I don't answer because I don't remember. He walks over to the windows and opens them, letting in cold October air that does nothing to clear the smoke. Then he starts gathering up the papers scattered across my coffee table.
"Don't touch those," I snap.
"These are Whitmore's bank records."
"I'm aware."
"Romeo." He sits down across from me, still holding the papers. "We talked about this.”
"He deserves to be destroyed."
"Maybe. But that's not your call to make."
I light another cigarette even though I just put one out. "She hasn't responded to a single text or call. Something's wrong."
"Or she's doing exactly what she told you she was going to do—talking to her father and handling the situation herself."
I blow out a puff of smoke. "By ignoring me completely?"
"By trying to figure out what she wants without you—" He gestures at the papers, at me, at the general disaster of my apartment. "Without all of this."
"I'm trying to help her."
"No, you're trying to control the situation because you can't stand not knowing what's happening."
I take a long drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs. "You don't understand."
"I understand that you're in love with her. I understand that you're terrified of losing her. I understand that you've never felt this way about anyone before, and it's making you crazy." He leans forward. "But Romeo, you need to hear this: if you go down to Charleston, if you interfere, if you try to force this—you will lose her. Permanently."
I narrow my eyes at him. I don’t bother asking how he knew I was thinking of that; Luca knows me far too well. Well enough that sometimes I think I should get rid of him, so I wouldn’t have my fucking conscience jabbering on my shoulder.
I’ve never needed a conscience before. I’m not enjoying the experience.
"I'm already losing her."
Luca sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You don't know that."
"She's not responding to my calls. She's not reading my texts. She's—" My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. "She's gone, Luca. And I don't know how to get her back."
He's quiet for a long moment. "You wait. You give her the space she asked for. You trust that she'll come back."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then you accept it. You let her go. You?—"
"No." The word comes out harder than I intended. "No, I'm not letting her go. I can't."
"Romeo—"
"You don't understand what it's like. Being with her. Touching her. Hearing her laugh. Watching her get excited about some pottery shard from three thousand years ago." I'm talking too fast, the words tumbling out. "She makes me feel like—like I'm not just what they made me. Like I could be something more. Someone better. And I can't—I can't go back to who I was before her. I won't."
Luca lets out a slow breath. “I get it,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my attention snap toward him. “You’re not the only one who’s ever felt something for someone else, Romeo. It’s just more novel to you than it is to others. But you can’t say you love her and then force?—”
"Don't." I stand up, needing to move. "Don't give me the speech about letting her choose. About respecting her agency. I've heard it. From you, from Giulia, from—" I stop myself before I say "from Savannah." "I've heard it."
"But you're not listening."
"Because it's bullshit!" I'm shouting now, and I don't care. "Everyone keeps telling me to let her choose, but her choices are being taken away by everyone else. Her father. Whitmore. The fucking wedding that's being planned without her input. Where's her agency in that? Where's her choice?"
