without killing her instantly—since the steering wheel was holding her organs in place.

Winter’s eyes begged me for trust the night she told me, so I gave it to her, telling her I was adopted without thought. I didn’t do it because I was minutes from experiencing her the way I craved to. I did it because it felt right. She asked for something to hold on to, so I gave her the rope, the harness, and the solid ground to land on.

It’s becoming very clear to me I’ll give Winter anything within my power to give if only she asks.

“Will your father be at the wedding?”

Her eyes sparkle when she looks my way. “Of course. Sondra and I have grown up together since we were babies.” Turning again, she looks at my father. “Her mother and mine were best friends from high school. Sondra is family. My brothers will be there, too.”

Meeting her father and brothers… I hadn’t thought of that.

“Splendid,” my mother pipes up from behind, and my head whips in her direction as she approaches the table. “I would love to meet your parents, Winter. Have they met Aleck yet?”

“Mom…” I say, shaking my head, guarding Winter from having to answer uncomfortable questions about her mother and our relationship.

My mom settles into the seat across from Winter, dipping her brows curiously.

“No, he hasn’t. We’ve only just met, really.” She giggles, shifting in her seat. “Not that I’m not thrilled to be here. You all are wonderful”

My full hand presses into her skin, my fingers slipping over and under the silk of her shirt rhythmically.

“Well,” my mom continues. “I can’t wait to gab with your mother about you two—”

“Mom,” I cut her off. My eyes widening in her direction.

“Aleck, it’s fine.” Winter places her hand on my thigh. It’s a slight movement, but one that calls attention to my strong need to protect her. “My mother is no longer with us, Midge.”

My mom gasps quietly, her hand reaching for her necklace as she collects the pearl pendant into her fingertips. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright. Honestly…” Winter straightens in her seat confidently. “No one asks about her. She’s a sore subject for my family, but that’s always bothered me. If I can’t talk about her, I can’t celebrate her memory, can I?”

The guilt I feel for researching the information without asking her myself is leaving a sour taste in the back of my throat. I’m so used to controlling my environment with research and knowledge about everything that surrounds me, I never considered human interaction is whatWinterneeded. A conversation, comfort, eye contact…

All things I’m not used to being comfortable with. Though, I suppose I’d like totry. WithWinter.

“I’m very close with my dad and brothers,” she continues. “We get together every Sunday for dinner, but we never talk about my mom. After she passed, no one ever mentioned her to me. Mostly because I’m her spitting image. We were exactly alike; We looked alike, sounded the same, we had the same interests and tastes, we even sang together.”

“You sing? How lovely,” my mom says with a sweet smile, eating up every word that comes from Winter’s mouth like it’s gospel.

“She stops you dead in your tracks with that voice,” I say, making my mother clutch her necklace harder.

“How romantic,” she purrs.

Jesus.This is like Christmas for my mother.

“We have a bit of a musician in our midst as well,” my mom muses, eyeing my father.

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