I'm so dizzy that I can barely stand, but I make myself face him, pushing up from the sink and trying to maintain my balance in the four inch heels on my feet.
“Regina,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. There's no emotion there though, just a simple greeting, a hello he'd give to any stranger. I stare right back, my own voice caught in my throat, struggling to get out, to do something drastic. I want to scream at him, throw something, but at the same time … I want to run into his arms, feel those strong muscles wrap around my body and hold me close.
He's gotten so … big, I think as I stare at my former lover, at his wide shoulders, his taut abs, his towering height. Guess he filled out a little after he left. I swallow hard and realize that our daughter is screaming some pretty horrendous curse words and flailing around a can of pepper spray. Shit, she must've snagged that from my purse.
“Solène!” I shout, my voice covering Cliff's as he tries to get his granddaughter under control. Gill turns slowly to look at her, at his own child, and nothing flickers in his gaze, no recognition, no acknowledgement of the life he left behind. Of course, he never knew I was pregnant, but look at her. Just look at her. She looks exactly like him. “Honey, that's your … brother,” I say, my voice coming out in a sharp whisper. My vision flickers and blurs, and I sit down heavy in my chair again, trying to come to terms with what I'm seeing.
Gilleon Marchal, here, in the flesh.
I've dreamed about this moment for years, only now … it seems the dream's come true too late. All I feel when I look at Gill is anger, a truly passionate rage that I have to swallow three times to get past.
“It's just your brother.” My voice comes out in a whisper, drawing Gill's gaze away from Solène and back to me. The sapphire blue of his eyes triggers a mudslide of memories that churn my stomach as I look up at him.
“Oh dear,” Solène whispers, staring down at the pepper spray and then placing it in Cliff's outstretched hand. “Gilleon, of course.” She glides across the floor and smiles up, up, up at Gill's tall frame as he fills the archway between the foyer and the kitchen. “How lovely to see you again!” I watch as my daughter throws her arms around Gill's imposing form and squeezes tight. His mouth twitches into a small smile as he pats her head, his eyes still on my face. “It's been what, four years?” she continues, drawing some of the awkwardness out of the air with her infectious smile.
I still can't seem to find my legs, can't seem to stand up with Gill so close. Flickers of memory—his hand wrapped around mine, my body wrapped around his, our lips meeting in a rush of passion—assail me again and I turn away. I've moved on. I have. But this? This is just the sort of thing that could set me back.
“What are you doing here, son?” Cliff asks, his voice not entirely free of anger. I know he's worried about me, about what my stepbrother's sudden presence might mean. He's so intimidating now with that blank stare, those big muscles, an entire sleeve of black and gray tattoos. And when Solène hugged him? I didn't miss the flash of guns beneath his black jacket.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, calm, rational, completely free of emotion. “You and Regina.” Where's that passion I knew so well? That heat? The little electric bite in his voice when he said my name?
I stand up suddenly because I'm not going to sit here and quiver in his presence. I can't. I won't. My fingers curl into fists as I meet his gaze head on, waiting for something, some spark of the love that used to reign king between us. But there's nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I feel sick.
“Can we speak in private?” he asks, gesturing lamely at his still beaming daughter. Cliff nods and whispers something to Solène in French that I can't quite hear before leading her away towards the back hallway and the bedrooms. I watch them go, pulling my gaze away from Gill's so I can catch my breath. Even if he can look at me and feel nothing, I feel everything: fear, hope, anger, love. “It's good to see you again,” he says blandly, coming closer, his boots loud on the hardwood floors. My eyes snap down to them, to the black leather, and then travel up the dark denim on his legs, past his tight black T-shirt and jacket, right up to that achingly familiar face. His nose is still straight and perfect, his lips still full and inviting, but there's something missing there, something that I got so used to seeing that I didn't think twice about it. Passion. Gill used to be passionate about me; he's not anymore.
I stiffen as he moves forward and drapes an emotionless hug over my shoulders, giving me a weak squeeze that's all space and formality, not closeness and love. I don't even get the hug a normal stepsister would get. Just this. This nothingness.