Page 68

I freeze.

I haven't been inside this house since the day Damiano died.

Not once.

I’ve had the keys ever since he left the last time he visited, but I just... couldn't.

Every room carries his voice, every floorboard another memory. The staircase, the afternoons we spent playing soccer in the hallway until his mom threatened to kill us. The kitchen where his dad taught us how to make pasta from scratch because, according to him, real men should know how to feed the people they love. The living room where we'd stay up until two in the morning playing video games.

I swallow hard as I carry Nora down the hallway.

The master bedroom door stands open.

I glance inside. But of course she didn’t pick this room.

I know exactly which room she picked.

I stop in front of the second door.

Damiano's room.

The same faded comforter, the same trophies, the soccer ball still leaning against the wall like he might walk through the front door tomorrow and pick it up.

I lower Nora carefully onto the bed, and she curls instinctively onto her side as I pull the blanket over her shoulders.

She doesn't stir.

I find some ibuprofen in the bathroom and leave it on the nightstand beside a glass of water for when she wakes up.

My eyes drift around the room one last time.

To everyone else, it's just a bedroom.

To me, it's D.

A lump forms in my throat.

“You asshole,” I whisper, a smile breaking through the grief.

“You had to go and die on us.”

Silence answers me.

The kind of silence only grief knows how to make.

I reach for the light switch, then stop.

“Don't know why she's here...” My voice is barely audible. “But she's not doing so good, D.”

I don't know why I say it. Maybe because somewhere inside me I still expect him to answer.

“I'll make sure she's okay, bro.”

I switch off the light and quietly close the door behind me.

CHAPTER 8

Eleonora