“Yeah, I could get a few down without feeling sick, so I thought they were a good idea.” I wasn’t pregnant either. I kept up with my birth control and was getting reminders every month.
“Bene,” he said, kissing my neck. And continuing in Italian, I think he said, “This pleases me.”
He held me close while conversation kept steady, and when it was time to leave, it was decided we’d take a walk-through downtownNatchitoches, where Scarlett’s dance studio was, before we headed home. And even though some of the ladies had dessert, Scarlett and Mia had decided to hold out for ice cream. Scarlett told me as we left Brûler that the parlor was along the same strip as the studio.
Her studio was in the quaintest area of Natchitoches, it seemed to me. Across the street was the same river, Cane, that we’d followed to get to Brûler. And her studio itself was tucked into a building made of vintage brick. It was surrounded by more wrought iron, just like they had in the French Quarter. This area of Natchitoches reminded me of a smaller version of the French Quarter, without all the bars.
I gazed out the window as we rolled down the scenic streets. And I wasn’t sure what possessed me to ask, but I did. “Do you have to go back to Italy for work?”
“You want me to leave.”
“No!” I rushed out, the two-letter word more heated than I’d intended. “No,” I repeated, taking it down a notch. “I was just wondering.”
“I’m not leaving you, baby. We go back to Italy when we decide to.”
We both became quiet, settled. Probably because my answer told him I didn’t want him to, and his answer satisfied me on a level I couldn’t even comprehend.
Matteo found parking down the street, and so did his family, and we walked the strip after, stopping for ice cream for those who wanted it. Matteo got an ice cream, and every so often, he’d set it close to my mouth. I realized after he was done with it, I’d probably gotten more than him.
“Trickery,” I whispered to myself, but he heard it and grinned, wiping my mouth with his pocket handkerchief.
He kept my hand in a firm grip in case my heel got caught in the cobblestones as we continued forward as a large group. Violet kept bringing up old stories that made the ones who were there to experience it comment and laugh.
It all seemed like background noise at a funeral to me.
Nothing seemed funny, and voices were hazy.
It was hard for me to concentrate on conversations when I kept thinking about what was to come for me. The next step.
“Matteo!”
It seemed like the entire group turned at the sound of a woman’s voice. Inwardly, a groan that was just too much energy to release out in the open seemed to echo inside of me. It was another woman.
Another one.
This one had bright red hair with bright blue eyes and dangerous fucking curves.
And for some reason, I was done.
Done seeing.
Done hearing.
Done feeling.
But I couldn’t escape any of it.
I felt like I did when I was with Régine—trapped inside of myself with all these fucking swirling feelings I couldn’t release. I had to keep burying, burying, burying, each time deeper inside of myself.
Where did that even come from?
Matteo introduced us, and even though I didn’t catch her name, I caught that she was the sheriff’s daughter, but I didn’t want another scene like the one with the chocolate maker’s niece.
Slipping my hand out of Matteo’s, I turned and started walking toward…wherever. I’d find Scarlett’s dance studio, or I’d cross the street and walk along the river. I’d walk and walk and walk until my mind was numb and my body gave out.
In a few long strides, he caught up to me, though. When he went to grab my hand, I whirled on him.
“Go back to her, Matteo! Go back and give her a few seconds with the man of the town. The town where every woman in it wishes his marriage was astupidrumor.”
