He exhales slowly and reaches for his shirt.
Alright, he signs. I won’t press.
I nod again. I don’t trust myself to speak. My hands are clenched in the fabric of my robe. My nails dig into my palms. I hope the pain will keep me upright. I scramble for what to do and my hearing aid is the victim. I fixate on it as I plug it into my ear.
He buttons his shirt in silence. Then his watch. His ring. His movements are precise and quiet. I watch him from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t look at me again.
At the door, he pauses. He sees my aid and says, “I have things to see to. Let Tomasso know if you need anything.”
I nod, my throat working.
“Liliana,” he says, one last time.
I finally look at him. His eyes are unreadable.
“When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen.”
Then he leaves without waiting for a response.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click. I stand there for a breath, pretending it doesn’t sound like finality. Then I crawl back into bed, my legs dragging like they aren’t carrying just my body.
The sheets are still warm where he lay, still heavy with the scent of his skin. Musky. Clean. Masculine. I bury my face into the pillow he used and inhale deeply like some pathetic girldesperate to hold on to something that's never been hers. The ache between my legs pulses with every small shift of my body, each movement a reminder of what I gave him. What I gave away.
I curl into myself, my knees tuck to my chest and the robe gathers around me like a shell. I desperately wish to disappear into the folds, but only if wishes were horses. The thoughts I've tried to keep at bay come fast and unforgiving.
At the forefront of my thoughts, the question that persists is why.
Why did I give myself to him? Most of all, why did I marry him?
If I'm being honest, I shouldn’t have married him. I could've damned whatever consequences my father would most definitely dole out to me and flat out refused. I'd convinced myself—no—lied to myself that marrying Giovanni was the best thing to do in my position, when in truth, I had an array of choices. Haven't I learned that no matter what position you find yourself in, there is always a choice.
And as choices go, I shouldn’t have let last night happen. I sold myself cheap and for what? A man who will never see me. Not really. I've met him less than a month, and his presence in my life has already started to influence my decisions.
But can I blame him, really? I'm the pathetic one. Starved of affection all my life, a kind look from him was all it took.
But oh, he was so kind, so impossibly gentle. I knew the effort it took him. It was like I was something precious. But in truth, that doesn’t mean anything. It doesn't mean he cares. It just means he’s good at pretending. Men like him know how to take. I'd been convenient. A thing to be used and put aside.
And I handed myself over, like a fool, thinking maybe it meant something more.
A knock sounds on the door and I stiffen. My heart lurches. For a second, I think he’s come back. For a second, I want him to.
Stupid.
“Signora?” It’s Maria.
I tap loudly on my bedstand to signal for her to come in. She does. If she thinks it's odd I'm languishing in bed still, she doesn't show.
Good morning, Maria, I sign to her.
Good morning, signora, she signs back.
I blink at her, hoping that she doesn't sign more of her words. I can't take being treated like a pathetic little invalid, not right now.
I see her glance briefly at my ear, and as if she knows what I'm thinking, she speaks. “Don Giovanni asked me to let you knowbreakfast is being served downstairs. He requests that you join him.”
My voice sticks in my throat. I don’t want to see him. I can’t. Not with all of the smell of him still clinging to my skin.
I sit up slowly and force my hands to sign. Tell him I have a headache.
