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“Not now.”
“You were?”
“My mum is,” he admits. “My dad isn’t. When they got together, they made the decision not to have us christened so we could make our own decision when we were old enough. Mum spoke to us about it sometimes. She’d tell us stories from the Bible, especially at Easter and Christmas. She taught us the Lord’s Prayer. We went to church with her a few times, just to see what it was all about. It may be because Damon’s younger, but he was probably the one of us who succumbed to it the most. He even talked about becoming a priest.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And then Christian died. Mum tried to talk to us about it, but you can’t tell three angry teenage boys who witnessed their cousin’s awful death that it’s all God’s plan.”
“No, I guess that didn’t go down well.”
“Saxon got very angry, not with Mum but sort of at her, and said religion was all a lie, and God didn’t exist. I just felt powerless. When the rocks fell, I was the one who swam back to shore to fetch help, and I swam so hard, I could barely breathe, but it still wasn’t enough to save him. Afterward, I had panic attacks every time I felt out of control.”
I’m quiet for a moment, genuinely shocked at that. I wonder whether he chose this moment to tell me, in the darkness, so I can’t see his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, stroking his arm. “Do you still get them?”
“Not now.”
I wonder whether he conquers it by staying in control. Whether that’s why he’s on the verge of being OCD. Maybe even why he’s so bossy in bed. I decide not to ask him that. “Do you still believe in God?” I ask instead.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I suppose it’s hard to un-believe something.” He clears his throat. “I don’t think about it much.”
I think about his younger brother, and the beautiful painting on the wall. “Why do you think Damon paints pictures of gods and angels?”
“He says it’s the only place that God exists for him now.”
“That’s incredibly sad.”
“I guess. I hadn’t thought about it before.” He kisses my hair. “Are you religious?”
“Kind of. Mum and Dad were both brought up Anglican, although they didn’t go to church regularly. They brought Charlie and me up in a similar way. We believe, but don’t practice as such. Sometimes I pray, I suppose. Not in a get on my knees by the side of the bed type of way, but yeah, I do believe.”
“And losing your dad didn’t change your faith?”
“No. Everyone dies. I don’t pretend to understand God’s purpose. I don’t get too theological about it. I keep my feet on the ground. I believe in faith, hope, and love, and try to apply that to the people around me.”
He kisses my hair. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
We’re facing the window, and I watch the stars flickering in the night sky, thinking about the shooting star I saw on Christmas Eve. I didn’t wish for a future for us, because I knew it wouldn’t come true. What’s the point in wishing for a man and marriage and babies when it can’t happen? Instead, I just wished for happiness, deciding to leave the manner of it in the hands of God, or Fate.
My eyes drift close, and I’m almost asleep when he murmurs, “I’m not going to let you go.”
I frown, knowing I should argue with him and tell him it’s not up to him. But I’m too tired, and instead I let sleep carry me away.
Chapter Twenty
Kip
When I wake, the sun is just coming up, filling the room with a white-gold light. I stretch and yawn, and then, as the memories from last night come flooding back, roll onto my side to face the woman who’s sharing my bed.
She’s still asleep, lying on her tummy, cheek pressed against the pillow. The sun has cast her pale skin in a rosy flush, and her blonde hair, while messy in its untidy bun, shines like gold thread.
I don’t know what it is about this girl that rings my bell. I’m sure there are more beautiful women out there, although it’s hard to think how her features could be perfected. I love her baby blue eyes, now hidden behind her lids, her long, fair lashes, her straight nose, the scatter of faint freckles across her cheeks, the attractive curve of her Cupid’s bow. And her body couldn’t be improved—she’s neither too thin nor too curvy, her waist dipping and her hips flaring in perfect proportions. And I love her breasts, and her pale pink nipples that point up, begging to be kissed.
But it’s not just a physical thing. I like her. She’s warm, funny, and genuine. Like I told her, she makes me smile, and that’s no small thing in this world.
I think about last night, how she trembled, blown away by our lovemaking and the sheer experience of being with a man. I feel humbled by that. I’d enjoyed introducing her to the wonders of sex, and I have to admit I thought it was funny to shock her with the ice, but I didn’t consider how my very masculinity might unsettle her.
