“Your brother was right,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I ruined your life. I ran. Again. I’m so selfish. I’m so?—”
“Save it,” I cut in quietly, turning on the shower. “You’re not forgiven yet.”
He falls silent while I help him out of his clothes and steady him under the spray. When he wobbles dangerously, I strip down to my underwear and step in with him, afraid he’ll slip and crack his head open.
He closes his eyes while I carefully wash his hair, his shoulders, his chest, and the rest of his body. When I’m done, I step out first, wrap myself in a towel, then grab one for him and help dry him off.
“Come on,” I whisper.
I guide him back to the bedroom and sit him on the edge of the bed.
When I open the closet to check if his clothes from the hotel are in there yet, I freeze. The dresses from Positano are hanging neatly inside, along with a dozen other pieces I don’t remember choosing.
Across from them are his clothes. I swallow hard, grab one of his T-shirts, boxers, and sweatpants, and return to the bed. I dress him slowly, then tuck him under the covers.
“Go to sleep,” I murmur.
He watches me through heavy lids. “Will you sleep next to me?”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly undoes me, but I stay strong and gently pull my hand from his grip.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He looks disappointed, but he doesn’t argue, and within minutes he’s snoring softly. I bring him a glass of water and set it on the nightstand with a couple of painkillers that I grabbed from my suitcase. Then I move the bathroom trash can next to his side of the bed, just in case.
Only when I’m sure he’s settled do I grab a pillow and spare blanket before walking to the couch. I’m so relieved that he came back, but I’m also so tired of being left behind. I waited three weeks, sick with worry, when I could have been enjoying Italy,focusing on myself—the whole reason I came here in the first place.
I don’t know if I can trust whatever he has to say in the morning, and I don’t know if apologies are enough anymore, but I owe him the chance to speak after dropping this bombshell on him, even if it breaks me all over again.
* “Mi scusi, signore, è occupato?” = Excuse me, sir, are you busy?
* “Come posso aiutarti?” = How may I help you?
* “Mio Dio” = My God
TWENTY-SEVEN
GABRIEL | FLORENCE
I’m notsure if it’s the sun peaking through the curtains that wakes me or the blaring migraine I have. I force my eyes to slowly open and the first thing I see is a glass of water and painkillers on my nightstand. I sit up, hissing when my head pounds painfully, and throw back the pills as I chug the whole glass of water.
While I wait for the pills to kick in, I try to remember what happened yesterday and how I managed to shower, change, and get myself to bed in the state I was in, and that’s when I remember Zalea.
She came here with Paolo last night, and even though he left, she stayed to take care of me. After everything I’ve done to her, she still chose to take care of me instead of leaving me to figure it out on my own, the way I’ve always left her.
I don’t deserve her. She should be with someone who chooses her every single time, who doesn’t run when things get hard, who’s there when she needs him. Because I realized, I don’t know how to be the person she deserves.
It was such a jarring realization that I did the one thing I’ve never done—I got wasted to numb the pain.
A familiar pressure tightens in my chest, like someone’s slipped their hand between my ribs and they’re slowly tightening their grip. It’s the same feeling I’ve been battling every single day for three weeks since Zalea told me about my daughter.
I blink up at the ceiling, trying to ground myself, but the room feels small, and the air too thick. My lungs don’t fill the way they’re supposed to, and my breathing shallows as my heart begins to pound.
I swallow as my ears start to ring, a low hum building at the base of my skull.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to myself as I shift in bed.
My hands feel strange, almost like they’re going numb. I flex my fingers but the sensation spreads up my arms.
