"By saying you, I mean, you know…whateverthisis..."
His expression softens. "You showed me anyway."
"I didn't want to hide it from you," I say. Rava puts a hand on my knee. "Thank you. For trusting me with it."
The fuck?
I'm still waiting for the earthquake. It doesn't come. My brain can't handle that. "So what now?" I scoff, leaning back a little. "You're just...what, fine with this? That's it? Box of crimes, little show-and-tell, end of story?"
His brows twitch. "Did I say I'm fine with it?"
"That's what itfeelslike," I throw back, because I'm wired and uncomfortable and this is my natural habitat. "You looked at all that as if these were old school photos. 'Oh wow, Gio, what a fun little scrapbook of fucking felony.'"
"Okay, wow. First of all," he says, shifting to sit cross-legged, "nothing about that is 'fun.' Or 'little.' Or a 'scrapbook'."
"Yeah." I shrug. "No shit."
He looks at me again. "I'm not saying it's okay," he says. "And I'm definitelynotsaying I like it."
"Right," I mutter, looking away.
"Hey." His voice sharpens. "Look at me."
I do. He holds my stare. "What I am saying," he continues, "is that you did the right thing by showing me. If this is part of your life, part of whatever the…hell you've been doing, then I'd rather know. I'd rather you trust me with it than keep it rotting in a box alone."
"Congrats, Ravioli," I say dryly. "You're now an accessory by knowledge."
He actually snorts. "Yeah, well. Can't unsee it now, can I?"
I huff a laugh. "I just don't get you," I admit. "You're too calm, if that makes sense. This isn't harmless. If this ever ends up in the wrong place, I'm literally fucked. And by extension, so are you, now that you've seen it."
He tilts his head, thinking, then does the last thing I expect.
He lifts his hand to his lips, pantomimes zipping them shut, and twists his fingers like he's throwing away an invisible key.
Then he shrugs. "Okay?" he says simply. "Now it's between us."
I blink at him. "Did you just—" I squint. "Did you just mime zipping your mouth about my crimes?"
"Alleged," he corrects automatically, which is insane, "and yes."
I stare.
Then laugh, incredulous. "You're fucking unbelievable."
"Look." His voice softens. "I'm not your judge. I'm not your lawyer either, sopleasedon't make me one, but I'm not here to punish you for who you were before I showed up."
He taps the box again. "This is scary. I'm not gonna pretend it isn't. But the part that matters to me is that you looked at all this and thought, I want him to know."
He holds my gaze. "That means something," he says.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Means I'm dumb and reckless."
"Or," he counters, "it means you're tired of carrying all of it alone."
I look away.
"Still. You should've freaked out more. Screamed. Thrown something. Told me I'm insane. I don't know. That would've made more sense."
