Page 24 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

I wish we could always be like this.

Pushing the thought aside, I let my limbs grow heavy. Sleep tugs at me, making my thoughts slow and my eyelids heavy.

I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually Beau’s lips brush across the top of my head. And he whispers something I can’t quite make out, half-asleep like I am. It’s not “I love you.” He’s never said that, and I know he never will. But it’s something close. Something that makes my chest ache.

The mattress shifts as he pulls his arm out from under me and pulls away. Enough of his heat still lingers that I don’t protest immediately. I feel the covers being tucked around me, sealing me in a warm, safe cocoon. Gentle fingers smooth a piece of my hair back.

I’m so close to sleep, but I hold onto consciousness a little longer. I can sense Beau’s movements as he moves around the bedroom, finding his clothes and getting dressed again.

This is the part I hate the most. Beau never stays the night. It’s one of our rules, because it’s too risky if someone notices he didn’t come home. Even though I know it’s coming, it still stings when I hear him quietly close the door. Because it confirms what we are: temporary. Everything about us survives on borrowed time.

I roll into the warm patch where his body was thirty seconds ago and press my face into the sheet. That's the cruelest part. The ghost always outlasts the man.

Brrrr.

Beau’s phone vibrates on the bedside table. He glances at it, briefly lighting up his face and I groan. It’s late—definitely after midnight, maybe even later. Who texts at this hour?

“Who-zat?” I murmur, half-asleep.

“Don’t worry about it,” Beau says quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

A few footsteps and the door clicks shut behind him.

I roll on my back. Something about that late-night text has my mind working, pushing away sleep. The bed still smells like Beau—warm spices and cedar—but the heat of him has evaporated. I pull the covers tighter around myself. If he were still here, I’d be warm. That’s not really why I wish he was here, though. I’m so tired of falling asleep with him and waking up alone.

Oh, well. In a few more weeks, I’ll get to spend all night with Beau when we fly away to Italy—to the villa, the coast, the version of us that doesn’t whisper or glance over our shoulders to make sure no one’s watching. Last year, he made me fresh pasta on the terrace, and I fell asleep in the sun reading while he photographed the coastline. It was the closest thing to a real life together that we’ve ever had, and for now, it’s enough.

If I can just make it to Italy, everything will feel okay again. Even if it’s only for three days this year.

7

BEAU

Punishingly bright sunlight streams through my bedroom windows, making me squint. I wish I could go down to the gym and run, turning up the numbers on the treadmill until my mind goes blank. I can’t, because the universe hates me. I woke up with my knee twinging the way it does when I need a rest day. If I actually hit the gym, I run the risk of fucking up my knee for a month or more.

So I’m stuck lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with my unpleasant thoughts for company.

I almost broke the rules. I almost told Brinley, “I love you.”

At first, Brinley and I had unspoken, assumed rules. Then, a few years ago, after she got pissed at me when I danced with a girl in front of her at Velvet & Vice, we actually sat down and wrote out the rules. Never say “I love you” was the top on both lists, both spoken and unspoken. It’s a rule I’ve never tested, because the rules are what keeps our precarious relationship safe. Maybe not happy, but safe.

Rolling over in bed, I pull out my phone to look at the text I’ve been avoiding. Of course, my mother would text me after midnight. As far as she’s concerned, family doesn’t inconvenience themselves with silly things like boundaries. That’s just not the Italian way. No, a good son would make himself available to his mother at any hour of the day.

Mama has always been like this, but it’s only gotten worse since the divorce. Mama and Dad might have fought constantly, but I could count on him to remind her that I might occasionally sleep. Now, Dad’s in Vancouver and Mama texts whenever she goddamn feels like it.

Mama

When should we have lunch next week, cucciolo? I’ll bring someone I’d love you to meet—Giulia, Sofia’s daughter. She’s starting her culinary training here and I promised Sofia I’d help her get settled.

I roll my eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to see what she’s plotting. Since I haven’t settled down by the ancient age of twenty-eight, Mama has decided to find me an Italian bride of my own, so I can get to work pumping out grandbabies. I’d put good money on Mama’s friend Sofia sharing that goal. Poor Giulia might not even know she’s being pimped out.

I bite my lip, trying to figure out how to thread the needle with my response so I can be a respectful son without committing to anything.

Beau

I always love having lunch with you, Mama. And stop calling me cucciolo, I’m twenty-eight.

There. Hopefully, she won’t notice I didn’t pick a date for a few more days. I’m not naïve enough to think this will be the last time Mama tries to set me up, though. When she puts her mind to something, she’s like a dog with a bone.