They spent the rest of the evening having sex in every nook and cranny of the house. On the kitchen counter. On top of the washing machine. Over the edge of the bathtub. In the shower. Even, when it got dark enough, out on the porch. Katrin loved every minute of it. Loved how Pistol’s body responded to hers. Loved how he lay with her afterward, holding her and whispering about how beautiful she was.
In those moments, she could almost believe he was a man she truly loved, not just someone who’d wound up in an impossible situation with her.
The next few days passed in a haze. She ran her errands, did her freelance projects, and waited for Pistol to get home so they could get back to fucking. One day, she’d run into Penny, her neighbor from when she’d lived at her dad’s house.
Penny had given her a huge, enthusiastic greeting and had asked a million questions about what she was doing now. “Is it true you’re married to Pistol Wilson? Oh, honey, I warned you he was trouble, didn’t I? How did you finally tame him? How come I never see you around your dad’s anymore?”
Katrin hadn’t known what to say.My dad arranged for me to marry Pistol and now my dad’s basically keeping me a prisoner in a house he bought on the edge of town. It’s great, thanks.
But the thing was, itwas great. And not just the sex. The way they were around each other — laughing, joking, watching TV together in the evenings… It felt very companionable, very domestic. It was almost possible to forget sometimes that they’d been forced into this life. Pistol was letting his guard down, and so was Katrin. Together, they were building something out of something that Leonard had tried to build for them. They’d crushed the life that Leonard had forced on them, and now they were creating something new and beautiful.
But how long could it last?
###
She could tell it would be one of those nights. One of those nights where the memories of her mother took over and she couldn’t sleep. She stayed downstairs for as long as she could, drinking decaf tea and reading. Waiting until she was fairly sure Pistol was asleep, because she didn’t want to explain to him why she didn’t want to have sex tonight.
Why not?she asked herself.You have no problem fucking him six ways from Sunday, but you can’t just say, “I don’t feel like it tonight?” But what if he sensed something was wrong and wanted to know what it was? She wasn’t sure how much to tell him about her mom.
And worse, what if he didn’t notice anything was wrong? What if the only thing he wanted from her was sex? She needed to be careful not to rely on him too much, not to trust him to comfort her or actually be … a husband. He wasn’t her husband, not really.
At two a.m., when her eyes felt strained from reading and her butt numb from sitting, she made her way quietly upstairs. Pistol was breathing heavily — not snoring, but close. She smiled. Stood there for a moment, watching him sleep. He sprawled like a big cat, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed, the covers kicked off. He was wearing just a pair of black boxer briefs that hugged his ass. The moonlight coming through he slats in the blinds gleamed along the ridges of his thigh muscles. Beautiful. This beautiful man was hers.
But for how long? And is he really mine, if he was forced into this?
She undressed and crawled into bed beside him. Fought to get the elastic out of her hair, and ran a hand through her dark curls, massaging her scalp as she did. She rested her head on the pillow and tried not to stare at the bedside clock.
Mom, I need you. Where are you?
She tried to close her eyes. They flew open again after a few seconds.
Mom, I’m scared.
Her throat tightened as she remembered her mother’s face, her smile. Her mom used to take her to the regional baseball park when she was little. They’d watch the local team play. One game, Katrin’s favorite player hit a foul ball that flew into the stands. Katrin had seen it coming toward her, had extended her small hands, ready to catch it. It had dropped straight toward her, like this was fate, meant to be — and then at the last second, the guy with the beer belly sitting behind her had leaned forward and snatched it away from her.
She’d stood there, stunned and angry, unsure what to do. Her mother had turned to the man, and said, very calmly, in a voice that was firm but without rancor, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy had called her mom a bitch, and Jess Smith had said, just as calmly as before, “I feel sorry for you.”
Then she’d turned and gone back to watching the game. Had taken Katrin’s hand and squeezed it. Katrin hadn’t said anything. Had decided that if the man wasn’t worth her mother’s time, then he wasn’t worth Katrin’s either. It was just a stupid baseball, after all.
But after the game, as they’d made their way between the bleachers toward the exit, Katrin had felt a tap on her shoulder. She’d turned, and there was the man with the beer belly, grimly holding out the ball to her. “Here,” he’d muttered.
She’d gazed at him, at his salt and pepper stubble, his milky blue eyes. “You can keep it,” she’d said.
He shook his head. “It’s yours.”
So she’d taken it. It was still warm from his hand.
Later, in the car, her mother had said, “Well, he did the right thing in the end.”
“Yeah,” Katrin had agreed. “He was probably just having a bad day.”
She hadn’t missed her mom’s strangely sad smile. “A lot of times, if you’re kind to people—firm, but kind—they’ll fix their mistakes on their own. Gentleness is usually better than anger.
“Okay,” Katrin had said, turning the ball over in her hands. It was dirty from the field — the red stitching brown in some places.
“But sometimes…” Her mom had let out a long breath. “You have to know when to fight.”
Katrin glanced at her again. “You didn’t fight with the man.”
