Those oaths we made, not to each other, but to the organization, were coming back to burn us.
Even though I knew we were edging closer and closer to what our world would soon call an act of betrayal, the fire couldn’t touch what existed between us. It had tried before, when I’d lost my memories, and had failed.
What we shared went deeper than any inferno could ever touch. Our oath to each other was fireproof. The burning passion between us had forged our hearts in fire, and inside of them, what existed between us.
Our vows were created from love, no use in denying it, instead of solely being based on loyalty to a cause that was rooted in money and blood. That was something the organization could never touch.
Unlike me and Aniello.
We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I wanted to describe what it was between us in terms of poetry, using lyrical words that would make a poet sob, but the closest I could come to it was that he was the fridge, and I was the magnet. Put one near the other, and it was instant attraction. And by “put one near the other,” I mean both of us existing in the same world.
I even wondered from time to time if it went beyond the limits of what we could see.
It wasn’t just physical between us. There was something else there, something that was hard to explain.
We touched plenty behind closed doors, but we also spent time together in the gardens every night. We had “lunch” together, and our conversations spanned endless miles, from one end of Club D to another. We discussed food and what it meant to live. We talked about baseball and poetry. We chatted a little about movies, music, and books.
“The Phantom of the Opera,” I’d said as we walked the gardens one night while a tepid breeze lazily swept over the grass, rustling the trees around us. “Was that a book I was interested in before?”
“Briefly,” he’d said. “Right before I almost lost you.”
Two nights later he brought a copy out to the gardens while we enjoyed a midnight meal. After we were done eating, I lowered down on a bench and rested my head against his legs. The garden we were in was one I’d never been in before, and it was tucked so deeply onto the property that I wasn’t sure if we would ever be able to find our way out.
I smiled up at him and handed him the book. He traced the shape of my face, kissed me on the forehead, once on the chin, once on each cheek, and then sealed the routine with a kiss. Then he started to read to me.
He read to me every night, then he’d fuck me like an out-of-control animal in his bath suite.
My nights were full, and as time moved, I realized that I was starting to rediscover myself.
My memories were not presented to me on a platter, but more like a puppet show. I was sitting in the audience of my life, and occasionally, I’d get glimpses of what hid behind the curtain, but not from what was happening in real time. I was getting glances of my past by living for the moment.
His love was the master of my time—of the thing beating inside of my chest.
There were moments, though, that I felt I was close to remembering…something,anything. I’d ask him about whatever I was feeling. Sometimes he’d answer. Sometimes he wouldn’t. The hesitation was always there, though.
Sometimes after he’d tell me what I liked, or what I didn’t, giving me a look into who I was, my head felt like it might short circuit. I’d have a physical reaction. My heart would pound overtime. My skin would become clammy, but I felt a chill deep within my bones. My eyes felt like camera lenses, going in and out of focus.
My mind? It was the cause of every overreaction.
Coming close to remembering felt like catching sight of a ghost. There was nothing solid there to identify, but somehow it existed.
When I could focus, there was always an intense look on Aniello’s face. Different than his usual. Maybe I was thinking too hard about it, but he almost seemed worried. Sometimes I wondered if it was the reason for his hesitation, but I wasn’t sure why.
Was that why we were still in Desolation? Still in New York? Still in America? Because he needed me to remember something before we left? I often told him, though, that I was close to positive that those memories were not coming back.
“When the time’s right,” he’d say to me whenever he thought I was struggling to remember, or when I’d ask certain questions about us disavowing, or specific questions about my life before the accident.
The thing about Aniello Assanti? I trusted him implicitly with my life. If he was willing to risk his for mine, I was willing to do the same for his. It was the kind of thing that inspired the kind of trust that was as rare as true love in this life. Therefore, I trusted him to know when to speak and when to let the pieces fall into place as they should.
It was still hard to trust, though, when sometimes all I wanted to do was run away with him. In the dead of night, to find myself in a completely different world once the sun came up.
The entire situation left me anxious when Aniello wasn’t around. He kept me occupied, but once he left, I was left with sleepless days. My mind refused to shut off.
“I’m pretty sure you’re getting enough exercise,” Cilla said, coming out of her room. She nodded toward me. “You’re going to burn yourself out. You should be getting ready for bed, not for a run. Or whatever you’re going to do.”
After tightening my ponytail, I pulled the workout top down some. “I can’t sleep.” I shrugged. Then I took in her outfit. She had on a pretty dress with sandals. “I thought you had to work?”
“Boss gave me the day off.” She stood up taller. “What does this outfit say?”
