We told her about recess, but she still thinks school is about work. Regardless of whether she wants to go or not, school is a requirement, and she has to go at some point.
She talks hushed, rain starting to patter against the windows. “If I don’t sleep, can I skip school?”
I murmur, “No. You’ll just be really, really tired at school.”
Coconut perks as Ryke slips inside, a towel wrapped low around his waist. I steal a second to admire his body, one that sleeps pressed up against me every night. I bet he took a shower outside, but the rain drenched him again.
When he catches me staring, his brows rise at mine, and I mime a howl, a true mating call. He flips me off, a smile playing at his lips, as loving of a fuck you as Ryke can go.
I concentrate on talking Sulli to sleep while he pulls on boxer-briefs. “You don’t want to sleep?”
Sulli says softly, “I want to stay up with you.”
She’s scared of missing out. “Sleep is one of the greatest things in the world. Guess why.”
Sulli thinks hard, fingers to her lips, then she shakes her head. “Nothing’s good about sleeping.”
“Yes so,” I breathe. “When you sleep, you dream. Amazing things happen in dreams, Sulli. You can fly and swim forever, and eat all the candy that ever existed. Great, wondrous things happen in your dreams, so every time you shut your eyes, think about all the places you’ll go. All the creatures you’ll meet.”
Sulli’s green eyes flit up and down my face. “Will you be in my dreams?”
“Sometimes,” I whisper.
“What about Daddy?”
“What about me?” Ryke climbs on the bed, lying on the other side of our daughter. Coconut at our feet. He props his head on his hand and stares down at us.
“She wants to know if you’ll be in her dreams.”
He must’ve heard my response because he says, “Sometimes.”
Sulli looks thoughtful. Squished between us, she reaches to my cheek and touches my long scar. I sense Ryke watching Sulli inspect me. It’s not the first time she’s traced the scar, but it’s the first time keenness and questioning blinks in her eyes while she outlines the shape.
The only sound is the pitter-patter of rain and our gentle breaths. Sulli then puts her finger to the scar on Ryke’s brow. From the Paris riot. Then her little hand falls to his abs, tracking the thick scar between his ribcage, cutting long and veering to one side. From his transplant surgery.
Sulli peers to Ryke, then to me, and she whispers, “You need Band-Aids?”
“No,” Ryke says with the shake of his head. “These are really fucking old, sweetie.”
Seven years have passed since Paris.
Sulli studies my cheek once more. “How’d you get that booboo?” She rolls towards Ryke and points up. “And that booboo? And what’s this?” She tenderly skims his transplant scar, not wanting to hurt him.
Ryke stretches his arm around Sulli and me, his palm on my shoulder in comfort. I’ve thought about what I’d tell her before, but all the words flit away. I look to Ryke for help because I just keep thinking about a two-by-four, nail attached, ripping through my face.
“We were in a fucking accident.” His tone is tender, despite cursing. He gestures from my cheek scar to his small brow scar.
Sulli’s face scrunches at the word accident. “What’s that?”
I explain, “It’s an unlucky event, but we’re better now.”
“You were unlucky?”
“Very. But guess what?” I nuzzle close.
“What?” she whispers.
“You’ve brought us all the luck in the world.” I kiss her nose. “So there’ll be no more accidents.”
Sulli sits up and plants her little hand on my cheek. She kisses my scar, like she’s seen her dad do before. “Mommy,” she says softly. A moment passes as she gathers her thoughts, but we hold gazes, our eyes the same green hue. “You’re the most beautiful mermaid in the whole wide sea.”
Tears well. I’ve expressed that sentiment to her before. “That’s you, Sul.”
“No, it’s you.” Sullivan stares at my scar as if I wouldn’t be me without it, and then she looks to Ryke for confirmation.
“You’re both fucking beautiful.” He sits up against the headboard, his knee bent. He messes Sulli’s hair until her smile overtakes her face.
I whisper wistfully to Sulli, “Sleep, dream.” Peace.
Ryke and I pull the covers up to her shoulders. She’s not ready to sleep, but we watch her, waiting, and she shuts her eyes this time. I replay everything she said, all her love towards us overwhelming me, and I look up to my husband.
