Page 29 of When Hearts Unravel (The Orchid #6)

Age Six, Thirty-One Years Ago

I can’t stop fidgeting.

My dress shirt is rough on my skin as I stare at the big mirror inside the boys’ room at the church. I’m waiting while Ryland uses the bathroom and Maxwell washes his hands. Dad has Ethan and baby Lana in the pews. Ethan won’t stop crying and Dad won’t speak. Lana sleeps all day. Lucky her.

I stare at the mirror again.

I look like a penguin in my black suit and white shirt.

A sad penguin.

I never write about penguins in my stories. They can only waddle around and swim. They are cute and cuddly. They don’t scare away monsters like Kazoo the T-Rex does. I hug the fuzzy green dinosaur closer to my chest and sniff it.

It smells like Mom—it’s faint, but still there. She hugged it the night before she died.

Mom loved penguins more than T-Rexes. She was supposed to take me to the Central Park Zoo to see them next week.

I hiccup, the itch on my arm worsening. A beach ball sized lump is stuck in my throat.

We won’t go to the zoo together ever again.

She won’t be able to wear her favorite penguin apron, cook in the kitchen while I stand on the big stool next to her, helping her with tomatoes, carrots, as she cooks her beef ragu pasta and stew.

She’d listen to my stories—dragons who hated spinach, fairies who turned broccoli into big trees so little kids didn’t have to eat them.

It’s so itchy. My skin is on fire.

Darting a glance at Maxwell, I find him huddled under the window, reading a scrap of paper. He’s supposed to give a speech at the funeral. He said it was his duty as the oldest Anderson son.

His lips wobbled when I asked him what duty meant. He said he didn’t know and he would’ve asked Mom, but she wasn’t here anymore. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he quickly swiped them away. Because he’s the oldest, he told me. He wasn’t supposed to cry.

It’s your fault, Rex. All your fault.

I wiggle my finger under the cuff of my shirt and scratch my arm, but it’s no use. If anything, it makes it worse. Looking around, I spot a small pebble, its rough edges shiny under the light streaming in from the stained-glass window.

Setting Kazoo down by the windowsill, I pick up the small rock and stick it under my sleeve. Then, I scratch my forearm again. Tears spring into my eyes when the rock digs into my skin.

But it works. The pain chases away the itch.

I glance at Kazoo. He’s sad too.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

No more penguins. No more Mom. No more Mommy and Rex adventures. Her lifeless face floats into my mind and I flinch, the itch growing.

She’s gone because of you, Rex.

Why didn’t I pick up my marbles that day?

Mom always said I should clean up after myself. Why didn’t I do it?

Then there were the voices. The argument. The loud banging door sounded like monsters. I ran outside to escape, even though it was raining.

Why didn’t I stay behind? If I stayed behind with Mom, would she still be here with us?

Because you were scared. You were stupid. You were afraid of monsters when everyone told you they didn’t exist. Scaredy cat, Rex. And now, Mom’s gone forever because of you.

I scratch harder and dig the pebble deeper into my skin.

I look at Kazoo again and whisper, “I miss Mom.”

More tears gather in my eyes, but I ignore them.

Crying won’t change anything. Crying can’t turn back time.

That’s when I hear it.

A sniffle, then a choked sob from inside the stall. Then another. And another.

Maxwell walks over and knocks on the door. “Ryland?”

Ryland staggers out and throws his arms around him.

Then, the unthinkable happens. My older brothers, the bravest boys I know, both start crying, their wails echoing against the walls.

My own tears slide down my face, and I run to my brothers and wrap my arms around them, not caring if I’m interrupting another special twin moment.

They draw me in and the three of us huddle, sobbing, snot dripping from our noses, because today, we have to say goodbye to the person who loved us the most.

“I shouldn’t be crying,” Maxwell whimpers. “I sh-should be strong.”

“I st-started it,” Ryland cries harder.

It’s me. I’m the one who caused all of this. I’m the one you should hate.

I want to tell them the truth. Mom used to say it’s important to be honest. I want to tell them what happened that day before I ran outside.

How I could’ve stopped this if I’d just cleaned up my marbles.

How I could’ve saved her. She was angry.

Arguing with someone. That was why she didn’t see the marbles when she stomped down the stairs. That was why she slipped.

But when I open my mouth to tell the truth, nothing comes out. Because being hugged by my two older brothers, who always say I’m a scaredy cat and no fun to play with, makes me feel loved. For a moment, my arm doesn’t itch.

