“I did something,” I say. My voice comes out hoarse. “Something bad.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday. In the garden.” I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I talked to your mother.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “You talked to Mom?”
“About you.” The words start tumbling out, faster and faster. “I told her she should love you more. That you deserved better, and you were lonely and hurting and she never even looks at you.” My voice cracks. “I made her cry, Cristiano. I made your mother cry.”
His expression is unreadable. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I can’t stand watching you suffer!” The tears are coming now, hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks. “No one sees how much pain you’re in. Your father hits you, and your mother won’t even look at you, and I thought if I could just make her understand—”
I break off, pressing my hands to my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob. “I’m so afraid I’ve made everything worse for you.”
“Mina.” His voice is soft. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away my tears. “Mina, look at me.”
I look at him through blurred vision. He’s so close. His eyes are warm, tender, full of something that makes my chest ache.
“It’s all right,” he says. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“How can you say that? I made her cry.”
“I don’t care about her tears.” His voice is fierce now, intense. “I care about you.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding.
“You’re the only person I need.” He’s leaning closer, his forehead almost touching mine. “The only person who cares about me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The words should comfort me. Instead, I feel uneasy. He should care that I made his mother cry.
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” I whisper. “I’ve been thinking, and I—” I take a shaky breath. “Maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”
He goes completely still. “What?”
“I don’t think we should be friends anymore,” I say more firmly. Then my heart cracks with emotion, because I hate to do this to us. “Where is our friendship even going? People talk about us behind our backs, saying we don’t make sense, and maybe they’re right. You see me in this house, but it’s not my world.”
Cristiano is rigid, like he’s been turned to stone.
“And it’s not safe.” I’m babbling now, desperate to make him understand. “For either of us. Your father hates me, and I’m only making things harder for you. If I just stayed away—”
“No.”
The word is flat. Cold. Final.
I blink. “Cristiano?”
“No.” His eyes are different now. Darker. Emptier. “You can’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving you. I’m just saying that we should spend less time together.”
“You can’t leave me. You’re the only person I have, and the only person who matters.” His jaw clenches.
“But I shouldn’t be the only person who matters to you. Don’t you see?”
His eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my blood run cold.
