Page 82 of True Colors
“I mourned my parents years ago,” I tell him. “I did my grieving. This”—I gesture vaguely—“is just a fact. Nothing else.”
He nods slowly, chastened. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “You’re trying to frame it. That’s normal.”
He looks at me like he’s recalibrating. “You’re right. I come from a world where parents hurt children by accident, not on purpose, as your mother did. I’m sorry, Anouk, that was thoughtless of me.”
His honesty disarms me. “It’s okay. I don’t need closure. I need…what I have now.”
“And what’s that?”
I pretend to think about it long and hard. “Orgasms.”
He looks shocked for a moment and then bursts out laughing. “Those I can provide.” He pushes me onto my back and kisses me softly, his face somber. “I’m sorry for what you went through. My heart breaks for little Anouk. And it swells with pride for the adult Anouk and what she’s achieved.”
I surrender, melt into him, give in. “Thank you, Luther.”
He cocks an eyebrow after a moment. “So…you ready for another orgasm?”
I smirk. “Just one?”
“So greedy,” he says in mock-exasperation. “I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 18
Luther
Summer has settled in, filtered through fog and restraint, the way San Francisco likes to do it.
It’s been six months since my first day at HelixSphere—six months since I thought firing Anouk was a good idea. It’s amusing to remember how dumb I was.
We’ve now been dating for nearly three months.
Best days of my life.
I have never been in a relationship that is this fulfilling, this easy. But it’s more than that; there’s rhythm at work as well because of how well Anouk and I get along.
That’s the thing people don’t talk about enough—how good work starts to breathe once everyone stops posturing and starts trusting. The Novagene project is one of the best I have worked on because of it.
We are discreet at work about our relationship. It’s Anouk’s boundary, and I respect it completely. She is private by nature, not ashamed—just careful with what she gives and to whom. I don’t need public proof of us. What we have doesn’t require witnesses.
No lunches together in the office.
No lingering touches where anyone can see.
No walking in or out together.
But outside of work, this is the most authentic relationship I have ever been in.
We cook together—me doing most of it, her perched on the counter, reading to me from whatever book she’s halfway through or telling me about a research article she read about friction economy.
We bike along the Embarcadero.
We fall asleep at her place or mine, wrapped in each other.
She laughs more and stutters less.
For the past week, she’s noticed that I’m stressed. No one else has. I hide that shit well, but somehow, she sees things about me that I never let anyone else see, except family. And now, apparently, Anouk.