I don’t want them to hate me.

I don’t want them to cry or be sad. If anyone should be sad, it should be me.

Tell a story, Rex. When you feel sad or angry, cook or tell a story.

“If heaven had moms, they’d better be ready. Mom is going to fix up their kitchen and cook yummy food for all the kids without mommies,” I blurt out.

The sniffles stop. The twins stare at me.

“She’ll have penguins as helpers.” I can’t stop the words from spilling out. Tell a story. Make it bigger. Make it fun.

“Penguins can’t cook.” Ryland snorts as he wipes his runny nose with his sleeve.

It’s working! They aren’t crying anymore. A fire burns inside my belly, and I thump my chest.

“They can in heaven! And Mom will teach reading and art to those kids too. We can’t be too selfish and keep Mom all to ourselves. That’s what Mom used to say. We can’t be selfish.”

“Mom is good at art. I miss her painting with me.” Maxwell’s lips wobble.

No. No. No. Don’t cry.

It’s all your fault, Rex. You did this. You need to fix it.

“I’ll paint with you,” I offer.

Nothing will ever fix it.

My arm itches again, and I rub it with my free hand, and the pebble cuts my skin.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“Your painting sucks.”

“Does not!”

“Does too.”

“I can cook. Mom taught me. Better than you, Maxwell.” I stick out my tongue.

My oldest brother’s eyes widen and he straightens, puffing out his chest. He’s really good at that—telling me he’s older by one whole year without saying anything.

“No one is better than me.”

“Who said?” Ryland jabs Maxwell in the ribs. The twins glare at each other.

“Ew…Ryland, you didn’t wash your hands. Mom wouldn’t let you into her kitchen. Her penguin army will chase you away when you go to sleep.” I scrunch my nose.

A snort tumbles out of Maxwell’s lips. Then Ryland snickers. And suddenly, all three of us are laughing, tears sliding down our cheeks as we imagine an army of cute little penguins chasing us.

“I don’t want your extra flavor in the stew,” I quip. We laugh even harder until our noses are runny again.

“You’re so gross, Rex.” That could be either of them. I’m not sure who.

“Disgusting.”

“You mean awesome. Because Rex is awesome.” I grin and bat my lashes, and they cackle even harder.

My vision blurs, and I stare at my brothers, who are bowled over, half laughing, half sobbing, twin smiles on their faces.

They’re laughing because of me. I made them forget.

I have to fix it.

My arm hurts where I keep scratching. I dig my nails and the pebble in harder.

It stings now. Something warm and wet soaks through my sleeve.

But I don’t stop. It really hurts now, but I deserve it.

And the tight feeling in my chest gets a little smaller.

Present

I jolt awake, my eyelids heavy, to her fingers trailing over my face.

My breath snags when I see Olivia leaning over me, her soulful eyes pooling with moisture. A bittersweet smile curves her lips as she brushes her thumb over my cheek.

There’s wetness there.

She’s wiping away the tears that have somehow escaped. Tears I haven’t shed in years because I don’t cry. Ever.

Crying is cathartic. It releases the unpleasant emotions—the guilt, the sadness. It helps you move on.

But I don’t deserve catharsis. Maybe if this mission succeeds, if I can atone for the past, then I can let go.

Then why are you telling her your secrets, you hypocrite? Isn’t that cathartic? Isn’t being with Olivia cathartic?

I have no answers. I’m too weak and tired to fight it—this attraction to her.

And she makes me feel safe.

“O-Olive, I-I…”

“Shhh…” She continues her gentle motions. Soft grazes on my right cheek, then my left.

Comforting. Loving. Sensations that should be for someone else, someone better than me.

The ball in my throat grows, every inch of me focusing on how her fingertips scrape over my skin, setting my nerves aflame.

Slowly, I reach into my pocket and pull out the red marble.

“I carry this with me to remind myself of what I did. How Mom died because of me. How Dad lost the love of his life and my siblings lost their mom because of me.”

I roll it around in my palm, remembering the sound of it clattering down the stairs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Why didn’t I clean up after myself?

“You see, I’m not sick, not in the traditional sense. It’s guilt. So you can’t help me.”

Silence falls between us.

“I’m so proud of you for sharing your past with me,” she whispers, her voice thick.

She reaches for my marble, but I pull away and stuff it back into my pocket.

