Page 63 of Under the Summer Sky

“I wish I'd met you sooner.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. Not because I wanted more years, though God knows I did, but because I would have loved that little boy too.

I think I'll sleep here.

I open the walk-in closet and stop.

A jacket hangs there.

I take it off the hanger and bring it to my nose.

Damiano.

It still carries his smell.

I close my eyes, and for one impossible second it feels like he's standing right behind me.

I look around the room again and it still doesn't make sense to me. How can someone's things still be here, in this world, while their owner isn't?

I shake my head.

Not going down that road again.

I turn and start putting my clothes in the closet. When I reach for one of Damiano’s sweaters, the one I used to steal all the time, I stop.

I haven't worn it since those first weeks after he died, when I slept in it every night because it still smelled like him. I don't even remember packing it.

I run my hand over the soft fabric and feel something between the folds. When I pull it free, my breath catches.

A photograph.

I sit down on the bed.

It’s a picture of us from when we'd been dating for a month. We're standing beside his Vespa, my face turned toward the camera while Damiano's blue eyes are fixed on me, that dimpled smile in place like he knew exactly what he was doing to my heart.

Just like that, I lose my daily battle with grief.

Tears spill down my cheeks as pain settles over me from head to toe and my heart, my soul and even my hands ache for someone they'll never touch again.