Chiara sank into an overstuffed reading chair beside me. All the life bled out of her. The fire, the spunk, the sass. My words had pulled the plug, leaving a Chiara-like shell behind.
Light washed her face from the window beside her. She turned her face toward it, staring out over the sunbaked summer countryside for a minute. Or two. Or twenty.
“Please, Chiara.” My voice hung with sincerity. “Please, talk to me. I promise I will hold it in confidence. I’ll be as silent as the grave.”
My attempt at ghost humor won me the tiniest of lip twitches. I counted it a victory.
She stirred, head swinging back to face me. “If you already know, why do you need me to say anything?” Bitterness laced her words.
“I know what Tennyson told me, but he kept to the basic facts. I want to hear it from you, personally. Not second hand. I feel I owe our friendship that much, at least.”
“Remind me to throttle Tennyson when I get a chance.”
“Not going to happen. Besides, I doubt your adorable, wee hands could do much damage.”
Silence hung.
We stared.
Tell me, my eyes said to her.Let it out. Burying painful things only forces them to fester. You will be better for shining some light into your soul.
She managed to hold my gaze for another moment before turning her head aside. As if she couldn’t face what she saw in my eyes. She swallowed. Looked left and then right. And then sucked in a deep breath.
Her voice the barest whisper. “My father committed suicide using lightning.”
And there it was. She surprised me, to be honest. Until it happened, I wasn’t sure she could actually say those words aloud. Her entire body hunched inward, protecting the pain inside.
I understood that pain. It was a kindred to my own. My heart ached for her.
“I am sorry,” I murmured, wanting more than anything to pull her into my arms. To offer her comfort. “I know what it is like to lose a father too soon.”
Granted, the same question I had remained—how did one commit suicide via lightning? But . . . baby steps.
“My own father died of a lung ailment. Pneumonia, most likely,” I continued. “What happened with yours?”
She folded her arms, but she did finally lift her gaze back to mine, her eyes an odd mix of pain and frustration. “I’m not going to take this conversation to such a dark place. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
“I can respect that. Know that I’m here if you ever change your mind.”
I waited.
She said nothing.
I tried a different tack. “Tell me about your dreams, Chiara. How do you think they relate to this?”
She sighed. A genuine sigh, not one of her signature, full-body, dramatic sighs. “I’m not sure, to be honest. They’re strange.”
“Does lightning feature in them?”
“Sometimes.”
“And other times?”
“It’s not significant.” She squirmed in her seat, refusing to meet my gaze. “Just . . . unrelated stuff.”
As far as revelations were concerned, that one lacked some punch.
“Stuff?” Something about her small hesitation made me curious.
