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She blushes at the implied compliment. Even that feels like a mystery in itself, as if her life was not filled with compliments, knowing looks, unwanted wolf whistles. It must have been.
There’s no way a woman with this body could escape that kind of attention, but she still blushes over it, as if hearing it for the first time.
“If I showed interest in a boy, it would be a death sentence for him. Unlike most fathers, mine would make good on his threats. And like you’re so fond of pointing out, I was a ‘good girl.’ I spared us all the heartache when I was a teenager.”
“Sure. But you haven’t been a teenager for a while.”
Her eyes lower.
She fixates on what she finds there instead, ignoring my prying.
“How did you get these?” she asks. Her fingers trace my scars, drawing lines between them, making little constellations.
“You’re not the only one with a complicated father.”
Contessa’s hand goes still.
“Your father did this?”
“Not directly, usually, but his work did.”
My own past has never been of much interest to me, discussing it a waste of time. The future is malleable, but the past is stone. The topic is a locked door, and I don’t have any intention of opening it for Contessa to start dancing around with those old skeletons.
“Do you hate him?” she asks softly.
I don’t answer.
I catch her hand, stopping her inquisitive touching.
There are some questions that don’t have answers.
“I can’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel about your own father. I’m nobody’s blueprint.”
Sensing that we are dangerously close to a shift in the mood, she crawls up over me, on her hands and knees, drawing me into a kiss. I meet her lips cautiously, wondering at this new side of her. It doesn’t feel like pity as her fingers card through my hair.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
“I’m not the one who doesn’t want to talk.”
Her eyes skirt away. She’s avoided my questions, outright ignored them.
Maybe she’s afraid she’ll have to focus on herself once I’m gone. I draw the association without realizing it. Maybe these aren’t just bullshit questions and idle curiosity. The more Contessa talks about me, the less she has to think about herself. She doesn’t have to think about how this night is split into a solid before and after, about those dark confessions I whispered in her ear in the heat of the moment. My eyes card over her belly without meaning to. I don’t know if post-nut clarity is a thing for women. Never thought to ask.
“I’ll be here until you fall asleep,” I tell her.
She lets me go turn off the light. The storm outside has faded, leaving behind a loud, lingering silence. Contessa tucks herself against my side. For a long while, she’s very still. Just when I think she must have fallen asleep, her voice rises softly in the quiet.
“One more question?” she dares to ask.
I’m not surprised at this point.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No,” I admit, too easily. “Never.”
It’s not something I even have to think about.
I wonder what that tells her, what she’s hunting for with a question like that. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to break it down into its most basic form. I don’t find easy answers in the darkness overhead.
