He falls to his knees and wraps his arms around me.
I freeze for a second, shocked by the sensation of his big body holding mine. We’re getting too old for this. Everyone disapproves of our friendship, let alone us touching. Mr. Montoni’s face dances in my mind, along with the sneering expressions of the girls at school.
Then I feel Cristiano shaking.
My arms come up around him, holding tight, and I stop thinking about what we should and shouldn’t do. He’s tremblingagainst me, his face buried in my hair, his breath ragged and uneven.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Something terrible has happened.
We stay like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, his heart pounding against mine. Gradually the shaking subsides. His breathing slows. But he doesn’t let go.
“Sit with me,” I say softly, pulling back just enough so we can sink down onto the grass. He moves like someone who’s been hollowed out, all the fight drained away.
“What happened?” I ask again, sitting beside him.
“Football.” The word is flat. Empty.
It’s Saturday. There’s no football on Saturday. I want to demand the truth, but his eyes are so bleak and lost.
“Okay,” I say instead. “Okay.”
Silence stretches between us. He stares at nothing, his jaw tight, that terrible emptiness in his eyes. I can’t bear it.
“Come here,” I say, patting my lap. “Put your head down.”
He looks at me. Something flickers in those amber depths. Desperate hope. We used to do this when we were children, until his father caught us and he bellowed so long and loud that I’ve been terrified of touching Cristiano ever since.
Slowly, carefully, he shifts on the grass until he’s lying down and lowers his head into my lap. He’s heavy and warm, and I can feel how rigidly he’s holding himself.
I slide my fingers into his hair, threading them through his curls. They’re soft and silky and feel so good to touch. I sweep them back from his brow and twine my fingers through the strands.
A sound escapes him, quiet, almost wounded, and he burrows his face into me and moves his arms until they’re wrapped tight around my waist.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my fingers moving gently through his hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
But what if it is?Maybe he hit you because you defended me. Perhaps not the first hit, but what if it was the reason for the second hit? Or the tenth?
I keep stroking his hair, tracing slow paths across his scalp, and gradually the tension starts to drain from his shoulders. His breathing deepens and his pained expression softens.
He’s so handsome. The sharp line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. I’ve always known Cristiano is good-looking. Anyone with eyes can see that he’s as beautiful and masculine as a youth in a Renaissance painting. But lately, noticing he’s handsome feels different, and I don’t know what to do with those feelings.
“Don’t stop,” he murmurs.
“I won’t.”
The sun shifts slowly across the sky. Birds sing in the hedges. His breathing grows so steady I think he might have fallen asleep.
Then he speaks, his voice rough.
“Mina?”
“Mm?”
“Don’t ever—”
