“Papà let me choose the location for this trip,” she blurted. When I caught a glimpse of her profile beneath the slouchy edge of the hood, there was hot colour climbing the curve of her cheek.
She chose to come here.
Because of me.
“I spend most of my time in Ontario these days,” I said. “Toronto.”
“Oh.” She faltered a little, wobbly in her shoes. “I didn’t know that.” She cleared her throat. “That’s fine. I don’t even know why you’re telling me that.”
“Because you just admitted that you came here looking for me.”
“I didn’t!” She crossed her arms, hunching into herself and the hoodie. “I’ve always wanted to visit Canada. It had nothing to do with you.”
Fuck.
It was probably good that she’d seen what she’d seen tonight. Seen me doing what I did best. So she didn’t spend the rest of her fucking life wandering the goddamn world looking for an innocent boy who no longer existed.
The rest of the walk was spent in silence. Fifteen minutes, my ass. It was close to forty by the time we reached the pretty townhouse she and Mia were staying at.
“You got the key?”
If she didn’t, I could always pick the lock. But she narrowed her eyes at me, like I’d offended her.
“Of course I do. I’m not some idiotic fucking airhead.” From beneath the hoodie, she pulled out a small, sparkly pouch that must have been tucked beneath a strap or hidden in the pocket of her dress. As she fished out a key from the pouch, a tiny notebook and a pen fell to the ground. I scooped them up.
She gasped. “Don’t look at that!”
“Your diary?”
“Worse,” she said with a wan grimace. “Poetry.” She lifted and then let her hands drop in a sort of helpless gesture. The key glinted. “Whenever I find an abandoned place, I write about it, OK? Sometimes just a line or two. I’m pretty sure it’s all terrible.”
“Are you going to write about tonight?”
“No.” Her face looked briefly stricken, then smoothed of all emotion. “No, Curse. I’m not going to write anything. Or say anything. To anyone.”
“Because you’re still afraid that I might kill you?”
She paused to finger the edge of the hood grazing her cheek. “No,” she murmured. “I’m not. Even if I should be.” Her eyes were luminous with questions when they met mine once more. Questions and the haunting ache of memories. “Should I be?”
“Keep the hoodie,” I said by way of reply.
She blinked, and suddenly her eyes were shiny and wet.
“I missed you,” she choked out. “For years. I…I thought…”
“Cristo Santo, don’t cry, Aurora,” I groaned. I wanted to claw my way out of my fucking skin at the sight of her tears. “And don’t miss me, either. Don’t look for me. Don’t even think about me. I’m not the boy you knew anymore. I couldn’t be him even if I tried. Not even for you.”
She wiped her face with the back of the hand that still held the key. “I know. But-”
“But nothing,” I said. “I can’t be what you need.”
I didn’t even know what that was. Trying to figure out what this beautiful, teary-eyed girl who wrote poems about empty buildings needed would be like trying to unravel one of the great mysteries of the universe. She was so far outside of the scope of my understanding it made my jaw hurt from clenching.
Maybe I could have known what a girl like her needed, once. Maybe I had even been it, for that short stretch in Sicily.
I’d fucking hated losing her.
“Here,” I hissed, suddenly angry and without a goddamn clue as to why. I’d been about to give her back her little notebook, but instead I tore it open to a blank page, scrawling violently across the paper with her pen. When I was finished, I shoved the two items into her hands, simultaneously pulling the key from her grasp and unlocking the door for her.
