“Nothing,” I said to my reflection. “A fat black blimp ate my brain.”
I offhandedly wondered if those men had beaten me, and that was why my head was busted open, crusted with nastiness. Perhaps I didn’t perform as expected?
Brando—perhaps he had intervened? No. He promised me. But he looked wild, and I suddenly remembered something. His eyes had been dilated after they told him I had to dance. Just like they were now.
I opened the bathroom door again, and he handed me a plain black t-shirt and a pair of soft white jeans. Needing a shower, I jumped in, enjoying the feel of hot water against my skin. The blanks refused to be filled. The lack of memory grated on my nerves. My nails bit into palms, drawing blood. I hadn’t even realized my fists were tight. I opened my mouth to scream, but I couldn’t even do that—I couldn’t seem to even summon the energy.
The missing pieces had to bethatbad if Brando wasthaton edge.
Oh God, did they touch me?Perhaps…
I left my hair wet, dripping down my back, meeting him in the room. Someone had brought in a tray of food and drinks and left it on the bed. Brando handed me a peeled orange.
“I’m not hungry.”
He threw the orange back on the tray. He paced for a minute before he picked the tray up and flung it down the hall. Afterward, as if nothing had happened, he shut the door quietly.
“Who am I?” he demanded in a quiet voice.
My hands trembled; my voice did too. “Brando Piero Fausti.”
He shook his head. “Who am I to you?”
“Why do you keep asking?”
“Answer me!”
“My husband. Of course! Why—”
He hit me like a linebacker going for the win. We crashed into the bed, bouncing before we settled. I couldn’t move away from him.
“Brando—I—can’t—”
That was when I realized he was crying. I started to cry because I had never heard him cry like that. It was broken, like he had been snapped in two, and was reaching for his other half, but it was just out of touch. It was hard for me to hear.
“Brando, I—whatever it is—what happened? Do they want you?”
“I’d never cry over myself.”
I seized his face in my hands, because I couldn’t breathe without his mouth on mine. His used breaths seemed to fill my lungs, keeping me afloat. Even after he returned to me after his two weeks offshore, I had never missed him this much, and I wasn’t sure why.
Perhaps it wasn’t that I missed him, but that somehow I needed to connect, to hear that beautiful humming beneath the surface and to have him in my arms at the same time.
His mouth moved from mine, kissing the lines of my tears. I took fistfuls of his shirt in my hands, refusing to let him move an inch. One of his tears fell onto my lips, and I rubbed them together, wanting it for my own.
“I don’t know why,” I said, “but I missed you. So effing much.” It was easier than explaining the humming.
“Give me a minute to breathe, baby.” He relaxed into my embrace, his forehead against my heart. “I need a minute to catch my breath. No, don’t let me go. Just let me rest.”
“I wasn’t.” I smiled. “I was just moving my legs. They’re sore. Restless.”
His tears beat a steady tattoo against my chest, falling and slipping in a constant flow, matching mine.
“I love you,mio marito,” I whispered.
He brought me even closer, making it hard for me to breathe again. Using the little breath I could summon, I hummed to settle the tension. I realized, a minute or two later, that I was humming the song I had danced to in that place. I switched over to the first song we danced to as husband and wife.
“Better,” he said, sounding so relieved. “Much better.”
