“Yes, I just wanted to hear the sound of silence,” she says softly, her breath tickling my face, the smell of red wine and the orange blossom of her bath oil invading my senses.
“You fucking scared me.” I breathe out heavily as I press my forehead to hers and relief floods me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just something that calms me.” She touches my wet sleeves.“I hope the bath oil doesn’t ruin your expensive suit.”
“I don’t give a fuck about my suit,” I say as I gently lean her against the back of the bath. She closes her eyes, and without second guessing myself, I’m removing my jacket and shirt, then my belt, shoes and socks, leaving me in just my pants and white fitted undershirt.
I gently push her forward. She slowly opens her eyes but remains uncharacteristically quiet as she watches me climb into the bath behind her and slowly seat myself, fully clothed, into the water, my legs on either side of her body. She leans back slightly but is hesitant to close the space between us. I, however, seem to have forgotten all my inhibitions as I wrap my arms around her slippery, naked body, pulling her back flush to my front. She lays her head against my chest, and I feel her go limp against me, relieved that she’s giving the heaviness of her weight to me, even if for just this moment. I exhale into the top of her head before placing a kiss on her crown.
“Raf, what are we doing?” she whispers.
“Taking a bath.”
She laughs weakly. “Have you ever taken one before?”
“This is my first.”
“Clearly. Otherwise you would know that you need to remove all your clothes before hopping in.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, playing along, wanting to lighten the mood. “It’s just that I don’t trust myself not to slip things into places they don’t belong if I was fully naked.”
“Who’s to say I don’t want slippery things in wet places?” she says with a small smile.
“Enticing as that sounds, it’s not what you need right now.”
“Okay, Nostradamus. What is it that I need?”
“A friend. Food. Water. Samantha, Carrie, Miranda and…what’s the annoying one’s name?”
“Charlotte.” She laughs. “Impressive that you know their names. But also, justice for Charlotte. What did she ever do to you?”
“Eh. Too frilly and prim and proper for me. I like my women mouthy and a little wild.”
“So you heard, huh,” she says softly as she turns in my arms, flicking her gaze up to me.
“I did,” I confirm as I softly use my knuckle to lift her chin so she can only see me. “Are you okay, angel?”
“You keep asking me this question, but are any of us ever really okay? Or can we feel like we’re just surviving and blissfully happy at the same time?”
“You tell me. I asked about you. Not the collective. I’m not looking for a theoretical answer. I just want you to tell me exactly how you feel.”
“Well, right now, in this very moment with you, I’m good. More than good. I feel safe,” she admits quietly, pushing back even further into me, and I hug her tighter. It’s taking all my restraint to keep my body’s physical attraction to her in check. As much as I want to use touch to make her feel good, to forget, I don’t want it to be at the detriment of giving her the opportunityto confide in me. To talk to me with her walls down and her mask discarded.
“But then I remember it’s fleeting and reality seeps in. Everything feels like it’s on borrowed time.” She blinks back tears. “Living in New York, my career, my living arrangements, my freedom to choose who I want to be with for the rest of my life.”
She pauses, but I don’t fill the silence. I want her to keep going. To lay herself bare and reveal the demons that plague her, knowing with certainty that I’m here to bear the load and catch her if she falls.
“Julian was a fucking pig, no doubt about it, but he was right about one thing.” She scoffs. “I’m a fucking mess, Raf, and in what world would someone like you—successful, wealthy, prestigious—want to saddle himself with the Mafia princess who speaks before she thinks, drinks to forget, wears her trauma like second skin, and spirals into panic she still hasn’t found a way to get under control six fucking years later.”
Her self-loathing flays me. I want to say all the things to make it better. To tell her she’s wrong, to tell her she’s exactly who I want, but she needs more than lip service—she needs actions. And the only thing I can think to do to convince her she’s worthy enough for me is complete madness. Yet I can’t seem to find a way to put it on mute.
“Chiara, you’re one of the strongest people I know,” I say earnestly. “I don’t know how many people would have experienced the loss you have and still found the courage to keep pursuing their dreams. Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure, anything.”
“Have you ever spoken to a professional therapist?” I ask cautiously, cataloguing the way her body tenses. “I mean, I’m no expert, but it might be good to speak to someone to help with your trauma and panic attacks.”
“I did for a while, but then I just thought, what’s the point? It’s not going to bring them back. I still felt incomplete. I kept thinking, I can’t even get therapy right.”
