“I’m not gonna have to explain to Salvatore why your bandages are all fucked up tomorrow.”
Honestly, I didn’t feel up to it either. But my libido wasn’t working on the same wavelength as the rest of me.
“How’s your face? Really.”
“It’s alright. Feels like I got hit in it a few times. It’ll fade.”
“It’s looking worse by the minute,” I told him.
“If you don’t wanna be seen with me tomorrow, I can have someone else fill in for me at the charity.”
“What? No.” I was offended even at the suggestion. “Why wouldn’t I want to be seen with you?”
“Because I look like I had a fistfight.”
“I mean, yeah. But we can spin it.”
“Spin it how?”
“Well, maybe we left the holiday party last night in search of some food that would satisfy something larger than a finch. And we were mugged. And you fought off the attacker.”
“You’re okay with lying to everyone?”
“That’s kind of what has to happen, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But the question wasn’t about what has to happen, but how you feel about it.”
“I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
I tried to ignore the way my stomach twisted, how my pulse quickened, how every system inside me was screaming in discomfort at having to have this conversation.
“You.”
“What about me?”
“Well, if I’m never going to see you again after Christmas, I guess I can see this whole situation as a lie that has to be told to protect me. If I am going to see you after Christmas,” I went on, “then I guess I can see the lie as a necessary evil to protect someone… someone who…”
“Someone who, what?”
“Someone who means something to me.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent I’d ever been. But it was honest. And I felt like Venezio was the kind of man who could appreciate that.
“Alright,” Venezio said with a deep exhale. Like he hated this, but was going to do it anyway. And emotional vulnerability in a man like him? That was hotter than I ever could have expected. “Gonna just lay this shit out there.”
“Nice opening,” I teased, trying to make it easier for him. “Did you rehearse it?”
“You gonna let me talk?”
“You gonna get to the point?”
I got a snort at that and the tension that had been creeping into his shoulders and jaw slackened.
“I’m in this.”
“You’re… in this,” I repeated. Some part of me wanted to just accept him at that, knowing he was clearly uncomfortable even dancing around his feelings and intentions. The other part of me needed brutal clarity or I was going to obsess over it until I was sure he meant the exact opposite of what he said. “Just to clarify, by that do you mean… you know… inme, or…”
