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“It didn’t help?”
My brow furrows. “He seemed to think I have a repressed crush on Kennedy.”
“You don’t think that’s the case?”
“She’s my first cousin.”
“That’s not illegal in New Zealand.”
“I didn’t know that, actually.”
“And it’s not an answer, anyway.” She tips her head to the side. “Are you sure you don’t have feelings for her?”
“Not in that way. We’d drive each other nuts if we got involved romantically. She’s far too ditzy and disorganized for me, and I’m too in my own head and analytical for her. We’ve never felt that way about each other.”
“But you were close before the accident happened?”
“Yes, we saw each other all the time. Our dads are twins.”
“Right. So you love her. Like a sister?”
“Yes.”
“And you see her a lot. You like to keep an eye on her, make sure she’s okay?”
“Yes.”
She strokes the back of my hand with her thumb. “Do you feel guilty because Christian died, and for some reason you survived?”
I don’t say anything. The room is busy, but over here by the window it feels as if we’re in our own world. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the waiters gesture to another to leave us alone, as if they’re aware we’re sharing an intimate moment.
She strokes my hand again. “Do you hate the fact that you’re healthy and whole, but that Kennedy had to have operations and now has a fake arm?”
I inhale deeply, then blow a shaky breath out.
“Do you still dream about that day?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Damon, you have PTSD, and survivor’s guilt. What it means is that deep down you’re terrified that if you don’t look after the women in your life—all women, in fact—some harm will come to them. You feel you don’t have the right to experience the joys of life—and the pleasure of sex—unless you’re doing your utmost to put the woman first.”
I stare at her. How come I’ve been struggling with this my whole life, and she’s figured me out in ten minutes?
She smiles. “All that’s happened is that you haven’t met the right girl, someone who understands that you have this basic need to protect and please. It’s not a fault. It’s a wonderful part of your psyche that needs cherishing and embracing. You think you’re broken because you like to give women multiple orgasms before you let yourself come?”
“Well…” We both start laughing.
“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me,” she teases.
“It’s just that Rachel—”
“I’m not Rachel,” she says.
I close my mouth. Her eyes are very blue. “No,” I say eventually. “Clearly not.”
“And I know you think you’re cursed, but you’re not, Damon. Or at least, if you are, I know how to break it.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Let me say right here, right now, that you can make me come as many times as you like. With your fingers, your mouth, your body, with toys, any way you want.”
My eyebrows rise.
