Page 97 of Tony

She shakes her head. “Well, you tried the goodbye fuck and it didn’t work. So there’s something else there. Some leftover feelings you need to deal with. I know you don’t want to think about your past with her, but that’s where the answer is. So you should probably do that.”

She turns back to the bathroom, opens the door, and then looks back at me again. “I’m OK with it. I can wait. We’re just getting started, Tony. So whatever it is you need to do, leave me out of it, OK? It’s not about me. Now, I’m going to take a shower. And I think you should table all this angst for another time and come join me.”

“Angst,” I huff.

“Your choice.” She smiles and disappears into the bathroom.

I sit there for a few moments, wondering how this girl went from being irrationally obsessed with a man she couldn’t have to a wise woman who completely understands herself, and me, in the span of two days.

I don’t know. I have no clue how she’s so at ease with her place in the world, but I want some of that.

So I put Rosalinda behind me and join her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - BELINDA

The first thing I see when I open my eyes in the morning are words.

Everywhere. Words. On the ceiling. On the walls. On the headboard when I turn to look around. Even on the windows. I don’t think I ever looked up to the third-floor windows, or I might’ve noticed the words slashing their way across the panes. The paint or whatever Vann used to write them is faded to a dull gray. Parts of letters are missing in some places, but I can still make out the entire sentence. Part of the Pledge of Allegiance. The ‘with liberty’ part.

Vann is already in the shower. He left the door open to his en suite like an invitation.

I want to join him, but I can’t get over this room.

I noticed the walls were covered in words after we were done having sex and Vann got up to fish an old Sick Boyz t-shirt out of a drawer so I could wear it to sleep in. I look down at the shirt now. He has worn this shirt hundreds of times since I met him and I feel lucky, maybe. That he lent it to me.

And it smells delicious. Like motorcycles and tattoo ink. Like punk music and monster trucks. It smells like Vann Vaughn.

I sigh, feeling happy and content for the first time in a very long while. Very satisfied with how this is playing out even though two days ago I was telling him we were not a thing. We would never be a thing. And now look… we’re on the verge of becoming a thing.

Anyway.

There must be thousands of words scrawled across the walls, some of it in what I recognize as Vann’s typical handwriting. But a good portion is done up in calligraphy. Old-fashioned letters and bold letters. Serif and sans. Every kind of lettering you can think of.

I sit up to get a better look. Because it feels so… familiar for some reason.

Then I get it.

Graffiti. I wasn’t into tagging random walls back when I was a teenager in Key West. But I did my share of illegal murals. And, of course, the sanctioned one I was paid to do. Which was painted over some time during the eight years after my departure.

When Vann and Tara and I first got to Key West a few months ago we went to my mom’s motel first. It was a hostel and she was gone. I didn’t know it then, but the Dumas family had her relocated for her own safety. They bought the motel and used it to house the refugees they saved and they sent her up the coast to start a new life.

I was pissed off about that but they did right by my mom. I can’t see her yet because it’s still too dangerous. The FBI thinks she’s dead or something. Out of the picture, at least. And that’s how it needs to stay until we find some kind of final solution to this problem we’re all wrapped up in. So I get why my mom was relocated. Hell, I even understand why I was relocated.

But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

“Hey!” Vann comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. “Why didn’t you join me? I was waiting for ya.”

“You should’ve woken me up,” I say, smiling as I allow my eyes the luxury of wandering up and down his body.

“I wanted you to sleep in. You look so peaceful and sweet when you’re asleep.”

“As opposed to when I’m awake and look… what? Crazy and angry?”

He walks over to the bed and sits down next to me, the familiar scent of his soap and shampoo a strong reminder that I know this man. I know him very well. And while this shouldn’t be a revelation—eight years is no joke—it kinda is.

I never noticed that his scent was familiar until just now. And I recognized his handwriting on the walls too. Even though I’ve never been up here in his room before, it’s all familiar. And that’s comforting for some reason.

He leans in and kisses me. His mouth tastes minty and fresh. “I have never thought of you as crazy and angry.” He pauses, pulling back a little. “Well, maybe a little crazy. But it’s the good kind.”