Page 68 of Heart Over Heels

The disparity between this and his stage persona was vast. All the dolls used different names for work versus play, but I had never considered them as separate identities. Some weren’t as divided. Elliot and Colt both seemed to be “you get what you get” situations, with personalities relatively unchanged whether on or offstage. But the others seemed to try a little harder to hide.

Once Darby had mastered the toaster’s controls, he wrapped the rack in foil, not wanting to “ruin the newness” of Oz’s gift. Then we loaded up the s’mores and let them cook. I leaned against the counter while Darby stooped in front of the oven, watching the process through the glass door. His tail swished, and I realized how much of an effort it must have taken to keep it still as long as he had at Bingo. It was even more animated than he was.

The oven worked just fine, and Darby beamed at the sight of golden marshmallows and chocolate bars melted into puddles. We carried our spoils, along with a couple of beers I dug out of the fridge, to the living room sofa.

“Molly loves s’mores,” I said once we’d settled in with our plates balanced on our knees.

Darby took a bite, trailing marshmallow goo from the cracker to his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I smiled as he licked his lips clean. “She’d beg for them whenever I was home between deployments. Didn’t matter if it was July in the desert heat or pouring rain—we’d light up the firepit in the yard and toast marshmallows until she fell asleep in my lap.”

I leaned back, beer bottle loose in my hand. “She burned every one she cooked. Scorched black. I convinced her I liked them that way so she didn’t feel bad.”

The memory tugged at something tight in my chest. “She was six the last time we did that. I remember thinking if I could capture that moment—her sticky fingers, her giggles, the smell of woodsmoke in her hair—I would’ve. Just bottled it up and took it with me overseas.”

I gave a soft laugh and shook my head. “Closest I came was putting marshmallows in my pack once. By the time I landed in Kabul, they were a brick.”

Darby’s tail flicked across my shin. He looked pensive, paused while his s’more went cold on the plate. “You miss her,” he said.

I nodded. “All the time.”

“I miss my mom,” he said. “She was my best friend. Braver than anyone I’ve ever known. Life was hard for her, but she never let it show to me. She made it feel like we had our own little world, just the two of us.”

His gaze grew distant as though watching a movie in his head. “She could sew too. Made me the prettiest outfits with lace and ruffles, ribbons, bows. You’d think it’d be wasted on a boy, but she never cared. She said pretty was for anyone who wanted it.”

He tilted the bottle in his hand and watched as the amber glass caught the light.

“She loved me; that’s what I remember most. No matter what anyone else thought or said, I always had that.”

“Is she…” I hesitated, hoping he understood what I wasn’t bold enough to say.

He gave a somber nod. “Long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

“I died too, Mercy. Also a long time ago.” His lips quirked like the joke was bitter on his tongue. “It’s okay.”

The silence hung, heavy but not unwelcome. I’d learned to sit with heavy things. Loss and grief were close companions during the time after my discharge. I visited them less frequently as time wore on, but I still knew them well.

Lifting my s’more, I took a bite. Sweetness hit first, followed by the smoke of the chocolate. Comfort food in its purest form. My jaw worked while I tried to think of anything worth saying, something that wouldn’t sound trite.

When I glanced over, Darby was watching me. His gaze dipped to my cheek, pinpointing something I couldn’t see. Before I could ask what it was, his thumb swept the side of my face, then he held it up, sticky with melted marshmallow.

“Missed a spot.”

He offered it out like he expected me to suck it clean. My mouth watered instinctively, but we’d barely kissed, and it felt like a leap to go from that to licking his fingers while imagining they were other things.

A truth I’d been holding onto rose to the surface of my mind, demanding daylight. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I haven’t ever been with another man,” I said, voice low and sheepish.

Darby’s eyes searched mine, his expression unreadable. Then he drew his finger back and stuck it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around before popping it free.

“Do I look like a man to you?” he asked. His tone was feather-light, but his gaze cut deep.

“No,” I replied. “Not entirely.”

His tail twitched against the cushions. “So only partly. Which parts?”