The hesitation, or maybe it wasn’t hesitation but pain, rolling off him came in strong gusts that almost felt like waves of heat. It was like the door was on fire, and he wasn’t sure whether going through it was going to save us from burning by escaping to the other side, or finish us off.
If there was a clock, its hands would have been loud in my ear, like a racing pulse, but there was only my heart and his, pounding to the beat of uncertainty.
After a few minutes, he opened the door and moved aside.
I wasn’t sure why, but that felt symbolic to me. Meaningful in a way that was hard to describe. He was giving me this, despite his greatest fear.
Despite mine, I stepped inside.
* * *
Aniello litenough candles and lanterns to light the room, since it seemed like the place had no electricity, and it came to life.
It was immaculate.
I’d heard that the kitchen is the heart of the home, but in this house, it seemed to be the bedroom.
The animal had torn everything else to shreds, but the man behind me kept the heart safe.
One glance at the room, and I knew that most of the memories I lost in the accident were preserved here, and if not here, in his mind. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I hoped they were preserved in his heart too.
Most people would have said he didn’t have a heart.
He did. If only for me.
The pounding of his heart seemed loud in the room, as loud as the one in my chest drowning out the sounds of the labored breathing I was trying to control.
My eyes couldn’t take in the space fast enough.
From outside, I had assumed it was small, fit for the size of the cabin, but it must have extended out of the back, making it much larger than expected. It was done in neutral colors. Probably not to compete with the view come morning and before sunset. In this room, besides the wooden walls, there was wall-to-wall glass on one side, with a massive fireplace across from the bed.
Pictures were framed and lined up on the mantle and on nightstands. An entire wall across from the glass was filled with more photographs. A montage of them. A few wooden crates, made for what seemed like storage, were stacked on top of each other.
On top of the dresser, a few cassettes were spread out. Next to them was an old boombox that ran on batteries, a little portable player for the cassettes, and an older-looking record player that also played CDs. I’d seen one similar. Cilla had one.
I startled when music started to play softly in the background from the boombox. I recognized the song right away. It was one Cilla used to sing to me.
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “She knew.” All the pieces clicked together in my head before he even verified it. Cilla. All the songs she used to sing to me. Her shows.
I passed Aniello as my hand caressed the cassettes. Most of the songs were scribbled in blue ink on the cases.
“She did,” he said. “We had a deal. My freedom for hers. I needed you to remember, so I told her the basics, gave her a list of your favorite songs and things you enjoyed. I needed for her to remind you without outright telling you. I hoped that something, any fucking thing, would help you remember.”
“Because you couldn’t.”
“Because I refused to lose you again, Rosalia.”
A trembling breath slipped out of my mouth. “She encouraged me to wear the dress you threw into the inferno at Club D.”
He laughed, but it was mirthless. “That was all the Little Monster. I had no fucking clue she would encourage you to play me like that.”
“It worked,” I said, grinning a little.
When he took me by the arms and turned me around to face him, I gasped. He held me tight, not enough to hurt me, but enough that I felt him in my bones.
“I never lose my cool,” he said. “When I have a job to do, never does my mind stray from what I’m being paid to do. I’m sharp and I’m clean and I get in and get fucking out. But you. You’re under my skin. At your command, I’d slaughter an army or drop to my knees.”
“If that’s so, let me let go,” I whispered.
