Page 91 of Licks

They were downright sexy. I blinked, wishing my eyes were a camera, capable of capturing the simplicity of a blushing Gwen, on her bed, bare legs folded, wearing my boxers.

“You can steal my underwear any time.” She could have my whole damn wardrobe, as long as she was mine. I moved her mother’s time capsule between us. A possible live grenade. “Whatever’s in here, we’ll get through it.”

She quit picking her nails and switched to chewing her lip. She nodded noncommittally. Whatever her mother had buried would hit Gwen hard. There was no shouldering that burden for her. All I could do was love her hard and be her rock. That didn’t keep my heart from racing.

4 p.m., 8 Hours…

Gwen

Still shaken up over my mother’s words to August, I didn’t reach for the box right away. How had a woman who’d barely paid me a lick of attention known I’d loved my best friend? Why would she have shown him a hint of her affection toward me, when all I’d ever received was a cold shoulder?

She’d pushed us together on my nineteenth birthday, and again while she’d been dying. She had known me well enough to predict I’d push August away. Yet during her illness, we couldn’t talk without fighting.

It didn’t make sense, but I didn’t have the energy to unwind that aggravating knot.

Unable to delay any longer, I snuck my fingers under the box’s fitted lid. It took three tries to loosen it. August had obviously cleaned the exterior, but trapped dirt—twenty-eight-year-old dirt—spilled out as I shimmied it up. The mess went unnoticed. I couldn’t focus on much besides the mysterious contents.

A gold locket was wedged in a corner. Papers that matched the diary were folded at one side, a tiny stuffed bear lodged between them.

Three things. All this stress over three little things.

I lifted the bear first, the least worrisome object. Who didn’t love stuffed animals? This cutie was purple with a white muzzle and black nose, a darker purple ribbon tied around its neck. It smelled of stale, musty dirt, but the fur was still soft. I petted it, then set it aside.

August’s attention was glued on me, his stare unwavering. I kept my focus on the box and reached for the papers, but at the last second I chose the locket. Again, it seemed the easier selection. The one with the least ramifications.

Dirt had lodged into its seam as well. It tumbled out when I pried it open, joining the debris on my bed. I frowned at the picture inside. “I don’t get it.” I rubbed my thumb over the faded image.

August leaned closer and the bed shifted. “Get what?”

Scrunching my face, I turned the locket over. There was nothing of interest except this one photo. “It’s of my aunt Sarah. Why would my mother have buried a picture of my aunt?”

My affair theory darkened. I’d overheard that phone call so many years ago, Mary hissing at her sister, telling her never to call again. Could Sarah have been the other woman? Had Mary’s own sister stolen her man, leaving her to raise her child alone? My body tensed at the possibility.

August eased the locket from my grip and studied it. “Seems odd, but I bet those pages explain it.”

Item number three. The scariest of them all.

Sucking back a massive breath, I pulled them out. They were more fragile than the bound diary, dirt and dust unkind over the years. I spread them out gingerly. Three pages. My mother must have had a thing for threes. I lifted them and began to read.

Dearest Gwen,

You will never read this. No one ever will. It makes it easier to tell you how much I love you. I loved you the moment you were conceived. I loved you for the nine months you filled my womb. I loved you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything, and giving you up is the hardest thing I will ever have to do. But having Mary raise you will keep you safe. My sister will take better care of you.

I gasped and clutched at my chest, as though that would ease the pain squeezing my heart. Tears burned my eyes.

“Baby, what is it?”

Oh God, oh God, oh God. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t read more.

August slipped the trembling papers from my hand. When he said, “Holy shit,” I knew he’d read it.

As though detached, I observed my shaking hands, watched as my tears hit the gathered dirt on my blue duvet. A few spots turned muddy. I blinked and more tears fell. They felt like someone else’s tears. This felt like someone else’s room. That letter must belong to someone else.

“My mother wasn’t my mother,” I whispered.

August moved until he was alongside me, drawing me down to rest my head on his chest. He stroked my hair, kissed my head. I cried some more. I’d cried more the past two days than I had the past ten years. His soft shushing helped me gather myself. Gathering my thoughts proved more difficult.

“If Aunt Sarah was my mother, why did she stop calling and sending cards? Why did she cut me off?”