It’s not until I’m at the bottom of the stairs inside the apartment building that I look back. Dante has crossed the road and is speaking with whoever is on that motorcycle. I recognize the bike but don’t know from where. All I know is whoever that person is, they’re trouble.
But so is Dante.
I know this, and yet I can’t help but use him. There’s something about him that pulls me in. It might be the danger that I seek, but part of me instinctively knows I shouldn’t mess with someone like Dante. And I certainly shouldn’t be curious about him.
Borris is excited when I open the apartment door. I’m shivering and shaking from the chill of the night as I pick him up, desperate for a shower. I cuddle him, giving him kisses and praises as I find myself gravitating toward the window and balcony instead of the bathroom. I hide behind the edges of the curtain, looking down as the two men shake hands.
“I don’t know about this one, Borris. Something just isn’t right.” I know this, yet I keep giving Dante attention.
I’m playing with fire, and for the first time, through the haze of pushing everyone away, I understand that—and I’m certain that’s what draws me in, as if I know this man could be my undoing. Do I truly want to ruin myself entirely?
It feels like what I deserve, but I have reservations as to how much I’m willing to let myself fall. At some point, I have to pick myself up, right? But what if I choose not to?
I step away from the curtains and set Borris down the moment the motorcycle rides off, and Dante turns for the building. I unzip and strip back the leather jacket, curious about the lump in the inside pocket.
I pull out his wallet, the mischievous thought crossing my mind to steal his money for my own personal amusement, but it’s the small, black leather case that draws my attention.
I open it and pull out not just one, but two perfectly polished scalpels.
What the fuck?
Doctors don’t have a need to take surgical instruments home with them, do they?
Something about all of this just feels off.
The door opens, and I hold the blades up accusingly. “Do all doctors take these home with them?”
Dante spares them only a glance and then unzips his boots, seemingly unbothered. “You’re awfully interested in me lately,Cattivella. And, no, not everyone is attached to their blades. I personally don’t feel right without mine.”
I frown. It sounds kind of sadistic, and I’m still certain he’s not even a real doctor.
“Any other questions you have for me? I’m happy to answer anything you ask.” It’s the way he says it, the way he’s so open to my prying, that makes me pull away from his beacon of sunlight every time I ask about him.
Dangerous, I remind myself.It was only meant to be a one-night stand, and you’ve already failed yourself to leave it at that. Numerous times.
I put the blades back into their leather pouch and then throw the leather jacket onto the counter. “Whatever, I’m having a shower first, if you’re able to take Borris out for a tinkle.”
He chuckles, repeating “tinkle” as he picks up Borris and all but coos at him and takes him downstairs. It strikes me as odd how accommodating he is. That no matter how much of a bitch I am, he still does the things I demand as if he’senjoyingit, whereas I’m so used to people being pushed away because of it.
It irritates me because it would seem the one person who wants to gain more access than I’m able to give, is most likely a psychopath.
I sneeze,almost dislodging my sunglasses from the top of my head, as I hang with Borris this afternoon. I’m sitting in the dog park, sober, watching him play. This is the worst hangover I’ve had in weeks, since it’s the only time I’ve been sober, but the mere thought of having a puff rips at my lungs, and drinking gives me an immediate headache. Because now I’m fucking sick.
Turns out it wasn’t a good idea to jump into the frigid lake. Who knew? My impulsive decision has reminded me that I’m only mortal after all.
I unlock my phone and, for the first time in six weeks, I pull up Instagram. I used to post regularly, but after the incident with Lorraine, I haven’t been on any social media. Didn’t want to focus on the noise or expectation of my return or the scrutiny around my involvement in her death.
I scroll through comments and pause at a recent one from my last post, with me standing beside my favorite piece from my last collection. I look different with my bright, shoulder-length red hair. The photo was taken in Florence, which feels like a lifetime ago. I’m poking my tongue out, but I see the playful spark in my eyes and don’t even recognize her.
Doesanyone know where she went? I haven’t seen any posts recently, and she canceled a guest appearance at my college. I was really looking forward to meeting her. Is she okay?
The next comment.
I heardshe was accused of murdering her roommate.
A chill runsdown my spine. It’s not the first comment I’ve read along those lines, and I know my agent has worked her hardest to maintain the blow-up and hearsay from Lorraine’s funeral.
I close the app as that lingering pressure resurfaces. My agent's concern rings through again, but I’m not ready to face the reality she wants me to step into. To go back into that studio. To open up my world to color and a clear space. My head is too messy, my heart too heavy, and my self-loathing toppling over any type of love I might be able to put elsewhere—including my work.
