I swear I can hear Mama’s voice now as I roll the blanket out onto the cold ground:“Be careful, mi hija. Devil’s Night is not just mischievous kids throwing toilet paper on houses. The Devil walks among us, and if you aren’t careful, he will steal what he thinks is his,”she’d warn every year. It was all superstitious nonsense passed down from generation to superstitious generation in Mama’s family. Halloween would come and go, yet all remained the same. That is, until two years ago, when it became the last night, I had with my parents here on Earth.
It still sends chills down my spine when I think that it could have been three that were shot dead that night. I was supposed to be there.I should have been there. It was important to Papa to always have Mama and me by his side at formal functions. It was the old-school Italian in him, thinking that the presence of a seemingly tight-knit family absolved him of his daily sins.
Smoke and mirrors, that’s all my childhood was. Keeping up appearances to evade the truth. I guess that’s why Papa was so good at what he did, until he wasn’t. It’s hard to stay on top of your game when what got you there was lies. That’s how he became a target, or at least, that’s what their deaths have led me to believe. I shouldn’t be surprised; that is the risk of the life my father chose to live, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Maybe that’s why I always found such comfort in Halloween before their deaths. My whole life has been about wearing masks and pretending. Halloween is the one night of the year when pretending to be something that you are not is encouraged. Now, the only comfort that remains on Halloween night is being with my boyfriend, Leo.
Aside from tomorrow’s painful reminder of my parents’ cruel departure from this Earth, it is also Leo’s birthday. I was with him the night my parents were murdered, being the “rebellious” teenager Mama always accused me of being. She called it rebellious, but I call it being independent-minded. I have always been fiercely independent, determined to go after what I want. And she hated that what I wanted involved Leo.
Mama didn’t like the idea of Leo and me being together, which never made any sense given that he was the nephew of Rose, her best friend. Rose not only took Leo in as her own when his mother died but they lived right next door to us. I’ve known Leo almost my entire life, and Mama always seemed to like him when she thought we were just friends. As soon as our friendship grew into something more, out went her approval of him.
Not understanding our desire to always be together, she would make snide remarks like,“Hija, you don’t know what you want, you are too young,”or “It won’t last past the summer.”Except, it did. We lasted each summer she swore we wouldn’t, and here we are today, still together, despite her judgements and supposed predictions of our parting.
It’s difficult to put into words the bond Leo and I have. We have felt such a pull to each other from the start. It’s like our souls were destined for one another, and our bodies had no choice but to obey.
Despite the deep connection Leo and I have, lately I can’t help but hold back from him, particularly about my writing. It wouldn’t be such a big deal hiding my writing from him if it wasn’t how I cope. Words written and words read are how I deal with just about anything going on in my life. Escapism through words is my ideal form of therapy.
I escape to books and writing sometimes more than I flee to him. I hate to admit that sometimes it is easier to open my legs to Leo than to open the can of worms that are my emotions and past traumas. I guess that is the baggage that comes with being a dead gangster’s daughter. The smoke and mirrors dissipate, but the brick wall remains stronger than ever around my heart.
Tonight, being Devil’s Night, I expected Leo and I would be going to a party or something Halloween-related. Instead, I am sitting here, surrounded by death, with my notebook in hand, waiting for him to join me. I stare down at the brown, worn leather of my notebook, admiring its well-loved beauty. To me, these pages represent years’ worth of therapeutic release. But to Leo, the cracked spine that holds together this notebook is a gift, one that he has been waiting patiently for.
I roll my eyes, chuckling to myself at the fact that this is the only thing he wanted for his birthday. Why couldn’t he be a normal, almost-eighteen-year-old guy, who is content with a new bottle of cologne and a blow job for his birthday? But no, that’s not my Leo. Only he would want to sit on the dirt-filled grounds of a cemetery, reading his girlfriend’s glorified diary as his birthday gift. He is so strange, and I fucking love it.
I sit in silence a few moments more, wondering what is taking him so long. Finally, as if he could read my mind, I hear his car door slam in the distance. At the same time, a breeze picks up, rustling the fallen leaves against the headstone closest to me, instantly making me wish I packed an extra blanket other than the one I brought to sit on.
I cross my now goosebump-covered arms as I see Leo scurry his way over to me. I can’t help but stare at him as he comes closer. His deep-side-parted, black hair covers one eye but does not distract from his sharp facial features. He is devastatingly handsome, with a tall, athletic build that always makes me feel lost when I am wrapped in his strong arms. Which would be nice right about now, being that I am freezing.
He meets me on the ground, showing off his iPod in hand. He brings that thing everywhere. Music to him is what books are to me—therapy through art.
“Figure I’d set the mood with our playlist,” he says as he goes to sit behind me, wrapping his flannel-covered arms around mine. The warmth of his body mixed with the scent of his woodsy cologne make my heart feel like it is going to burst out of my chest. I love when he holds me close, because it’s one of the only times I feel like the world slows down, even for just a moment.
“You’re shivering,” he says, squeezing me tighter.
“I know. I didn’t think it was going to be this cold tonight.”
“Sienna, it’s late October in New York. What, is this your first rodeo?” he teases.
“Yea, yea, you’re hilarious.” I brush his comment off playfully as I tilt my neck back slightly to face him. I break free from the bear hug he has me in, as he gently moves the stray piece of my long, chestnut hair covering my face.
“I love you, Sienna Ricci,” he proclaims dramatically, as he slowly moves the hair behind my ear.
“And I love you, Leo Cruz.”
Noticing how much I am shivering; Leo begins to take off his flannel. My teeth chatter from the cold as he kneels behind me, motioning for me to raise my arms.
“Here, baby. This will warm you up,” he says as I begin to lift my arms upwards.
He slides the first sleeve on my arm and then the next. Once his flannel is on me, he gathers my hair in his hands and tosses it over my shoulder, so it all lays on one side, exposing my neck to him, which he begins to kiss. The heat from his lips meeting my skin makes me swoon with desire for him. I feel a warm flush on my cheeks as he plants another kiss on my skin, slowly working his way up to my ear. He gently nibbles my earlobe with his teeth, and just as a moan escapes my mouth from the pleasure it creates in my center, he releases me from his lips. Leaving me aching for more of what he has started.
Even when his touch is absent from my body, the love I feel for him is a constant reminder of the grip he has on my heart. I sometimes wonder, since we are still relatively young, if it’s just lust that I feel and not true love. Whatever it is, I can’t deny how good he makes me feel. So, if it’s love, I’m going to allow my heart that satisfaction. And if it’s lust, I’ll allow my body that satisfaction, too.
He shifts in front of me as we lock eyes. A playful grin forms on his lips as he glances down at the worn leather that is now half-covered by my leg. Damn it, I was hoping he had forgotten his gift.My stupid notebook.The thought of strangers reading my intimate thoughts is more comforting than Leo reading them, because most of it is inspired by him.
“You better not laugh!” I shout at him as he reaches to get the leather-bound notebook from underneath my leg. Extending one hand toward the notebook, he slightly digs his other palm into my thigh, causing the arousal already forming in my center to throb.
“I would never laugh at you. I know this is a big step for you, sharing your art,” he says with a look of gratitude that can’t go unnoticed.
The vulnerability I feel in this moment begins to increase as I look away from him, trying to deflect the embarrassment I feel.
