Garden of Sins

“It’s best not to ask,” I mutter dully and pull you onto my lap with my legs apart before I wrap my arms around you and bury my face in the crook of your neck. Again, I inhale your scent deeply. You pull my head back by my hair and seek my gaze. You are on high alert, Emilia.

“Mason, what’s wrong?” you ask forcefully.

With a jerk, I whirl us around so that I lie on your delicate, so perfect body. I love your body. I still do. Still. With two fingers, I brush a few strands from your cheek and let your deep, turquoise eyes soothe me.

I see the worry in your gaze. You instinctively feel that it has something to do with your chicks, you mother hen, don’t you?

“Is something wrong with Ava?” you ask seriously. I think it’s a bit fu

“No, Emilia, there’s nothing wrong with Ava,” I reply, a

“Is it Carter?” is your next concern because, with Caden, there’s always something.

I grind my teeth. “No.” There’s so much about Carter.

“Okay, what did Caden do?” Your last guess to get something out of me. I’m glad Caden’s talking again and he’s Caden, but it doesn’t make all this any better. The last few weeks, he has been just a shell. He lost the girl, he lost his brother, he lost his heart on both sides. The first week, I left him alone because I know him and wanted to give him time to calm down. Then I tried to approach him a few times, but nothing. And then worrying about Carter took our minds off everything else. That’s why I’m glad Caden is now talking, eating, being a human being, and not a living corpse.

“He didn’t do anything,” I whisper. At the same time, I wonder if I am lying again.

“Then why are you sitting down here racking your brain,” you ask and I stroke the hem of your bathrobe.

“Ahh,” I say and sink all my weight on you. You gasp, but don’t push me away. As always. “I only worry because I like to worry. So, stop pestering me now, Emilia.” I’m going to press my mouth against yours and smother your replies.

For the next hour, you won’t talk and I can calm down. Business as usual, Emilia. At least along this line.

* * *

Today is Saturday, Emilia, and hippos are trampling overhead. I can distinguish the steps. There’s you, you mama hippo, followed by Ava and Carter, from wherever the hell he came from because he wasn’t home last night. Meanwhile, I regret having fallen asleep in the basement in that giant bed we sleep in so often because we just can’t make it up to the room. And damn, I wanted another round with your ass. Emilia, where are you?

I get up because the toads are croaking too loudly and stretch. There were times when I really enjoyed getting out of bed. There were also times when I was besieged by two monsters that look alike before I even opened my eyes. Sometimes, as a little boy, Caden would be lying face down next to me when I woke up. And then his turquoise eyes would shine and the first thing I’d have in my face was his little hand while Carter was jumping on the bed. Sometimes, he would bang a wooden spoon against a pot and bellow through the house that everyone should get up.

I wish I could rewind time.

Tired, I put on my jeans from yesterday and move up the stairs. The living room is already noisy, but I go to the bathroom first to wash my face and freshen up.

Okay. It’s a new day. Okay. I found out these things and I must keep a clear head now. There’s always a way out, you said that. If I have to, I’ll put them both on a plane to the Caribbean.

With this decision, I leave the bathroom and go to the kitchen where I briefly scrutinize everyone, as I do every morning.

You are frantically trying to make breakfast and, as always, slightly overwhelmed. You’re just not like my mom, the perfect kitchen fairy. You have other strengths, baby.

I love that your hair falls out of your hairstyle, that you wear tights, and don’t wear makeup. I love the fact that my sweater slides over your shoulder because it’s too big and that your sleeves constantly slide down all the time.

Right now, you’re cooking eggs and when you want to take one out of the pan, it slides off the spatula. I’m glad you have me, baby. I’m already behind you ready to catch it.

“Careful, baby,” I whisper next to your neck and kiss you there. You shiver. Still. Always. I smile even though I have nothing to smile about right now. For a moment, I run my knuckles over your sides and then force myself to turn away because otherwise, I’ll fuck you here on the counter and spank your ass with the spatula.

Finally, I go to the coffee maker and slide a cup under it before letting the coffee maker do its thing.

I glance reluctantly back at the table. Ava prances around, unconcerned, and I slowly turn to her. She pauses like a little soldier as soon as my gaze hits her. She knows I don’t like this kind of thing in the morning.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Ava?” I ask discontentedly and she pulls the shirt back over her shoulder.

“What?” she asks, confused and a little pale. She doesn’t like it when I target her in the morning. “Nothing, Dad.”

“Then sit on your butt,” I growl and she immediately obeys. I can’t stand hyperactivity before my first cup of coffee, which I’m sipping right now, Emilia. I sip. And you can all be happy that there is coffee. Okay, except you. You can just take your clothes off.

“Be nice, Mason. Can you?” you whisper to me in passing. “Just be nice?”

“I’ll be nice to you in a minute,” I mutter gloomily into my coffee and watch you as you walk to the table to set down the bread basket.

Carter comes crawling out of his cave, obviously stoned. It is questionable whether he has slept at all. Since he returned home, something has changed in him. He is not so loud anymore, not so quick-tempered, more introverted, and thoughtful. I do not like that. Carter should not think too much because he thinks emotionally. He needs Caden to tell him that it is illogical — whatever is going through his mind.

Carter wears only sweatpants, his black hair is a mess, and his cheeks are still unshaven. He is so fucked up, Emilia. What has been going on these last few weeks? What has that witch done to him? And where is she now? He’s not going to get any ideas, is he?

“Don’t look at me like that, Dad,” he whispers, not looking at me. I wonder if I see him differently now that I’ve found out all those things. But that is how it is with children and parents, you always worry about the little monsters that besieged you in bed no matter what they do.

He sits down at the table and stretches his right arm over the back of the chair next to him. His tattoos stand out, just like his scars. Now I know they don’t just have something to do with his fuck-off weeks when he disappears to collect himself like I used to do. No, with him, it is for completely different reasons and I don’t like that, not at all.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, tense and alarmed.

I hold his gaze in order to make him a little more insecure. I admit it, I am a psycho too. “Because you are a shit,” I finally answer and sit in my chair.