I can’t let go of it.

Olivia nods like she understands. Then she slides her hand to my left arm and slowly rolls up my sleeve.

When I notice what she’s doing, I stop her. “Don’t…please.”

She pauses, her eyes intent on mine. Her sweet scent of clean cotton wafts to my nostrils and I rake in a desperate inhale.

Life. Love. Second chances. That’s what she smells like.

“Please,” she repeats. Her tongue dips out.

Heat gathers behind my rib cage and travels south. My cock stiffens when I take in her full lips.

Deep pink. Plump. The perfect curve for me to lick, suck, and bite.

My mouth waters and I slowly drop my grip on her wrist to see what she’ll do.

Olivia rolls up my sleeve and flips my arm over. I close my eyes and brace myself.

I know the moment she sees it, because a sharp gasp echoes in the room.

“Rex.”

Not Mr. Anderson. Not Rex-a-Million.

Just Rex.

My name sounds beautiful on her lips.

I open my eyes, finding her staring at my forearm.

“It’s not your fault.” She lifts my arm and slowly, excruciatingly, presses her mouth on my small, raised scars.

Permanent reminders of where I’ve carved up my skin.

For the next eight years after the funeral, I’d find more rocks to continue my pain, to scratch at the invisible itch.

I’d wear long sleeves or tell my brothers I banged myself up at school.

The scars weren’t big enough to sound alarms. It became a calming routine—making those around me laugh during the day, letting out the pain in my room at night.

Until my hormones kicked in and I discovered girls, and later on, alcohol and partying.

“You, my friend, are addicted to things that make you forget. You like to run away from your troubles.”

Casey’s right, as always, and the old phantom itch strikes again.

My fingers twitch, needing to scratch at the scar or reach for my pills. Or throw myself at Elias’s mercy and ask him for more jobs even though I botched the first one he gave me and will probably fuck this one up too.

It doesn’t matter. I need a distraction, no matter how dangerous, to make me forget.

Anything but think about the past, or about the temptation the woman before me represents.

My doctor. A gentle, pure soul. Complete acceptance and no judgment.

Forbidden.

But nothing prepares me for what Olivia does next.

She closes her eyes. Her thick black lashes, tipped in wetness, fan across her pale cheeks.

She kisses the scars. Soft caresses. I feel them on my cock. A growl rumbles from my chest and a flush crawls up her neck before invading her face.

What a pretty pink flush.

I want more. I want to see it over her creamy tits, spreading on her stomach. I want to know if the pink is the same color as her pussy or if those folds are a deeper hue—a dusky rose or a shade of coral?

I want to know if her cum tastes as sweet as her moans.

Or how her little mouth looks full of my cock. Can she get it all inside? Every single inch? Will she let me ram it deep down her slender throat until she gags and can’t breathe?

My mind spins as I watch her press kiss after kiss on my scars and my dick thickens in my pants, my heavy balls dropping.

Achy. Desperate. In need.

“Yes, little Olive. Kiss it. Suck it. Lick it. Because the next thing you’ll kiss will be my lips and my cock.”

She gasps, her eyes widening as if she finally realizes what she’s doing.

How terribly wrong it is—the lines we’re crossing.

How right it feels.

If this goes further, I can protect her. I’m an Anderson. We’ll hide this from the world.

The tempting thought takes root.

Olivia springs away and drops my arm like it’s a grenade.

But too bad. She doesn’t realize that grenades explode when you let go, and it’s already too late. She’s pulled the pin without realizing it.

I grab her hand, craving her touch. Addicted. She makes me believe I’m worth it.

Like I deserve catharsis.

“Don’t go.” My voice is guttural and raw. “Stay.”

Stay for me.

“I-I can’t be doing this, M-Mr.—”

No. Not Mister.

“I’m tired. Stay with me. And Rex…please.”

She stills, her eyes roving over my face and whatever she sees there has her sitting back down, her arm slowly relaxing. I twine my fingers with hers, relishing her sharp inhale and pinkening cheeks.

The blush is so beautiful.

She’s so riveting. Bewitching.

“Go to sleep…Rex,” she murmurs, softly squeezing my fingers.

I skate my thumb over the back of her hand, and by some miracle, my eyelids grow heavy, the sensual heat spreading and morphing into something different.

Peace. Quiet. Surrender.

The last thing I see before I close my eyes is her elfin face—an angel by the bedside of a demon.