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Unreadable. Matte black.
Salvatore itches in my skin, in my thoughts.
I find him in my art even without meaning to, as if he has worked himself behind my eyelids. Every blink leaves an impression of him somehow.
I break him down into layers, a rough sketch of his posture, all straight and foreboding angles, with broad shoulders and an apex predator’s stride. I encapsulate his lifestyle into small, observable pieces. Impressionist details of his expensive watches. A pair of sleek, simple cufflinks. A flip-top lighter and a cigarette. A pistol. The subtle outline of his scar. My pencil hovers over the page as I consider the rest of him. His thoughts. His intentions. His history.
I scrawl an ugly question mark into the page and throw down the pencil as thunder grumbles overhead.
The bleak daylight leaves early, and the afternoon stretches on into eternity. The Beast’s reception is terrible in bad weather, so I lie on my bed and flip through a book I can’t focus on.
Salvatore will be back tonight. The thought circles around my head, always intruding when I least expect it. The words slide by on the page, my eyes skimming them without reading as he slips into the forefront of my thoughts again. My feelings toward that man are all knotted up, wanting and resentment entwined.
I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel something for him.
Denial hasn’t given me any medals or accolades, just the occasional migraine and an unhealthy amount of shame.
I throw down the book, abandoning distraction to curl up in the window nook overlooking the long driveway. I wait for him, watching the rain lash out in angry sheets across the yard. It’s annoying that he has me trained like this, that he’s already instilled in me some Pavlovian response to this time of night. He’s supposed to be here, stretching me out on the bed and showing off all the things he can do with his tongue. My forehead thumps pitifully against the glass.
The lights in the distant houses go out one by one, and behind angry clouds, the moon ladders slowly into the sky. Only imagination keeps me company until a set of headlights cut apart the lingering fog.
Dark figures step out of the car, just blurry shapes that are darker than the night around them. But on sheer instinct, I know which one is Salvatore when one man stops and looks right up at my window.
The whisper of anticipation that has taken up permanent residence at the back of my thoughts turns into an impatient buzz.
Within minutes, Salvatore enters without knocking.
“Someone’s late,” I say, as Salvatore enters, trying to hide how my pulse drops into my belly at the sight of him. He’s rain-soaked and worn, his wet hair tussled and falling into his eyes, shirt plastered to his skin by the pouring rain. Despite being soaked and cold, Salvatore marched right here. Right to me. My ego blushes hotly that I somehow make a man like this come running.
“On your schedule now, am I?” he asks, no shred of apology in his voice. “Gone for a couple days, and you’re already starting to get demanding.”
The words play at annoyance, but I can hear it in his tone—he likes that.
“I did wait up to see what you’d bring back. How you’d make it up to me.”
My teasing gives him an honest pause. Is he really considering maybe he should have come back with something? He’s been gone less than 48 hours, and all I really want is for him to put me on the mattress and give me something to focus on that isn’t literature and local news.
Before I can give him any hints, Salvatore offers me his phone. The gesture is so unexpected, I don’t have the sense to take it.
“Here, then. I said you could call your father. I haven’t been around for that to happen.
Call him now if that makes up for it.”
I blink at the phone for a few seconds.
“Really?”
He must mean it, because he leaves the phone with me as he goes to get a towel and dry off.
This olive branch puts all my silly little superficial wants to shame.
Salvatore’s contact list lights up the screen. In the sea of unfamiliar names, my father’s stands out. I wonder why they have each other’s numbers. Do they call to brag about their nefarious plots against each other? Sign each other up for spam call services?
The phone rings.
“On speaker,” Salvatore orders as he comes back, making it clear these are not going to be private conversations. The ringing fills up the room.
“Hello?”
