“We need to talk,” I bite out.
He’s still got his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t you have work?”
“That’s why you’re here right now, isn’t it?” I glare at him. “You’ve been timing it. Waiting until I’m walking out so you don’t have to see me.”
His jaw does that clenching thing. He closes the door and moves into the living room but doesn’t sit, just stands there like I’m a bomb he’s trying to figure out how to defuse.
“I’ve been busy. There’s a war going on.”
“Who’s Santino?”
He stops breathing. Just for a second, but I catch it.
His eyes cut away from mine, and for a moment, I see it. Pain, raw and jagged, before he buries it again.
“How do you know about him?”
He turns toward the window, giving me his back. I watch his shoulders bunch up under his shirt as he scans the front yard, checking for threats that aren’t there because that’s what he does when he needs to feel in control.
“Doesn’t matter how I know.” No way am I getting his mom in trouble. “Just tell me about him.”
“Nothing to tell.” He shrugs, but it’s the least convincing shrug I’ve ever seen. “He was someone I worked with. He died.”
I wait, hoping he’ll give me something, anything.
He doesn’t.
I get up from the couch, restless with frustration. “Someone you worked with? That’s all you’re going to say? You want me to believe his death doesn’t matter to you?”
He turns back around, and his face is showing absolutely nothing, like he’s pulled shutters down over every window. “People die. I respected him. Knew him a long time. But he’s gone, so… ”
He trails off like that’s an explanation. Like that’s enough.
I know it isn’t. I’ve seen this man soft and gentle. I’ve felt him shake when he told me about his stepfather. I know what Matteo looks like when he’s burying something that hurts too much to look at directly.
I step closer to him. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m here. I want to be here for you.”
For a second, just a second, I think I see him waver.
Then he steps back. Away from me.
“Don’t do that.” His voice is sharp, cutting. “I’m not looking for someone to confide in about my problems. That’s not what this is.”
My heart drops straight through the floor. “What does that mean? What is this, then?”
“You know exactly what this is. You know why we’re doing this.” He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger.
I did know. A fake engagement. A way to draw out Viktor. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling fake. At least, it did for me.
“Just because I told you about my shitty stepdad doesn’t mean I’m an open book.” His voice is flat, but his hands are in fists at his side. “I don’t need you to hold my hand every time I’m upset. I was fine before you came along.”
I actually take a step backward.
It’s stupid. It’s not like he hit me or even raised his voice. But the coldness in his words, the deliberate distance he’s putting between us, reaches right into my chest and squeezes.
And I hate, really hate, that my brain immediately goes to Viktor.
Viktor was sweet too, at first. Attentive. And then one day he just... wasn’t. And I spent months trying to crack him back open, certain the real him was still in there somewhere if I just tried hard enough.
