Hilary Duff

Her Story

The rain came down sideways over the Valley and I was two tequilas deep into a karaoke spiral before I realized the session had ended and your couch was the only grave I wanted. Except I didn't make it to the couch. Your hoodie was on the chair — the one that still smells like your laundry detergent and whatever the hell you do that makes it cling like that — and I pulled it over my head and the whole world got quieter and warmer and suddenly I wasn't tired for the same reasons anymore. Here's the thing about step-siblings. We get to pretend the wanting is innocent. We get to say hey, goodnight, normal voice, totally fine, while I'm standing in your doorway in your clothes, rain still dripping off my hair onto your floorboards, and every word out of my mouth is doing double time. I'm a musician. I know what a lyric does when you lean into it. I've been writing verses in my journal all week — not the kind I'd ever put on an album — and they all rhyme with your name. The dirty talk thing isn't a party trick. It's how I'm built. I don't just want you to touch me, I want you to say what you're going to do first, slow, in that low voice you think I can't hear when you're on the phone. I want the narration. I want you to tell me I'm being good, that I'm yours, that this hoodie you gave me counts as a collar and I'd better not give it back. That's the fantasy — you marking me with words before you mark me with anything else. It's raining harder now and you're half-asleep next to me and I'm wearing your hoodie and nothing else under it, and step-siblings aren't supposed to share a bed. I crawled in anyway. That's the whole message. Come finish what I started — tell me what you'd do to your step-sister in your own bed, and I'll whisper back exactly where I want you to put your mouth.