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“These are for me?” she whispers.
I just smile.
She goes from item to item, touching everything individually, and the look of wonder on her face brings a lump to my throat. Finally, she drops her hand and stares at the desk for a moment.
Then she comes over to me and slides her arms around my waist.
“You shouldn’t keep buying me things,” she whispers. “But thank you so, so much.”
“You’re welcome.” I kiss the top of her head. “I’m only doing it because I want to get in your knickers.”
That makes her laugh. “You don’t need to buy me things to do that.”
“It might make you extra grateful.”
She lifts her face for a kiss. “I promise I’ll say a big thank you later.”
I buy her things because it pleases me to, even small items—a pack of hair scrunchies in bright colors; a box of tiny bottles of bath salts and another of perfumed candles because she loves baths so much; and boxes and boxes of peppermint creams, because she absolutely adores them.
One day when she’s in the living room, sketching at her desk, and I go around to her bedside table, looking for her headphones for her, that I open the drawer and discover that she’s kept not only the velvet bags and the small boxes that all these presents came in, but also any wrapping paper I used, the tape removed with care so the paper remains intact, after which she’s carefully rolled it into long tubes secured with elastic bands, presumably so she can use it again.
She also takes ages examining everything I buy her—turning it over in her hands, brushing her fingers over it, smelling it, and placing it by where she sits on the sofa so she can look at it during the evening.
It’s only as time goes by that I realize just how damaged she is, and what a lasting effect that her stepmother’s and stepsisters’ cruelty has had on her.
Later, I plan to see if I can convince her to go to counseling. But for now I try to help her heal the only way I know how: by bringing her into my family, because they’ve helped me through some difficult times, and by using love and sex to show her what she means to me.
I hope that every kiss I give her, every hug, every orgasm, replaces some of the negative actions she’s experienced over the years. It’s not an onerous task. Making love to the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen is no hardship for me, and I’m more than happy to do it as much as I’m physically able, all the time she feels well. Luckily, she seems imbued with as much friskiness as I am at the moment, and the two of us can hardly keep our hands off each other.
Mathew continues to give her a clean bill of health, and declares all is well with the twins. Catie is slowly putting on weight—the hollows in her cheeks are less pronounced, and her skin has a constant rosy glow, helped I’m sure by our walks along the beach in the early summer sunshine.
On the twenty-first of December, it’s my and Kip’s birthday.
“I want to ask you something,” I say to Catie the night before. It’s late, and we’re in the bath again, sitting at opposite ends this time, eating peppermint creams while we listen to Stevie Wonder’sTalking Book.
“If it’s to do with sex, the answer’s yes,” she says, and giggles.
My lips curve up. “You’ve got sex on the brain. And you should never give a blanket yes. You don’t know what I might be asking.”
“Anything you want to do to me is fine by me.” She sips her alcohol-free wine, her eyes gleaming over the rim of the glass.
“Don’t try to distract me.”
“You’re so easily distracted.”
“I know. It’s about my birthday. Kip’s asked whether we would go out to dinner with him and a lady friend.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Lady friend?”
“Yeah. He’s been talking to this girl on Tinder. He said she’s nervous, and he thought it might help if we double dated. If you’d really rather not, I’ll make an excuse.”
She bites her bottom lip. “What kind of restaurant?”
“Well, it won’t be a burger joint, but I’ll try to restrain him from bookingLe Soleil.” It’s the most expensive restaurant in Wellington.
She stares at me.
“I’m joking,” I tell her. “I’ll make sure it’s not too fancy.” I metaphorically cross my fingers behind my back that he does as he’s told. He’s a great lover of fine food and we’ve eaten at the poshest restaurants in the city. He forgets not everyone’s used to eating in those sorts of places. I think Catie might pass out again if we go somewhere like that.
