“I think Sienna would’ve been fine without me. Me, on the other hand…” I shake my head, clutching the bloody towel. “Well, I can’t say the same.”
When I finally meet his gaze, it’s the kind of look that says too much and nothing at all.
“Thanks for helping me,” I whisper.
And, like a coward, I get out of the room as fast as I can.
By the time I reach my room, my chest feels tight, my throat raw. I close the door, press my back to it, and finally let the tears fall. For the first time since the night of the shooting, I don’t hold back. I cry until my body aches, until my voice goes hoarse, until exhaustion finally drags me down into a restless sleep.
The next few days blur together. I don’t leave my room. Not once. Meals appear at my door, but I leave them untouched. Rosa knocks softly now and then, asking if I need anything, but I pretend to be asleep. The world outside my door keeps moving, but mine has stopped.
The wound on my side burns constantly now. At first, I tell myself it’s just healing. Then the skin around it grows hot, swollen. By the third morning, I wake to a pain so sharp it steals my breath.
I pull back the covers and look.
The bandage is soaked through, yellow and red. The smell hits me next, faint but wrong. Infection.
“God,” I whisper, clutching my stomach. Panic claws its way up my throat. I try to stand, but the room tilts. My legs give out and I sink back down onto the bed.
Everything feels slow and hazy. My skin is clammy, my heart racing.
Don’t pass out,I tell myself.Not here. Not like this.
I manage to grab my phone off the nightstand, but my fingers are shaking too badly to type. I think about calling for Rosa. For Cesaro. For anyone.
But all I can think isLorenzo.
Too bad I don’t have any of their numbers.
I try to stand and that’s when I fall.
Darkness folds around me, heavy and soft. Then I see her.
Sienna.
She’s standing by the window of our old apartment, bathed in gold light. The air smells like cinnamon candles and cheap wine, exactly the way it used to.
“You look tired, Birdie,” she says, smiling that familiar, teasing smile. “You’ve been crying again.”
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“I know.” She steps closer, her outline flickering, light bleeding through her like smoke. “But you have to stop looking back. You have to live.”
The air hums. The light shifts.
When I blink, she’s gone and someone else stands in her place. Broader shoulders. A darker shadow.
Lorenzo.
He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me the way he always does, like he’s seeing too much. The grief in his eyes is the same one burning in my chest. When he reaches for me, the warmth of his touch feels almost real, his breath brushing my skin like a promise.
My heart stutters. The world blurs at the edges, a wash of heat and light and confusion.
And then, just as his face comes into focus, everything collapses back into darkness.
11
Lorenzo
