Charlie is not here.
Charlie is waiting on a different continent.
Charlie is going to be disappointed if he doesn’t get his act together.
A cascade of anxiety drenches Dario in the back seat. His mind waterboards him with the worst thoughts it can stream.You’re not brave enough. You’re not good enough. You’re not well enough.
That’s the rub about recovery, it is not linear, and it can boomerang at the worst moments.
Before he fully registers what he is doing, he sends a text to Charlie with a simpleI’m sorry.
His hands cramp assorryslinks through his veins. He’s sorry to Charlie, sorry to his nonno, sorry to Amorina. Most of all, he feels sorry for himself.
Right as he is about to instruct Fabrizio to take him home, a bright red sports car speeds onto the tarmac. It screeches to a halt and the driver steps out.
Squinting against the sun, Dario can just make out the shape of Emilio hurtling toward the car. Is he imagining this? The wrap of Emilio’s knuckle against the window tells him he’s not.
Dario opens the window a crack and asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your ass. Get out of the car,” Emilio says.
His muscles clench. “I—I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” Emilio asks, some of his impatience steaming off.
“I can’t. I just can’t, okay?” Dario whips his head away. He doesn’t want his brother to see his flaming cheeks or his watery eyes. It was one thing to talk to his mom and Charlie abouthis agoraphobia. It’s another thing to tell Emilio. He wouldn’t understand. Emilio might even use his diagnosis against him to petition the Amorina board for control on the grounds that Dario is unfit to run the family business.
Emilio lets out an audible huff. “Slide over.”
“What?”
“Slide. Over.”
Begrudgingly, Dario does, even though he does not trust his brother’s intentions in the least. These are the closest quarters he has shared with Emilio in a long while.
When he finally musters the courage to turn back, he hip-checks a designer duffel bag strewn on the seat between them. “What’s that?”
“My stuff,” Emilio says.
“Your stuff for what?” Dario asks.
“For the trip.” Emilio stares at the rising partition that separates Fabrizio from them.
“What trip? You knew I was using the jet today,” Dario says, running defensive as he always does with his brother.
“Oh, cazzo!” Emilio bangs his head back into his seat. “Can’t you see I’m here to go with you? Fabrizio texted that you’d been sitting out here not moving for over an hour. The jet crew is ready to go. We’re already screwing the environment by flying private. Let’s not end up on one of those hit-list social media feeds for billionaire fuckwads that are escalating global warming. You of all people should care about that!”
Dario screws up his face in skepticism. “What’s in America for you? Is this some plot to screw me over and get your mitts on Amorina?”
“Don’t make me regret coming here,” Emilio says, a tinge of genuine hurt in his words.
“Whydidyou come here?” Dario asks. His brain can only supply nefarious reasons.
“Because I figured you were scared! That Mom’s touring and Dad’s gone and Nonno and Nonna are gone and maybe you needed someone! Our ranks are fucking dwindling, and I don’t know, I thought we could stick together for once but—oddio!—if you’d rather sit here boiling in this hot car alone all day and let your one chance at happiness and owning Amorina run off, then be my fucking guest,” Emilio says, crossing his arms.
Despite Emilio’s tone and the curse words, Dario is inordinately touched. His breathing slows, and his mind calms. This is almost definitely the most vulnerable his brother has been with him in…a decade?
While he has every reason to be wary of Emilio’s dramatic behavior shift, he can’t deny that Emilio’s right. If Dario doesn’t board that jet and soon, everything he’s ever strived for—success, love, balance—will be lost for good. Dario had been wishing for a travel companion, and Emilio’s offer is the best he’s going to get.
