The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(111)

Her silence shot bullets into my back as I stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

As the stained, chipped mirror reflected my dirty face, I whispered, “Give me a few more years, Della Ribbon. Just a few more before you leave me.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO





REN



2016



SCHOOL FINISHED FOR the holidays, and Della, ever the resourceful, refused to relax like she deserved after studying so hard. Instead, she wanted to contribute to our bills by getting a job.

I was too busy with the milking to argue.

After scoring the job with Nick March, I’d not only been made the head milk harvester but also the overseer for the rest of the staff on his dairy farm.

From figuring out how much protein and fibre to feed versus income per milk quart, to paddock rotation and herd streamlining, my time was booked from the moment I arrived to the second I left.

I loved being in charge and making a difference. I enjoyed working with the seven hundred head of cattle and ensuring happy stock, which in turn, made for ease of milking twice a day.

What I didn’t enjoy were the long hours I had to put in and the time apart from Della.

I often fell asleep earlier due to the brutal wake-ups, and she’d stay up later texting who knew what and watching romantic programs that probably filled her head with ideas of sex and marriage and things I couldn’t protect her from.

I’d wanted her to recharge during the school holidays, but in a way, I was glad she job hunted. It meant she had things to fill her days with, and no idle hands to date boys she shouldn’t be dating.

And because she was intelligent and extremely capable, she landed a job within a few days, helping a local florist make bouquets and other gifts, spending her hours playing with flowers, plaiting ribbon, and turning nature into stunning works of art.

Whenever I’d come home, she’d have some sort of daisy, tulip, or rose waiting for me, tied with a snippet of ribbon on the kitchen table.

I never told her how much I adored the fact that she thought of me while at work. That she still cared enough that I was the one she kissed on the cheek and helped cook dinner with. That I still held enough importance in her life to spend time with, even if it was doing something boring like watching a movie with microwave popcorn and overly sweet cola.

Those nights were my favourite.

I could even pretend we were alone in our tent surrounded by trees instead of buildings if we pulled our curtains tight and huddled together on the couch.

Normally, I was so exhausted, I ended up dozing beside her watching some comedy or drama while she twirled and tangled ribbon, making rosettes and ribbon-flowers for basket decorations at the florist.

It reminded me of the Christmas present Patricia Wilson had given her that first year. Della had loved the colourful ribbon collection. She’d set it safely in our bedroom and never touched them because she didn’t want the colours to get marked with grease and grime like her blue one had.

After a while, the ribbons were just there, seen but unseen in our bedroom until I carved her that wooden horse which then slept on the ribbons for the rest of its existence.

I supposed both gifts the Wilsons had either kept or thrown out when we left. Della hadn’t taken them when she ran away, and I’d had nothing to pack them into.

It helped recalling memories when Della was still young and easily impressed. These days, she smirked rather than smiled, and sometimes I wished I could trade her with the cute little girl I’d raised instead of live another day with a beautiful brutal teen.

Some days, we were perfectly in tune—our communication effortless and easy. Others, we spoke the same language, but the message was all scrambled. I’d get on edge, and she’d get snappy, and neither of us could stop the secrets slowly driving us apart.

*

Halloween.

Just like we’d never celebrated Christmas until the Wilsons, we hadn’t celebrated Halloween.

In the town where the Wilsons lived, it wasn’t a huge thing, and Della wasn’t interested in dressing up and door knocking on strangers. Mostly because I practically hyperventilated at the thought of her putting herself in such danger.

Humans were never to be trusted even on nights when it was acceptable to dress up like ghouls and witches and ask for candy.

This year, she wasn’t a little kid with a plastic pumpkin bucket ready for sugar. This year, she was sixteen and had used her own income earned from the florist to hire a Victorian outfit with a dress that ballooned with skirts and lace, taking up the entire floor in our lounge.

The pearl-beaded corset was tight and pushed up her breasts, barely covering her nipples and revealing acres of white, perfect flesh. She’d coiled her blonde hair until the messy curls turned into corkscrews, piled on top of her head and tumbling down around her face.

Her navy satin gloves reflected the light from above as she waved an oriental-painted fan, and the baby blue material of her gown coupled with the cream bodice and Victorian lace made her eyes pop in a way that looked almost ethereal.

I might love Della unconditionally with no impropriety of lust or denial.

But that night, I struggled to see her as out of bounds. It didn’t matter my body prickled or my heart pounded. I battled to remind myself that the stunning creature in finery wasn’t some woman I desperately wanted to kiss, but a girl I would forever protect.