Nata

Whatever idea Phillip has in mind starts the swirling inside my ribcage. I bite my lip.

"Let's go back home," he says.

No. Way. I can feel my eyes open wider. "The duplex?"

"Yes." The side of his mouth slides up. "My bedroom."

I tug my hands out of his fingers. "I'm not ready for sex."

His nascent smile falls off his face, his gray eyes stormy. "What kind of monster do you think I am?" Phillip's voice is colder than a Chicago winter. "Even though I'll never say no to you if you want sex, I don't imagine you'd want it for a while until your body heals." His tone softens. "This isn't about sex."

The acidic churn in my gut slows. I tilt my head. "What other letting off steam activities can one do in a bedroom?"

The smile makes its way back into his eyes. "I have a great imagination." Phillip's voice goes low and slow, like the hot foamy milk we were pouring in our one-of-a-kind class. His knee bumps into mine underneath the table. Shivers creep from the point our legs touch up to my hip. "I'll be happy to introduce you to one part." He leans across the table. Although none of his words are sexual, my chest heats. "Would you like me to tell you? Would you like to guess? Or Would you like for it to be a surprise?"

Fire ignites behind my breastbone. Him bringing me here was one of the rare surprises I enjoyed.

I trust Phillip.

My heart beats quicker in anticipation.

"Surprise me." The churning in my stomach that I thought was fear turns out to be a whirl of excitement. Whatever Phillip's idea is, I want to be part of that. I stand and leave the undrunk coffees on the table. "Let's go home."

Phillip takes the bag with to-go boxes and sneaks us out through the back door into the parking lot and into the warm luxury leather of his SUV. Coffee and excitement rush through my veins. It's mid-day, and I should feel guilty for not being at work with my new employee, yet I'm not eager to return to the office. The hustle, the staring at the screen, the endless meetings—their importance diminished, and I haven't been away for a full workday yet.

I watch Phillip's profile as he focuses on the road and navigates the car to the highway that takes us back home. I thought today would be boring. Would anything with Phillip be truly boring? I imagine me sitting on the couch reading through the backlog of my medical journals as he reads...whatever people like him read. What does he do in his spare time? Maybe I do not know him as well as I think I do if I can't answer that question. The dull ache below my belly button builds. I swallow another pain pill to alleviate it.

Monday lunchtime traffic isn't bad. The weather is a perfect September sunny day when it feels like an echo of summer came to visit. We have a bit longer to go, and my hands bend and straighten a piece of paper I took from the console between us. What is Phillip planning to do with me in his bedroom that involves feathers? My thoughts jump straight to him teasing my naked body with one and even with the pains in my abdomen, a jolt of "yes, I want that" speeds across my skin at the image. I file it away for future use. I unfold and refold the paper again. I need to get my mind off the guessing game.

"How come you are so close with your dad?" The question that appeared in my mind yesterday when I saw the two men together, genuine affection and respect clear as day between them, comes out before I censor it as too sensitive. We've discussed my parents. This only feels fair.

Phillips throws a quick glance my way but remains focused on the road. "Dad and I have always spent a lot of time together. He used to work a lot when I was little, getting the company to the position it has today, that's why Mrs. Buckingham took care of most of the days, but Dad was there for my baseball games, swimming competitions, and birthdays." He explains as if we were in the middle of a conversation already. "We always went on several trips a year: skiing, visiting his extended family in the Netherlands, or traveling around the world. He used to blindfold me and hand me a pin, and we'd visit the country I stick it into." Phillip's face burst into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "The best adventures I had as a child were with him. He is one of my best friends."

Who are his other best friends? Another question I have no answer for. I can list Samson's best friends from college and his best friend from high school he's been going on runs for when I'm not available. Does Phillip even have friends? I adjust the air vent so it doesn't blow directly into my face. One day, I will ask him all those questions. Today, I want to know more about his father. "You never fight?"

"Never?" Phillip shrugs. "No. Rarely? Yes. We can usually solve most of our differences with an unpleasant but civil conversation." He indicates he's turning right to reach the ramp, and the click-click of the turn signal fills the air. "I guess we've never had a major enough disagreement to really fight." Phillip takes a big breath. "Even with all my fuckups in my twenties and my divorce, he's been on my side," he says in a quieter voice. "I can't imagine anything that could come between us." He shrugs again but this time with a smile. "We can talk about anything."

