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“Yes. I heard my mother complaining that that group of guys would be there tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say to the girl. Isa.
Then I get the hell out.
Everything feels weird as I move downstairs. It’s like the air—the atoms all around me—are…not normal. Or I’m not. I don’t fit into the world the way I used to.
I flex my right hand. All the fingers shake. Downstairs is really crowded. I see a glass of liquor on a table, toss it back, and make a beeline for the front door. I’ll walk to someplace I can hail a cab.
A fresh-cut grass smell almost overwhelms me as I step outside and start down the cobblestone walk.
I’m thinking ahead, thinking of the passcode on the yacht, when someone grabs my shirt from behind. It’s the motion, I think—being pulled backward. It sets something off, and I’m shoving Jace before I even see his face. There are grunts—from both of us—a “what the fuck” from him. I think he calls me a bastard; I don’t know. He’s in the grass. I’m looking down at him.
“What the fuck!” He’s clutching his mouth. Blood drips through his fingers.
“Sorry.” I can’t look at blood, don’t understand what’s happening, so I leave his ass on the ground and walk. I can’t think straight. I need to run. I’m gritting my teeth, bracing for the pain a sprint is going to bring my shoulder, when I hear her screaming, “Luca!”
It’s like being dunked under the ocean. Everything goes quiet. I can hear my blood roar in my ears as I turn toward her, my whole body moving like a magnet.
I’m so focused on her, every atom in me fixed on the relief I feel—
But…is she crying? She sounds furious as she shouts, “Where have you been?”
“What?”
“Where have you been?” She’s maybe ten feet from me. I can see her face now, see the rage all on it. “I’ve been trying to find you!”
I can’t stand to see her upset, so I start toward her, but she throws her arms out. “No!” She’s panting like she’s hurt.
“What—” happened, I’m going to say, as she sobs, “What were you doing with her?”
“With who?”
“With Isa!”
I know how a log feels under a blanket of snow. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even think. It’s like I’m insulated from the moment. I take a few slow breaths as she cries into her hands.
“It was…nothing.” My voice doesn’t sound right.
Her eyes rise to meet mine, and they’re wide and teary.
“Isa…like. Elise, I don’t even know her.”
“What does that mean?” She’s near shrieking.
My dad died. I goad myself to fucking say it. My. Dad. Died.
There’s another universe that’s rolling like a film reel, layered right on top of this one, and in that world, this is when I tell her. I can whisper it, just a hoarse whisper, and she’ll have her arms around me.
My dad died. Those three awful words, and her face will crumple in empathy and understanding. I can hold onto her, and afterward I’ll explain Isa. She won’t care.
Instead, I’m looking at her. I’m watching her horror-stricken face. She’s so furious…about Isa, I guess. She looks like she’s losing her shit. I think how she doesn’t look like Elise.
I see Tony and I see my hands almost around his gun. I’m numb in the bathtub, running like a man on fire, screaming through the streets. Tearing up my house and leaving Mom and Soren at the hotel. And I feel so heavy. I can feel the weight of what’s in my head. I can taste the cool metal and see the paper with the story. Not a story, just one sentence. That’s all I am.
I look at her face, and I don’t see my heart, my rose, the other half of my soul who restores me.
I see someone young and hurt and fragile. Sensitive, responsive, beautiful and giving. She needs me. Elise.
I could step to her right now and hug her. I could hold her like I always do and keep her safe.
But it’s all bodies on cold floors. Tile and wood and squishy mats like at the salon. I can see the blood on the stage. I can see the red-soaked fibers of his jeans.
She’s upset—she’s devastated—over Isa. That’s because she doesn’t know. She is crying over paper cuts and I’m going to blow my head off.
I can’t touch her. I can’t even talk to her. It’s like I saw the meteor. She doesn’t know it’s even coming. She could live a nice life.
For me, there’s nothing left. I saw the inside of my father’s head. I’m not going to college.
She steps closer to me, hugging herself as her wide eyes beg me to do or say something that will make things normal. She’s begging me to be Luca.
Now’s the time to rip the Band-Aid off. Now’s the time to wreck this shit before she ends up on a salon floor. Now’s the time to make the printed sentence in the paper not hurt.
