Then his arms loosen, slowly, reluctantly, like it’s costing him everything.
I walk back to the house on unsteady legs, my lips still swollen. The kisses didn’t mean anything. It was just practice between friends.
But when I press my fingers to my mouth, I can still feel him there.
Still taste Cristiano.
The next day,I can’t stop thinking about the kiss.
I replay it constantly. The slide of his tongue against mine, the weight of his body, the way he whispered my name. My lips still feel swollen. My skin still hums where he touched me.
Just practice, I remind myself.That’s all it was.
But my heart doesn’t believe it. Calling it practice feels like it was the thinnest excuse for us to indulge in something reckless.
I’m helping Mom dust the shelves on the upstairs landing when I see Cristiano cross below. He doesn’t notice me. He’s walking with a careful, guarded posture as though his ribs are hurting, and when he turns his head, I catch a glimpse of the bruise on his cheekbone. Today it’s a painful, angry purple.
My throat tightens.
He probably stood up to his father, and this is what he got for it. Bruises and silence and a mother who won’t even look at him.
I think about yesterday in the garden. The way he clung to me, craving the comfort that no one else gives him. The raw devastation in his eyes as I tried to pull away.
I have a creeping feeling that the kiss was a mistake. Not because I don’t care for him, but because it’s opened the door to feelings that can go nowhere. Touching his hair and holdinghis head in my lap was crossing lines as well. We’re not children anymore. I should tell him so, but how can I hurt him when no one else cares?
I set down the duster and tell Mom I need some air.
The garden is bright with afternoon sun, and I see Mrs. Montoni near the rosebushes, secateurs in hand, carefully snipping away dead blooms. She’s wearing a pale blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and she looks elegant and fragile.
I should walk away to another part of the garden before she sees me. Better yet, I should go back inside and mind my own business about the whole Montoni family, like Mom always tells me I must.
But if Cristiano had more love and affection in his life, it would mean the world to him. I can almost understand Mrs. Montoni not wanting to see her son’s pain when she’s in so much pain herself, but if his mother could only open her eyes andlovehim—
A wave of emotion crests in my chest, and I hurry forward.
“Mrs. Montoni?”
She looks up, startled. Her eyes flick over me, taking in my plain clothes, my presence where I shouldn’t be.
“Mina.” Her voice is cool. Polite but distant. “Is there something you need?”
My fingers are twisting together. “I wanted to talk to you. About Cristiano.”
“If my son has been rude or unkind to you, you must speak with your mother, who will in turn speak with my husband. There are proper channels for these kinds of things.”
“I wanted to talk to you aboutyouand Cristiano.”
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe, or wariness. “That’s not appropriate.”
“Please.” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. “He’s so lonely, Mrs. Montoni. And he tries so hard.He won the track meet last week, and no one even said congratulations. He’s hurting. You must have seen the bruises.”
“Mina.” Her voice sharpens. “This isn’t your concern.”
“But he’s my friend. And he needs—” I swallow, trying to find the right words. “He needs someone to be proud of him. He needs you to love him.”
Mrs. Montoni’s face goes pale. The secateurs tremble in her grip, and her expression veers wildly between fury and fear.
I take a tentative step closer. “You do love Cristiano, don’t you?”