Like our deal. He told his dad about our deal right away. I can't imagine talking to my parents about getting pregnant by a guy you used to tutor in college. I crumple the already disintegrating piece of paper in my hands. We're going to have to come up with a different explanation for them once I get pregnant. A one-night stand? They'll probably believe that. An impulsive thing would make more sense to them than us being a-romantic partners raising a kid.

"Do you fight with yours?" he asks.

I shove the paper ball into my miniature purse that makes even less sense in the light of day. "Not anymore." I clasp in shut. "We have a silent agreement to never talk about anything we disagree on. So . . . no fights but no honesty either."

"You lie to your parents?" Phillip's voice climbs up as if it's an impossibly hard concept. Don't all kids lie to their parents? Isn't that the rite of passage? Part of growing up and separating from the adults who raised you? Phillip glances at me. "Dad and I never lied to each other."

I stiffen. "Well, maybe not lie directly but not admit to the truth. That's been our relationship as long as I remember. Our family doesn't talk about things. We sweep them under the rug and pretend they never existed. Like my sister. No one mentions her. You'd think we've always been a family of three. Do you and your dad talk about your mother?"

"We do." He nods. "But only in a reverent way. I can't really tell if Mom really was the saint Dad portrays her to be or if he doesn't want to talk about the hard parts."

Saint? I huff. "In my experience, no one is a saint, and talking about the grimy parts of life is avoided."

Phillip takes a sharp right onto the street that leads to our complex. "That's why I want to find out what Professor Mallard knows about Mom."

"Are you sure you're ready for the truth?"

"I am." He stops at the red light and faces me. "I've been craving it." The longing in his eyes is almost painful to see. His greed for more information about his mom is palpable. "I want to know both of my parents."

I rest my hand on his shoulder and squeeze the soft knit fabric of his polo. "I hope to find what you are looking for."

We park in Phillip's garage. He sets the takeout on the kitchen counter. "Are you hungry, or would you rather let off steam first?"

After the breakfast that had enough food to last me the whole day and the coffees we had, my hunger is dormant. My curiosity, however, is wide awake. I half-squeeze my eyes, as if that'll make my choice less embarrassing. "Steam."

Phillip grins, sets the food into the fridge, takes my hand, and leads me up his stairs.

I've been to his bedroom before. We've both been naked in his bedroom before, yet the butterflies in my chest come alive with every step up we take. Even though he said it wasn't sexual.

Phillip stops by the closet in the hallway, lets go of me, takes out four pillows, and hands me two. "Let the fun continue." His lips are back to his almost permanent smile. Phillip nudges the door to his bedroom open, stands by the foot of his bed, and smacks one then the other pillow against the mattress.

"A pillow fight?" I ask, unsure of what he wants me to do.

"Maybe later." His smacks the pillow against his comforter again. "For now, just hit the bed with a pillow."

"That doesn't sound very 'letting go of the steam' like."

"Try it." He wiggles his eyebrows at me. "You might like it." He hits the bed yet again. "One of my therapists recommended that to me when I was a kid." His next thwack brings dust up. "I ruined a lot of pillows in my day." Smack. "So if they rip, don't worry. We'll buy more."

I can't imagine hitting hard enough to rip a pillow. Maybe if you are a hormonal adolescent, but not me, a rational adult. I drop one pillow on the bed, take the other one in both hands, and give the mattress a thwack. It's underwhelming. "Is there anything special that I need to do with it?"

"Just keep doing it." He hits his side. "Don't stop." Smack. "Don't think." Smack. Smack. "Don't question it." He hits it so hard the bedframe creaks.

"Do I do it five times? Ten?" I glare at his arms, moving in tandem as he beats the shit out of the bed.

"Let's start with fifty," he rasps, no longer in control of his breath.

"Fifty seems like a lot."

"Try it." He breathes heavy. "I promise it will make you feel better. "

I thwack the pillow on the mattress again and start the countdown. Three. Ten. Am I doing this right? Fifteen. My breathing is even. The bed is unrumpled on my side. Twenty. I glance back up and Phillip, who keeps hitting the comforter on the opposite side of the bed, but far enough from our blows to collide. He doesn't look up.

Fine.

I give it all I've got.

With every hit, I tighten the grip on the cotton of the cover. I get the hang of the movement, and my thwacks become louder, dust billows in the streams of lights from the window. As my fists fasten around the cloth, my chest unlocks. My anger and fear rush down my arms. I lift them higher and land the blows with more force than I've ever thought a pillow can inflict.

