The way he says it chips something off my ribcage and sends it stabbing into my heart. I like my angel. He loves her. I have no doubt about it. But this seems worse than Cecelia, even though the time was much shorter.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing at his temples like he’s trying to erase the memory of ever meeting her.
“She asked for space because I wanted too much. Because I didn’t give her enough air. Because I?—”
His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. I hobble closer, awkward as fuck but determined to be there for my twin like he always is for me.
“Who told you wanting someone is a crime? She’s perfect for us. Didn’t even balk at the sharing. I think she loved it. If anything, maybe that scared her off.”
He doesn’t respond, and that tells me everything I need to know, because the answer is obvious: somebody once did. Somebody carved that belief into him like a tattoo he never asked for. That wanting someone for yourself was wrong, and he’ll pay. Hell, he’s been paying.
He exhales slowly, like the truth is dragging itself up his throat on barbed wire.
“Yeah, I guess. But I think it’s me. I think when you blurted out how I felt, it freaked her out. More than the sharing.”
I feel guilty about that. Something I don’t ever feel. I don’t like it.
“Bro.”
I tap his knee with my crutch because I can’t reach his shoulder without falling over like a damn baby giraffe learning its legs.
“If she didn’t want you, she never would’ve let us in like that. She wouldn’t have stayed. She wouldn’t have opened her legs. Wouldn’t have shown me her Cinnamon Toast Crunch or damn. Now I’m thinking about her creamy donut holes. Fuck.”
He groans. For once, I don’t push it, because this is not about me or my horny brain that needs professional help. This is about him. And my angel. And how fucking stupid space is. Like, NASA-level stupidity.
He rakes a hand through his hair. The same way he used to when Cecelia left him standing in the rain outside our old apartment, except this time it’s deeper, heavier, like he’s not just sad but haunted.
I drag myself closer until I can drop down beside the couch, leaning the crutch against it.
“What if I never get another chance to show her?”
My chest goes tight because I hate this version of him. The defeated one. The one who doesn’t fight. The one who curls in on himself and forgets he’s Massimo-fucking-Dimas. The guy who once survived a two-man bar brawl while I hid behind a jukebox, eating nachos.
“You will. But you gotta shower first. You smell like shit. Smell like the inside of my old leg cast.”
He glares, but weakly. “Em.”
“Brother. You haven’t washed your ass in DAYS. Your nuts probably look like fossilized grapes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I’m on a roll now. Got his attention and everything. I’m not wasting this.
“Your dick hasn’t felt water in almost a week.”
“EM!”
“You’re one more day away from smelling like a dying raccoon.”
His lips twitch. Barely. An almost-smile. A ghost of the old Massimo who picks on me for breathing wrong.
“I don’t have the energy,” he mutters, rubbing his face again, like the exhaustion is stuck to his skin and he can scrape it off.
“You don’t need energy,” I say, hooking the crook of the crutch around his ankle and tugging. “You need water. And soap. And maybe shampoo if we’re being fancy. Or if we’re aiming to get our woman back because I promise you, she is not fucking a sad and smelly raccoon with hard nuts and a moldy dick.”
He shakes his head, but it’s weaker this time. The argument in his mouth dissolves.
“Trust the process.”
