The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Twenty six

Aaron sat in the corner of the living room, arms folded, eyes grim. He refused to look up at me, and I so needed his reassuring smile, his comforting touch, his undying support right then.
She waz tucked up in the armchair in her customary unobtrusive, almost cuddly way. She looked like any other middle-aged, kindly lady. Even her eyes wrinkled at the corners, as if she smiled all the time.
But her eyes were deep, dark and strange to look into. It felt like she was sucking me into her abyss.

"So, Camilla, have you given him your virginity yet?"

I couldn't stop my mouth from falling open. I stared at her, and gulped, at a loss for words.
Aaron made a sound like a cross between a grunt and a growl.

"Well?"

"None of your business," Aaron snapped, but quickly and softly enough that she didn't understand.

"What? Speak up boy," she said, turning to look at him sharply.

"Nothing, Mum," I cut in, trying to distract her. "Let's talk about it upstairs."
I took her hand and led her away, and she didn't protest.

We sat on the bed. It made me want to shudder, her here, on the bed where me and Aaron sleep every night, in each other's arms, and where we first made love. I felt like I needed to scrub the sheets and myself clean.

She reached out and touched my hair. It was so foreign a gesture, almost sweet, almost loving.

"Your hair is a mess," she scolded, tugging on it, and cuffed me lightly around the head. "How can you let your husband see it like this?!"

I jerked my head away, wanting to shout at her, to scream of my fury at the top of my lungs.

He likes it this way! He loves me just the way I am!

"Where is your straightening iron?"

I sighed inaudibly, and went to get them. She motioned for me to sit down in front of her and started to separate my hair into sections.

A rap on the head with the hairbrush shook me from my miserable daydreaming.

"So?" She prodded. "Have you had sex yet?"

I rolled my eyes, feeling a flush creep into my cheeks and down my neck.
There was no use trying to get out of it, or change the subject. She wouldn't relent. She never did.

"Yes," I answerex, tentatively. And clenched my fists, praying furiously that she wouldn't press further.

"Good," she said, like the cat who got the canary.

I held my breath, and didn't dare to say a word.
Please don't ask for details. Please don't ruin it for me.

"Did he ask about..? Does he know? He wasn't your first?"

I couldn't hold it in anymore.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?! I thought you didn't believe me, remember? And no he didn't ask because he already knew! Because he did believe me! And no he doesn't think there's something wrong with me, or that I'm broken and I need fixing, and so basically, none of the things you told me were true!" I burst out, all in one breath. My heart was pounding and my breathing shallow. Mentally, I face-palmed. I had no idea how she would respond to this.

My panicked thoughts went to my poor hair, hoping she wouldn't burn it off out of spite.

She blinked, stunned at my outburst, and then that mean expression filled her face, and I knew that whatever was coming would be bad.  

And then, out of nowhere, there was Aaron, and he was saying soothing things to her, and asking if she wanted to pop to the shops for her favourite biscuits to go with her tea, and he was helping her off the bed, turning to me behind her back to wink and mouth I love you.