Secrets that had to stay secret were the worst. Like nails on a chalkboard. Or that annoying college roommate who constantly saidmoist.
Only sadists used the wordmoistin casual conversation.
Tennyson smiled. “I know how you get over secrets.”
See?!
“But the answer is stillNo.”
“Pretty please.”
“Chiara, we can do this all day. The answer is no.” Tennyson smirked. “Though maybe if you let me snuggle Mr. Chuffy, I’ll be nice and whisper it inhisear—”
Grrrr.
“Do you want the good news or bad news first?” A loud voice said right by my ear.
I jumped at least ten feet in the air.
“Jack!” I went to swat him away, but of course my hand flew straight through his chest and cracked into the side of the kitchen table.
Both guys laughed.
Double grrrr.
I was so done with men today, both the corporeal and non-corporeal variety.
“What’s the good news?” Tennyson asked.
“The scar in Branwell’s apartment isn’t nearly as large as the one in Volterra.”
Ah.
“But there is a scar now?”
“Indeed there is.”
SIX
Jack
The scar hovering in thesalaof Branwell’s apartment was quite small. Maybe a fourth the size of the one in Villa Maledetti.
“So where is it again?” Chiara asked.
I pointed to the space between the flat screen TV and the open window. Like the one in Volterra, the scar hovered above the ground, as if suspended in liquid.
Chiara frowned at the space with narrowed eyes and a scrunched brow. Basically, she looked completely darling.
I hadn’t seen Chiara in months.
I wanted to be aloof. I wanted to not notice when she walked into a room. I wanted to be able to ignore her. To not needle and rile and goad her into giving me a reaction like some youthful, overeager swain.
But . . .
Over the intervening months, I had forgotten one important thing—everything felt more vivid when Chiara was around. As if she were determined to pack years and years of existence into as short a time as possible. Every emotional reaction was amplified ten-fold.
Was she obnoxious? Hell, yes.
