In bed that night, a little later than usual, Carla wrapped her bare legs around Brian’s. But she also rested her head on his chest, listening to his heart before they fell asleep. If they slid into bed and she pressed her ear to his breastbone, no matter where her hands might wander, it was too late for sex.
She was tired. If she rolled on top of him, of course, and kissed his face, she wanted sex—however he wanted to do it; however it happened, fast or slow, once or twice. Only after they were both satiated did she rest her head on his chest and listen to his heart.
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Afterwards, she liked hearing the beats slowing down and growing quieter.
With Trevor presumably asleep in the room sharing their wall, her fingers teased him so that his blood rushed. She lifted her chin from his chest, whispering, “What is it, darling?”
He wasn’t going to tell her not to call him “darling;” his discomfort at such a sweet endearment didn’t warrant his acknowledgment. And while Carla coming onto Trevor like that hadn’t surprised him, he attached no great meaning to it. Carla was always checking to make sure other men watched and wanted her. Their relationship, Brian assumed, was as exclusive as ever, because that’s the way she wanted it—although Trevor’s magnetism may have bent the rules if he hadn’t calmly reset and even fortified the boundaries. Brian’s protective and admiring love for Trevor—he was like a father taking joy in Trevor’s every accomplishment—allowed no jealousy. Neither brother wanted to share a lover: they’d tried that five years ago and it had caused such a rupture, Trevor had left without a word for five years. Brian would not suffer that worry and guilty again. Instead, he decided to invite Carla to bond closer to him, so she’d know more about the brothers—not everything, just more.
“I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.” Brian said. Trevor’s lie about their mother brought Brian’s fresh misery every time he heard it. One day Brian feared he might jump up and accuse Trevor of fabricating fairy tales to entertain people. And even if Trevor needed to believe their mother was dead when she wasn’t—Brian needed the truth. Same family drama, but Brian had to accept reality in order to push forward and lead his own life. Naturally, Brian wished he were big enough to let Trevor play out his troubadour fantasy, whatever he needed. But it felt impossible. How long could Brian keep the sad truth behind him if Trevor kept pulling out his fabulous version like a magician with silk scarves?
Brian’s sadness was harder, he thought. Of course, he would never tell anyone that. He would never tell anyone about their father lashing into him whenever Trevor crossed him. All Brian’s life, he had protected Trevor, and his ability to do that had felt almost like happiness. He loved Trevor too much, but he couldn’t help that—it wasn’t his fault.
Lifting Carla up, he told her just that their mother wasn’t dead. She had found a new life.
“So maybe it’s half-true,” Carla whispered. “Before she left, she might have told Trevor to think of her as being dead. She was never coming back. And all the details, Trevor reading to her, what she imagined for him and you—those could be true.”
“I know,” he whispered and lay back.
Carla rolled on top of him. Brian’s heart rose toward the light in her eyes and she slid down, kissing him gently all over. And at first, the pleasure she bestowed filled his body and mind. Where she put her mouth and tongue, the touch of her hands, how they cupped him, and pressed, in a rhythm that called to the universe. He hadn’t stopped responding when he wondered about the work involved.
That idea, that love was work—sex was work stalled him. Even if the moment he thought this, Carla increased her intensity and possibly—how could he know—her ardor for what she was doing so faithfully and thoroughly and generously. But he was busy shunning the word “work,” which had only occurred to him, because it seemed to be taking him longer than normal. Longer certainly than it would take Trevor.
Brian pulled away. What was wrong with him? He knew better than to compare himself to Trevor, no matter what occurred after dinner.
Carla was sitting up beside him, catching her breath. “Was it is, darling?” Wincing this time when she said, “darling,” Brian reached for his clothes heaped on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Carla.” With one sock on, he said, “Very rarely I get kinda claustrophobic.”
“Oh,” she said, pulling him back to listen to his heart.
But no, he really was claustrophobic. “I need fresh air. A minute or two outside and I’ll be fine.”
“I love you, Brian. You know that. I really love you.” Stepping onto the porch, walking toward the boulder in the middle of the lodge’s cabins, Brian accepted that much. Carla loved him. She must: she said it easily, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, as easy even as loving Trevor.
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