“Everything to gain,” we say at the same time.
“Unlike me,” he murmurs under his breath before he ends our conversation by requesting for me to step under the spray.
Once he’s confident all the suds coating my body are circling the drain, he switches off the faucet, then steps out. I swoon like crazy when he commences drying me with the untouched towel on the rack as mine is soaked through and dumped on the floor, then blood surges through my heart when he places my nightie over my head before bobbing down to assist me into my panties. He does the same thing every time we shower together—period or not.
“You should eat some more,” I say during our walk back to the main part of our room.
The container of food I made him at Petretti’s is barely touched. He’ll fade away to nothing if he doesn’t maintain adequate nutrition. Dimitri and Rocco don’t preserve their desired weight by working out in a gym. They get it from all the heavy lifting they do in this industry. Dead people weigh the same as they did before they were killed, but have you ever tried to lift a ninety-pound plank of wood? It’s much harder to get off the ground than a ninety-pound person because it can’t shift its weight to a central point to make it appear less heavy.
For once, I can say my family business isn’t the source of my data. Seaforth Academy pushed the boundaries with its teachings, which makes me even more surprised about the Walshs’ attendance. Mr. and Mrs. Walsh are as conservative as they come. They don’t even talk politics, so why did they send their child to a school known for controversial practices?
My thoughts drift back to the present when Maddox shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Still, you should eat—”
I take a step back when he cuts me off with a surly tone, “I said I’m not hungry.” He regrets his snapped tone in an instant. While raking his fingers through his hair, he mutters more respectively, “I’m sorry. I am not angry at you. I’m just…tired.”
He means exhausted. Not solely because of a lack of sleep, but life in general. I’ve often said men like Maddox aren’t built for this life. His quick spiral exposes I was right. He barely had the chance to catch his breath before our uncle pitted our love against us. It’s been one thing after another ever since.
I can only hope I’m strong enough to keep his head above the water still surging our way. Drowning is one of the cruelest forms of death. A bullet is instant. A knife wound is almost as quick, but drowning is long and painful, and more times than not, it doesn’t just pull you under the current, it takes everyone propping you up as well.
3
Demi
Four days later, it appears as if Maddox is a rejuvenated man. Excluding a brief meeting with Ezra the morning following our conversation in the shower, he’s spent a majority of the past four days with me. We cooked together at Petretti’s and ate our creations without the shadows we usually have. This afternoon, he even included Max in the surprise he organized in the large industrial freezer my uncle often states was used for more than the storing of meat in his heydays.
Although it isn’t quite the winter wonderland he surprised me with on my birthday, the snow this time around feels real. He borrowed an ice shaver from the man who supplies the ice for the Petretti’s establishments this side of the coast. When placed in front of the vents that keep the freezer at a perfect temperature, it makes it truly seem as if I walked into a snowstorm.
“Maddox…” There are so many more words in my head, but not a single one of them could be expressed without my voice cracking, so I had no choice but to keep my reply short. Furthermore, we’ve faced many ups and downs the past two weeks, so I refuse to ignore even the minutest moment of peace.
Maddox’s smile warms my snap-frozen nose when I throw my head back, stretch out my arms, then twirl in a circle. If I had ice skates on, the fanning of my skirt would replicate an Olympic skater in the middle of a robust routine. Even Max gets in on the act. He drags his gooey jowls along the icy floor before rolling over to make doggy angels in the splinters of ice.
It’s a truly blissful moment that’s cruelly torn away when reality smacks into me hard and fast. Maddox promised my next snowstorm would be real, so why is he granting wishes now like he won’t be around to grant them in the future?
I drop my arms to my sides before spinning around to face Maddox. “What’s going on?”
When he steps toward me, panicked about the flood of moisture bombarding my eyes, I swat him away. I can’t think straight when he’s close, and if the expression on his face is anything to go by, my smarts need to be fully functioning. He looks like he’s about to break my heart at the same time as granting me my greatest wish.
If that’s true, something is definitely amiss. My greatest wish is him. I thought he knew that.
After swishing my tongue around my mouth, hopeful some spit will deliver my next comment without angst, I say, “You said my next snowstorm would be real.”
As a familiar flare darts through his eyes, Maddox replies, “I did, but I also said I’d get you as far away from this life as possible. I haven’t kept that promise yet either.”
This isn’t the first time he’s voiced annoyance about his personal pledge this week. It comes up in almost all our conversations.
“You will keep your promise, Maddox. You just need to be patient. Everything happens with time.”
A tear almost falls down my face when he nods in agreement. I’m not on the verge of crying because I’ve helped him see sense through the madness. I’m devastated by what he says next, “Or when you devise a better plan.” He steps closer to me with pleading, please-understand-me eyes. “I was offered one earlier this week.It will give us a future. You’ll just need to do it without me for the first couple of years.”
“What?” I query, certain I heard him wrong. Our plan was always for usto get out together,but he’s talking as if his itinerary only has one ticket.
The meal we shared creeps up my throat when Maddox kicks his gym bag stuffed under the bottom shelf of the freezer. It’s fatter than it was every time Rocco delivered it. Almost double in width. There must be at least two hundred thousand dollars in there.
The cracking of my heart is heard in my words. “There better be a minimum of eight tickets in there, Maddox. Six for your family, and another two for us.”
The optimism in my reply is way too high for my liking. My uncle would never grant me clemency, and I share his blood, so there’s no way Maddox would have gotten through to him. If he has, I’m lost as to what he offered. We’re already jumping on demand. We can’t give him more than we already have.
