“When I went down to identify her body… she was so blue, so fucking gone. There was nothing there, Dante. She was thereone moment, and then the next, she was gone. All her hopes and dreams. Her laughter. Her struggles… fighting all of them, for what?!” she demands of me. “Why the fuck did she have to go through all of that just to die like that?! I should’ve been there! They said it wasn’t a suicide because her ankle was twisted from where she’d fallen, but all I could think was ‘I did this.’ I wasn’t there for her like I’d promised. I told her to rot, but I didn’t mean it!”
I wipe at her tears as she folds into herself. Knowing my little fighter has been harboring this weight this whole time makes my chest hurt.
“This was never your fault,Cattivella,” I say gently, wanting to touch her everywhere, be everywhere, if it would offer her a sense of relief from this pain.
“She couldn’t swim,” she repeats. “I should’ve been there,” she continues, like some kind of chant.
“This has never been your fault,” I tell her again, letting her hide her face in my chest as she cries, holding her as she falls apart in my arms.
I don’t often care for people's emotions; in fact, up until a few months ago, they were irrelevant to me in every sense. Other doctors had even been in awe of my ability to compartmentalize when informing loved ones of fatalities or when shit went wrong, but the truth was, I never cared.
I started not caring after my mother died, and I stopped caring about anyone altogether after losing my sister. It’s like my emotions simply switched off, but now they’re uncomfortably coming back to life for this woman alone.
I care if Romi stubs her fucking toe, and if she needs hours to simply cry, then I’ll protect her fiercely, ensuring no one else encroaches on her space.
I brush my fingers through her hair, listening to her sobs like they’re the crumbling of my own world.
For the first time in a long time, I feel lost because there’s no one I can fight for her. Because the one she hates and is battling—is herself.
28
ROMI
The last person I thought I’d bare my soul to was a monster.
Most of last night was a blur; him bathing me, wrapping me in a towel, and soothing me into bed.
Dante didn’t ask any more questions; he was simply there. Silently listening to me wail like a child. I’d held on to all of this for so long that it physically took everything out of me.
When I wake up, Dante isn’t there. The fire is crackling, which means it’s only recently been relit, and I miss the warmth of his body, which had been tightly wrapped around me until I fell asleep. It’s been so long since I’ve felt at peace. The exhaustion has been constant, but upon waking this morning, it feels like something has finally shifted. That I've finally started mourning Lorraine the way I was supposed to from the start.
It was never your fault.
Dante said that more than once, and my mother had said the same thing to me. I’d even tried to rationalize it within myself, but the self-loathing turned into its own twisted entity. How could I not feel guilty when I'd stared at her blue, lifeless body?. It’s like I took on all her fights and struggles because it just wasn’tfair.She had so much to live for, so many extraordinarystories to tell and adventures to take. And I felt like I was the only one who saw her shining star.
The cabin door opens, and I shoot straight up in bed, but I relax when I see Dante. He’s wearing a flannel shirt that I can’t help but smirk at. It’s very much not him, and yet somehow, he still pulls it off.
“You look like a lumberjack,” I joke.
“I do enjoy anything with a blade,” he replies, and a shudder runs down my spine.
It’s strange to be attracted to a man I know I shouldn’t be. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you saying things like that.”
He comes over to the bed with two coffee cups and a brown bag. When he leans over and kisses me on the forehead, I’m surprised by his gentleness as he says, “You’ll get used to it,Cattivella. I will never pretend to be something I’m not. Not with you.”
I swallow hard, the constant reminder of the dark force that is Dante Moretti, is stifling. But he’s right. If I do dare to pursue this, there are so many things I’ll need to accept about him.
He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, but I point at him. “You’re not putting those muddy boots on the bed.” He glares over his shoulder at me as he removes them.
“As if I’m the one who needs to be lectured about tidiness or cleanliness.”
I’m smiling as I open the bag and see an assortment of croissants, muffins, and donuts. When I take a sip of my chai tea, he takes a seat beside me, cross-legged, and pulls me in so he can wrap his arm around my shoulder, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t start pulling away from me now,Cattivella.”
I elbow him in the ribs, and he doesn’t even flinch. My gaze goes to the wound on his leg, but I can’t see it beneath the newjeans. Fuck knows where he got them from, maybe it's clothing that was already here?
“How’s your leg?” I ask, suddenly starved as I pick at one of the pastries. Sometimes I wonder if he simply hovers like a mother duck, ensuring I eat. What’s even more terrifying is that all of these pastries are my favorite. When the fuck did he learn these small things about me?
