“And it had nothing to do with her,” I finish.
Remo lets out a long breath.
“No,” he admits. “It didn’t.”
Silence settles between us again. I don’t feel the need to chastise him. I’ve waded back through my trauma and come out the other side. He’s still caught in the middle of his.
“I’m sorry,” he says, surprising me with how raw and genuine it sounds. “I didn’t realize it until tonight. Until you walked in the way you did.”
I bark out a bitter laugh. “Fucking heartbroken you mean?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at his glass. “I thought I was protecting us.”
I nod slowly. “I know.”
Remo scrubs a hand over his face again. “You should go back to her,” he says with a resigned sigh.
“She doesn’t want me.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “Then make her.”
“I wish I could.” My focus drifts again. “It’s not that easy. I forced her to neglect her father, took away her means of supporting him, broke her trust. I don’t deserve her.”
“It was a mistake, Fiero. It was all one giant fucking mistake. You and her…” He rakes a hand down his face. “You were meant to be. I fucking hated that but it’s true.”
I don’t move or respond.
“You know what you deserve?”
“What?” I deadpan.
“To be happy.”
“So?”
“So… do whatever makes you happy, brother. And she’ll come back.”
My laugh is bitter. “How do you know that?”
Then he shocks me by issuing a statement hemusthave stolen from a sappy romance novel. “Because true love doesn’t know how to hold a grudge.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Pfeiffer
A whole weekhas passed since Fiero was here, and I haven’t been able to get out of bed since.
Dad, thankfully, has been back to his old self. He’s been thinking clearly, remembering well and moving around the apartment quietly. I’ve been feigning a migraine and doing a very convincing job of it, apparently.
Dad brings me buttered toast and cups of tea, but I can’t touch anything. My stomach feels bruised from all the tears I’ve cried in the night. The last thing I want to do is fill it.
During the day I watch anything I can find on TV that doesn’t allow my thoughts to stray tohim. But at night, I don’t have that luxury. I close my eyes and he fills my vision.
One minute he’s assessing me from across the room, a cigarette in his hand and a sneer on his lips.
In another, he’s moving inside me, pressing his hot breaths to my neck and groaning as he comes undone.
I wake up shivering, crying, aroused. All in the same night sometimes. And I’m exhausted. And empty.