He tucks a piece of Sulli’s hair behind her ear, but his hard eyes rest on me.
“I’m alive,” I whisper, “for these kinds of moments.” In Costa Rica, so long ago, he proclaimed this beneath a waterfall.
You’re alive, Daisy Calloway, for these kinds of moments.
Ryke pinches his eyes for a second, and when he drops his hand, emotion surfacing, his overcome smile fills me whole. I rub my face, my own tearful smile bursting through. I’ve never been so happy. I’ve never loved this much, but my bones vibrate with life—with every morsel of breath we breathe. With all the joy we scream.
I encapsulate this quiet day, this time, this second, tucking it gently away for safekeeping. I never want to lose this feeling, but if it happens to wane, I’ll remember that I can meet it all again. As long as I’m living. Just wait.
* * *
Sullivan finally falls asleep, and Ryke and I slide off the bed, careful not to wake our daughter. I tiptoe past Coconut, and Ryke gestures with his head to the door. I follow, both of us quietly exiting and latching the door shut so Sulli can’t leave.
Rain still drizzles. Ryke sets his palm on my lower back and leads me to a wooden picnic table, dry because of a roof overhang on the deck. The trek seems slow with anticipation, tension winding between us in the silence. I grow hot as his gaze drips down the length of my body, mostly pinned to my constantly moving hands. I twist the elastic band of my panties.
I eat him up just as hungrily, eyes grazing his abs and the bulge in his boxer-briefs.
Sulli is almost always with us, so sneaking in sex here and there has become an expedition. Ryke has a knack for pulling me into the shower with him. I have a knack for pulling him into the pantry, right up against the chocolate syrup and granola cereal boxes.
Ryke loves having sex outdoors, so whenever I’m feeling up to it and the timing’s right, we just go. I watch him watch me, and he hooks his finger in my panties, staring down. Lips close. The back of my legs hits the side of the picnic table, stopping. We attack one another at the same time, my hands all over his shoulders, his ribs, along his phoenix tattoo, down his biceps.
He kisses me, breaking apart my lips with his tongue, wrestling, never choking. Skillful, natural movements that latch my body to his and his body to mine.
Ryke cups my ass beneath my panties, his other hand rising up to my breast. He kneads, his thumb flicking my hardened nipple. My high-pitched cry tingles against his lips. He’s strong like stone, tall like every mountain, and dark like lone wolves.
The way his hands explore my body, I feel loved. Cared for. Like every inch is precious to him. Like he’d never do me harm, never take advantage, and always, always listen to what my body says. What I say.
Ryke tugs off my panties, and I step out. I run my hands over his unshaven jaw, through his thick hair, and he nuzzles my face up until I lift my lips, able to kiss him stronger, heartier. His muscles flex against me, and I can’t help but smile.
I pull our lips apart, just enough to whisper, “Can I watch you?”
Ryke’s arousal darkens his features even more, which makes my insides flutter. The thrill of it all. He’s so turned on, the outline of his erection visible in his boxer-briefs.
He cups my heat, so lightly, as though protecting me from the elements. His rough jaw skims mine, his lips veering to my ear as he whispers, “You want to watch me touch myself, Calloway? Is that what you fucking want?”
My heart pounds hard. “Definitely, yes.”
His fingers skim my clit, and I shudder. He lets go and then climbs onto the picnic table. There are so many windows in the tiny house. No matter where we go on the deck, the bed is in view. She’s sleeping, I just keep telling myself. I do not want Sullivan to see us.
I take a few steps backwards, towards the railing. Rain wets my hair and rolls down my arms and stomach. Ryke rests his soles on the bench, his ass on the actual table, and he removes his boxer-briefs. My breath shallows, and I dazedly lean against the railing, my body quivering just at the sight.
I’m aroused today, my blood pumping hot.
Ryke notices, but he listens to my request. He lets me watch him spit in his palm and then grasp his shaft. He rests his other hand on the table, slightly leaned backwards too. He masturbates, up-and-down, up-and-down, his eyes always on me.
I touch myself, my hands to my breasts, then lower.
His head tilts back. “Fuck,” he grunts. Then he rocks forward, his hand moving faster along his cock. My pulse speeds, sweat building faster than the rain can wash away.