I hit and hit, and I don't know how many times I've done it. Fifty? A hundred? I'm not ready to stop.

The hot spikes of shame that were hidden away behind my ribs fly out and join the beating. The images in my head play a disjointed movie starring my parents, my dying sister, Samson, and his mother, endless failed trials, and the blood from yesterday.

They swirl, merge, and form unrelated gory images as I beat Phillip's bed like it's at fault for every single thing that went wrong with my life.

The ripping sound doesn't stop me, but when feathers fly out of the pillowcase and cover the duvet in a white layer of fluff, I let go of the pillow. My chest heaves, and my eyes are damp, but I feel lighter and clearer. I find Phillip's figure standing still, his pillow intact, but a thin layer of sweat on his forehead betrays his exertion.

He smiles at me, drops one pillow, and pulls the sides of the other one apart. The ripping sound accompanies the eruption of more feathers. He scoops some and throws them my way. They lose momentum and float down in the middle of the bed. I giggle, scoop my feathers, and climb on my side of the bed before I throw. They reach Phillip's chest, and one clings to his knitted polo.

Ease tickles my throat and comes out as laughter.

"Prepare for a fight." Phillip climbs on the bed and rips his other pillow open. His second feather ball reaches me and gets stuck in my hair.

I throw my second one. He throws his third. We stop taking turns and scoop handfuls of feathers as quickly as we can, spreading them all over our clothes and hair, slipping out the ones that make it into our mouths. My heart hammers against my ribs in a happy rhythm, and I laugh, even though more feathers land on my tongue.

Phillip's hands are longer. Soon, most of the feathers are gathered around me, like an unmelted fluffy snowbank. Light and warm. Exactly like the feeling in my heart.

"The victory is mine." Phillip pumps his fist in the air in triumph.

"I didn't know we were playing," I say through my giggles. I grasp his polo and tug him to the side. He loses his balance and falls sideways to the head of the bed, dragging me with him.

I topple down on my back, my hands still fisting his shirt. My heart soars. Phillip rolls over, half caging me between his chest and the mattress. His eyes shine. Feathers float around us, and I struggle to catch my breath. My stomach rises with every inhale and contacts the exposed skin of Phillip's abdomen.

"Feeling better?" he mumbles against my cheek.

"Much."

"Good." He props himself up on his forearms, and his gaze roams across my face.

"Why are you looking at me like this?"

"I'm memorizing what your happy face looks like." The crinkles around his eyes deepen. "I think this is the first time I have seen you this carefree."

My smile widens because I do feel carefree. And I'm not guilty about the feeling. I don't know if this is what happiness feels like, but whatever combination of endorphins and dopamine I'm high on works better than the pain pills. I lick my lips and move a feather off them. "Can we do this again sometime?"

I take some white fluff out of his hair and blow it away.

Phillip repeats my motion and picks stuff out of my hair.

Multiple times.

"Stop." I playfully shove his hand away, and he lies next to me.

"I'm just trying to take the pound of feathers out of your hair."

I drag my hand across my head and groan. Prickly bits are all over it. "How am I going to get rid of them?"

Phillip sits up. "Let me re-braid your hair."

I narrow my eyes. "What do you know about hair braiding?"

He extends his hand. "Do you want another surprise?"

I search my mind for a protest or fear that he's going to mess up my already messy hair, but the only feeling is curiosity and eagerness to see where things go.

I want more surprises from Phillip.

More time with him.

More everything.

I pull myself up with his hand and slide across the field of feathers to the edge of the bed.

"Stay here." Phillip runs to the ensuite.

8.11.23

Author's Note

Almost a pillow fight!!

This was a longer chapter and the last one in a series of Nata's POVs.

In the next chapter, we flip to Phillip and resume the plot.

This was originally the chapter that was supposed to go right after the latte art lesson, but as you know, the characters talked me into the previous chapter to hash out some much needed items.

This wasn't quite the pillow fight most of you guessed but so close! What did you think about this featherful activity?

My youngest is back to school this week, so there's a lot of adjustments to schedule and back to school activities, but for now I will keep Fridays as my update days and will let you know if anything changes.

Thank you so much for your support, vote, comments, follows, and for additng Love Consequences to your reading lists.

When you add the story to a public reading list, it helps other potential readers find it easier, and that always brings me joy.

Love,

GR