I shake my head, glancing at the basket again. “I don’t do anything for holidays.”
Now she frowns. “Not even Christmas? Morelli sounds unmistakably Italian. I assumed you celebrated Christmas.”
“I am Italian. I don’t celebrate anything.”
“Do you at least go home and visit your family?”
“No home to go to. No family to visit.”
That shakes her cheer a bit. “Oh. I’m sorry, that’s…”
I shake my head, telling her firmly, “I don’t need or want your pity.”
A half-laugh bursts out of her and she shakes her head. “God, you’ve got more guards up than Buckingham palace, don’t you?”
I nod once. “Inscrutable bastards, too. Thanks for the alcohol.”
There’s a hint of annoyance on her pretty face, but she moves out of the way anyway, sparing me a half-hearted wave before I shut the door.
—
My Thanksgiving turns out pretty all right, thanks to the new girl. The bar I work at is closed so I don’t have to go anywhere. I spend the evening with the bottle of whiskey she gave me. I don’t drink as much as I used to in Chicago, but still more than I should. I have so many demons and I probably spend too much time alone, so I give them a lot of chances to catch up to me. Not that they go anywhere in the company of strangers. The problem with demons is they’re inescapable.
Alcohol doesn’t help me escape them, necessarily, but it makes me numb to the feelings when they inevitably rip me open. When the vat of memories I keep sealed up cracks open and they swarm me, the alcohol keeps it from killing me. I can handle pain. I’ve always had to handle pain. The alcohol just helps.
Mia used to help.
A long, long time ago.
Time is supposed to heal wounds, but maybe that’s only if you don’t rip them open on a regular basis.
I told myself I wouldn’t do that shit this time. I told myself I’d find a way to let it go, but what’s the point, really? Mateo gave me a chance to have a clean start. I don’t like to give him credit for anything, and I don’t give him credit for that; he did it for selfish reasons. He didn’t do it for me; he did it so I’d be out of his way. He wanted Mia. He needed me gone so I wouldn’t be around to start problems for her—it had nothing to do with a new beginning for me; that was just one method of getting what he wanted. The one that worked best for him, so that’s what he did.
I tried out freedom. I liked it from time to time.
I still missed Mia.
I still missed her all the goddamn time.
I met new people. I made friends. I had girlfriends. Anyone watching me—and I assume someone was watching me, because he’s not dumb enough to kick me out and just trust that I’d stay away—would have been completely convinced that I moved on with my life.
But I didn’t feel anything anymore. I assumed it was because the pain was fresh, because I still missed her, because my whole life changed literally overnight. Even though I didn’t want to be part of my family, they were all I knew and they were ripped away from me without warning. I couldn’t even say goodbye. No more Cherie, no more Francesca—I was isolated in a strange place with no identity, no attachments. I built enough to pass inspection, I guess. Mateo must have eventually stopped watching me or I never would’ve been able to snatch Mia up from the bakery. But none of it mattered. None of it made me feel anything. I built a house of cards on a foundation of quicksand. It all sank and I didn’t give half a damn. So I tried again. Same thing happened. Didn’t feel a goddamn thing.
Years passed while I waited for the feeling to come back to me, but it never did.
I still can’t feel anything.
I’m completely fucking numb to everything but pain. Pain is like an old friend now—an asshole friend, but at least it always comes around.
I guess I’m just a broken fucking person. I guess that’s just who I am, and there’s no point trying to change it.
There’s not, especially now. I’m not about to attempt some godforsaken mission of self-improvement. That’s a lot of fucking work for someone who’s walking around on borrowed time.
I wish Mateo would just get off his ass and find me. I’m not even making it hard. I don’t understand why the bastard won’t just finish the fucking job. He must be too busy fucking Mia to focus on finding me.
Ugh, there it is. That hurts.
It gets worse, too. Because I don’t even know for sure he’s fucking her. He may have killed her. Mia’s convinced he loves her, but I don’t believe that. He wanted to possess her, that’s all. Mateo isn’t capable of love. Mia isn’t capable of lying. That means he has to know I had her in Vegas, and I’ve been there, I know how that feels. Maybe it doesn’t hurt him in the same way since he doesn’t have a fucking heart, but he prides himself on his control, and I took that away from him. I took her away from him.