As if noticing the attention, pain radiates from my chin. I cringe back at the use of my full name in that tone. In that very, very angry, pissed-off tone.
This isn’t going to be good.
“It wasn’t really their fault.” I try to defend the twins, but the instant I see his face twist, I know I’ve just made it worse. “He was holding me up by my hair, and when he let go, I fell onto the concrete.”
I should have shut up when I could.
He says nothing for a beat.
Oh no.
The atmosphere thickens.
The muscles of his jaw flutter.
“I am going to make them wish they were dead, Bella. I’m going to do it for you.”
“Mickey, don’t let them get to you,” I attempt to soothe. “They’re just stupid kids who probably have a really messed-up home life and don’t know how to act properly. They need someone to talk to, not to get beaten up.”
They need a therapist, which won’t happen for anyone who goes to our school unless you’re in the system and you’re as problematic as Mickey. And by that time, it’s usually too late for a therapist to do anything.
If I’m being honest with myself, I couldn’t care less if the twins were scared of the sun. So, I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to defend them.
Maybe I don’t want them to take more of my joy, or maybe I’m only trying to prevent myself from having a guilty conscience.
Maybe it’s because this is what Cassie would do. Someone less defective would beg him for hours not to hurt them. Maybe I’m still talking because that’s what Ishouldbe doing.
Slowly, to leave no doubt in my mind, Mickey says, “I’m not asking for your permission, and I am not going to ask for your forgiveness after.”
I sigh, defeated. “Just… Not tonight.”
“Not tonight,” he agrees.
“It’s just you and me tonight, right?” I ask. “No Mikhail, no Maxim.”No talks about my health.“Just you and me and any food you brought, because I’m starving.”
He watches me carefully for a moment before chuckling humorlessly. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Great.” I put on my most cheerful smile and ignore my aching lungs.
Fake it until you make it, right?
Or at least lie to yourself until you start believing your own delusions to the point that they sabotage your life.
He doesn’t let on if he isn’t falling for my act, rummaging through the bag he brought with him and the box a couple of feet away from us. I still can’t believe everything he’s done for my birthday. Is this what he’s been doing at night? A daunting realization hits and settles low in my gut.
There’s so much about Roman that I don’t know.
He couldn’t have found this place by himself, and he’s never talked about anyone else other than to complain about people at work. How much of himself is he hiding from me? Have I spent all these years thinking there isn’t a side of him that I don’t know, but I’ve been fooling myself the whole time?
I don’t take my eyes off him as he lays out all the food: buns, roasted chicken, salad, chips, and fruit. It’s the biggest juxtaposition; he’s organized the cutest picnic in the creepiest shed and somehow made it romantic.
Once all the food is out on the blanket, he pulls out a little black box that he places right in front of me.
“What is it?” I ask hesitantly, picking up the velvet jewelry case.
“Open it.”
I give him one last look before flicking the lid open. I’m frozen in my spot as I stare at it. For the third time today, tears run down my cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.