“No. I didn’t need to fight with him. But there will be people who…situations where…” Another sigh. “Just remember, you don’t always have to be nice. If someone hurts you, fight back.”
She was staring at the clock, but the red numbers were blurry. She was crying. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks, wetting the pillowcase.
What if the person hurting me is someone I love? Dad’s all I have left in the world.
Maybe not.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling instead. Now the tears ran along her temples, getting lost in her thick hair. She tried to stay quiet, but a couple of soft sobs broke from her throat.
Pistol shifted beside her, and she fought harder to stop crying. But after a moment, she heard his voice in the dark. “Kat? You okay?”
Kat. Like they knew each other. Like they were friends, or lovers, or both. That made her cry harder.
He rolled over to face her. “Katrin?” He sounded concerned. “Katrin, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she managed between sobs. “I’m sorry. I just … can’t sleep.”
He edged closer to her and wrapped an arm around her, tugging her against him. She resisted for a moment, then buried her face in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just held her for a long while. Stroking her back, kissing her hair.
Finally, she drew back enough to see his face. She half laughed, half sobbed. “I need some tissues. He reached for the nightstand on his side of the bed and grabbed a wad of tissues. She took them and wiped her face.
He held her again. “Is it something … I mean, is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head. “Just missing my mom,” she said, taking a chance on honesty.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head again. “Nothing to be sorry about. Sometimes I just need her, and it’s hard not having her here.”
He stroked her back absently for a moment. “What’s your favorite memory of her?”
Katrin tensed a little in surprise. “I’m not actually sure. There are so many.” She paused. “I remember her taking me grocery shopping when I was five. She’d let me inspect the fruit to make sure it was good — no bruises or rotting spots.”
He smiled at her in the dim light.
“But really,” she continued, “I just remember how brave she was. How smart and kind…”
Pistol reached out and stroked a tear from her face. “You’re definitely her daughter, then,” he whispered.
She tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. She finally choked, ducking her head.
“Hey, hey…” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she said. “No, that was so nice of you. I don’t always know if I’m … if I’m doing her proud.”
“Of course you are.” Pistol sounded very certain. She wanted desperately to believe him.
“When she was dying, I was in school.” Katrin let out a shuddering breath. “She kept telling me not to come home. That my studies were too important. I wish I’d come home.”
Pistol gathered her even closer, until she was crushed against him, feeling his warmth and solidity. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s really not.”
“I know.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “But I could have been there.”
“Shh. It’s all right now. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
It was such a relief to hear those words. Even from someone who couldn’t possibly know whether she’d done anything wrong. Even from someone who didn’t really knowher.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“My God, Katrin. Of course you can wake me when you feel like this.”
She drew back again, wanting to see his face. His eyes glinted in the fragmented moonlight. But he looked so tender — that expression was one she’d never have imagined him capable of based on their interaction in the bar. But he did care about her. He was, in many ways, a very kind man.
“What was your mother like?” she asked softly.
She thought she saw his expression darken. She hadn’t meant to drag up bad memories for him, but she wanted to know him. Wanted to know him the way he was trying to know her.
Pistol didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “Nothing like yours.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she whispered.
“No. I can… I just try not to think much about her.” But something in his voice told Katrin he thought about her quite a lot. “She was a drug addict. Heroin. That made it hard to have a meaningful relationship with her, sometimes.”
“Oh God.” The room seemed hushed, waiting. “That’s so hard, Pistol. I know. In my pre-med program, we met patients who were addicts. It was heartbreaking.”
“Yeah, well. She was hooked and didn’t want to get better.” He shifted. “My dad died when I was ten. Which sucked. I really needed him around.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder. He almost seemed to flinch.
“Ten years old.” Her voice was soft, hoarse.
“Guess it kind of fucked me up, huh?” he said tightly.
She ran her hand down his arm. Slow, steady movements. “I don’t think you’re fucked up.”
“Then you don’t know me that well at all.” But there was no harshness in the words. Just resignation.
“I know you well enough.” As she said it, she knew it was true. She didn’t know him intimately, but she knew him enough to see that there was a good man underneath the flaws.
She stroked his face, thumb running along his stubble. “You needed someone there for you.”
He seemed like he was fighting the urge to pull away. She didn’t let him. “I had the club,” he mumbled.
“How old were you when you found them?”
“Sixteen.”
Six long years without a family. With a mother who couldn’t take care of him. “They’re my family,” he said firmly, as if reading her thoughts. “They’re all I need.”
What about me? Could you ever see yourself needing me?
“You’re brave,” she told him finally. “You’re strong. You matter, Pistol.”
He swallowed. Eyes blazed for a moment with what looked like anger. She knew the feeling: the certainty that you were to blame for every bad thing that had happened in your life.
Could you ever trust me with your secrets? Ever trust me to know how to make things better. I may seem like a good little girl. But I can fight, when I need to. I can fight for you. For both of us.
Neither said anything for a while. Eventually, the twined their arms around one another and fell asleep in an embrace.