The boy and his ribbon

Her scolding worked, and Della’s bottom lip wobbled with confession. “I kissed him. I-I did what you said and only kissed the boy I loved with all my heart.”

Cassie fell back, ripping her hands from Della the same way I had. Her own heartbreak shattered all over her face as she looked back at me.

I couldn’t do a thing but stand there with my head shaking and my hands opening and closing in helplessness.

“Is that true?” she breathed. “Did you kiss your baby sister?” Loathsome disgust painted her features. She switched from happy-go-lucky Cassie to judge and executioner. “What sort of fucking pervert are you? You let her kiss you? Are you insane? What the fuck else do you do in that one bedroom, huh?” She climbed to her feet, stalking me, backing me into a stable. “Have you fucked her, Ren? Is that why you won’t like me? I’m too old for you? All this time, you’ve been sleeping with someone half your age. Someone who shares your blood?!” She dry heaved as she slammed the stable door with me inside and slammed the lock home. “Don’t fucking move, you sick, twisted asshole. I’m getting my father.”

The fact that I stood there, locked in place even as Cassie flew from the stable was a testament to how wonderfully Della had crushed me.

I had no energy to fight for my own freedom.

I had no ability to argue my defence so John Wilson wouldn’t call the police for suspected incest and child abuse.

I just stood there, staring at Della on the floor.

Begging her silently to fix this.

To rewind time and never do what she did.

“Ren…” she murmured between thick tears. “I’m so, so sorry.” She stood and wobbled toward me, grabbing the locked partition between us for support.

I backed away, deeper into the stable until the hay net stopped my retreat. “Don’t come near me.”

The desolate broke

There was no turning back from this.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Somehow, her wounded voice snapped me from my stupor, and I charged forward. Reaching over, I unbolted the lock and stepped as far away from her as possible.

I might not have anything to say in my defence, but I had plenty to say on behalf of Della’s. I should never have returned that kiss. I should never have given in. Dream excuse or not, I should’ve known better. I should never have let her believe such boundaries could be crossed. I should never have encouraged hugs and kisses and affection.

This was my fault, not hers.

And if anyone was going to be punished, it was me.

John had to know the truth, and he had to know it now before the police came to take me away. Before they found out I was the runaway who stole a baby named Della Mclary. Before they found out I was a criminal who’d kissed that stolen child. Before they found out my past as a slave and knitted my sad sorry tale together and the newspapers wrote fiction, lamenting that anyone who’d been sold and forced into labour before he was ten years old was bound to have issues. That it was only natural for his story to end with him in jail for molesting the very same kid he stole.

I was understandable.

I was a statistic.

Della was not.

She was so many things.

So many wonderful things.

But she was no longer mine.

We were no longer Ren and Della.

No longer fake brother and sister.

No longer the Wilds.

Backing away from her, I grunted around my fury and grief, “Go back to bed, Della. I need to fix this.”

I left her in the stables, crying and beautiful and perfectly screwed up from my lack of skills as a parent. I’d been the one to break her. I was the one to muddle her mind and make her think kissing me was appropriate.

And as I knocked on the Wilson’s door and prepared to face the symphony that I’d conducted, I didn’t think she’d ever disobey me.

I believed I would fight for her right to stay with the Wilsons.

I thought I would shoulder all the blame, be taken away in hand cuffs, and leave Della in the capable control of a family I’d grown to love as my own.

But just like I’d trusted Della never to overstep our friendship, I ought to have known what would happen.

I ought to have seen that as I entered the Wilson’s house and prepared to do battle, Della Mclary would pack my old backpack, dress in warm clothes, and sneak unseen through the starlight, leaving me, leaving us, leaving everything behind until the only thing that was left was her twisted kiss on my lips.

By the time I realised what she’d do, it was too late.

She was gone.