“You don’t know these people. I do.”
“I know these people; they’re the same everywhere.”
“Do you want an assault charge against you? You’re risking yourself. He’s not worth it.”
“You’re worth it.” I reached out and touched her arm where he had touched it, as if I were trying to erase him. “Don’t worry about me. He won’t do anything, just crawl back into the hole he crept out of.”And I would do anything for you.
She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to block everything. “Just go, Angelo. Please. Don’t make it harder.” Her tone was soft, but June picked up the dustpan and walked away.
I was sling-shotted yet again between two conflicting instincts—give her what she asked for or shatter it to pieces.
Reaching Riviera View, I did the only thing I knew would help, a cure I had discovered thirteen years ago—pick up an acoustic I brought with me, feel its rosewood surface, tune it, and play something—anything.
My reaction at the shop had surprised me, too. June made me feel things I had never felt before, and on a scale I had never experienced. I knew that I had seen fires and depths in her that no one ever had. No one could take that from me. The pearl that was locked inside the hard shell was mine. And I wanted it all—the rare pearl and its tough external shell.
The pearl in the shell walked in an hour after I had gotten to her place, looking more tired than usual. She hung her canvas bag, threw the keys into the bowl, and walked straight into the kitchen.
I waited for her to fire the first shot, but her words threw me off.
“Just found this in my mailbox.” June waved a white envelope and turned on the electric kettle.
“The interview?” I laid the guitar on the sofa and hurried to get up.
“Tomorrow at two. They sent it on Thursday, and it only reached me now. We could have missed it. I can’t believe them!”
“Tomorrow?” I approached her, picked up the letter from the kitchen table, and extracted the printed page from the torn envelope.
“Finally,” June expelled.
“That glad to get rid of me?” I leaned my backside against the counter where she began making herself a cup of one of her powdered drinks. It wasn’t even normal tea.
She briefly raised her gaze from the task. “I had a nice, calm life before you.”
“Nice and calm, like a cucumber.”
“That’s how I like it.” She looked at me, her eyes and tone desperate for me to believe those words. But it wasn’t me she wanted to convince. It was herself. And she looked battle-worn.
“Do you?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“If not, then it’s my problem.” She stirred the thing, but residue floated above it.
“So, it is a problem.”
She raised her eyes to mine. “None of yours.”
“Too late for that.” I didn’t take my eyes off her. “You’re just scared of feeling, June.” I decided to take this head-on.
“And you’re scared of nothing.” She dropped the teaspoon with a clang on the marble counter. “Worst-case scenario, you’ll go back to Milan, unscathed.”
“Milano. What’s scathed?”
“Never mind. Just …” She averted her gaze.
“Just what? Just go? You want me gone, June?” I uncrossed my arms and shifted to lean my side on the counter so I could fully face her. With two fingers on her cheek, I made her turn her face to me. “I make things harder, right? Making you feel things?”
“It’s just that …” She was fighting for words, calculating, afraid of making the wrong move. I could see it.
“Tell me, June. You want me to go?” I held her gaze, not letting her avoid me.
