Gratefulness. Uncertainty. Relief.
Because, eventually, I was going to drown in them.
And he was going to let me.
Anger came back full-force, burning my veins and the backs of my eyes.
“Liar,” I cried, and then pushed him again. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him feel what I’d felt when that gunshot had cut through the air.
I beat on his chest until he pulled me against him, shackling my wrists in one of his hands behind my back. I struggled but, with the heat of his body warming mine, weariness suddenly pulled on my muscles.
“Breathe,” he demanded.
I inhaled deeply.
“Let it out.”
I leaned against him, breathing deep, silent tears running down my cheeks. I wanted to hate myself for crying in front of this man again, but I couldn’t seem to focus on anything but how good, how right, it felt to be pressed against him.
“I heard a gunshot,” I said, the relief evident in my voice.
Four simple words cut out my heart and displayed it for him to see.
It was bleeding, dripping to the floor at his feet.
He nudged my chin, pulling my gaze to his. His face was close, blurred through my wet eyes.
“I thought you hated me, malyshka.”
“I do,” I breathed against his lips. But it was to
o raw, too desperate, to sound convincing.
Just when I thought he would press his lips fully against mine, he stepped away. I inhaled an uneasy breath, feeling the loss of him like a cold draft beneath my skin.
His voice was distant. “We should go.”
“Wait,” I said. “My mamma’s cookbooks. I need them.”
“Make it quick. I don’t think anyone will be inviting us to stay for coffee,” he said dryly.
I was curious about what had happened in my papà’s office after I’d left, especially regarding that gunshot, but at the moment, I couldn’t find the energy to question him.
Guccio shot to his feet when we found him eating a sandwich at the kitchen island. He watched, wide-eyed, as I searched the cupboards above the microwave where Mamma had kept her books. I knew my papà well enough to know he hadn’t gotten rid of her things. He’d loved her in a disturbing, oppressive way.
When I came up empty-handed, I turned to my cousin, who’d only been seven when I last saw him. “My mamma’s cookbooks? Where are they?”
He frowned. “He won’t be happy with you taking—”
“Where. Are. They?” Christian’s tone was impatient.
Guccio swallowed, then blew out a breath. “Guestroom, upstairs.” Then, he slumped back in his chair, defeated.
Ten minutes later, we were each carrying a dusty box of cookbooks out to the car that waited at the curb. I stared out the window on the way to the airstrip, the moment in the parlor stretched between us like glue; messy, and hard to remove.
Apparently, after such a long period of celibacy, I couldn’t figure out how to balance the act and the feelings part. It was a basic sexual attachment, I imagined, kind of like Stockholm syndrome. There was only one real solution to this problem: I needed to stop sleeping with him.
There. Simple. Problem solved.