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“You’ve been here over a year and you still haven’t unpacked?”
“No.”
“Have you cleaned at all in that time?”
He blinked a few times, gazing at her, but didn’t bother answering that question. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Carmine left her alone in the hallway as he headed upstairs and kicked off his shoes, tossing them into the closet before stripping out of his clothes. He put on a pair of jeans and a green long-sleeved t-shirt, slipping his Nike’s on before going into the bathroom. He wet his hair and attempted to run his fingers through it, the act making his hand viciously throb. He rooted through the cabinets and found a bottle of peroxide, the wound scorching as he poured it on his hand.
He headed back downstairs and found Haven in the living room, staring at the covered piano. She glanced back at him questioningly. “Carmine, who’s Molly?”
He froze, caught off guard.
“It’s okay if she was, uh, you know . . . it’s not a big deal.” She grimaced, her reaction at odds with her words. “I just wondered if you and her . . .”
“Molly’s not a person,” he said, shaking his head. “Molly’s a drug. I wanted to feel better and got hooked on it. It probably would’ve killed me . . . well, fuck, it almost did kill me, but I’d definitely be dead by now if Corrado hadn’t intervened.”
“He got you off of it?”
“You can say that.”
She stared at Carmine as she took in his words. ”Did it work?”
His brow furrowed. ”I told you I stopped.”
“I mean Molly,” she clarified. ”Did it make you feel better?”
He sighed as he considered the question. “It did for a while, but it wasn’t real. No matter how high I got, I never found what I was looking for. And it ended up taking from me more than it gave.”
He pulled her into a hug and she gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling. The air around them grew thick with emotion as she wrapped her arms around his waist. His heart raced, blood rushing furiously through his veins as his body tingled from her embrace. He moved forward a bit, hesitantly, gauging her reaction, and her eyes seemed to instinctively dart to his mouth. He took that as a sign and hoped like hell it wasn’t a mistake when he leaned down, aiming for her mouth.
At the last second, panic overtook Haven’s face. She pulled back, turning her head so his lips brushed against her flushed cheek. He silently cursed himself as he let go of her. Too soon.
“I, uh . . .” She picked at her fingernails, moving away from him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He glanced at his watch with a sigh. It was already a little after seven in the evening. “How about that coffee?”
She nodded, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her keys. She tossed them at Carmine with no warning, and he barely got a grasp on them before they hit the floor. He eyed them peculiarly, spotting the familiar key. “No fucking way.”
“It’s parked out front,” she said. “Thought maybe you’d like to drive.”
* * *
Carmine cruised through the streets of east Chicago, lounged back in the driver’s seat of the black Mazda. The dark interior smelled just as fresh as it had the last time he had driven it, the plush leather seat somehow still formed to his shape. North Carolina radio stations were programmed for the buttons of the stereo, the dial turned to his favorite—97.1 FM. A black tree-shaped air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and he suspected it was the same one he had put there back in Durante.
“Did you even drive this thing?” he asked, looking at the mileage . . . a few hundred miles more than he remembered it being.
“Sure,” she said. “I drove it here last night.”
Carmine shook his head, turning his focus back to the street. He pulled into the parking lot of the first coffee shop they saw, politely opening Haven’s door for her. She smiled sweetly and took his hand as they headed inside. Customers packed the small building, standing in groups and huddling around the tables.
“What do you like?” Haven asked as they got in line.
Carmine laughed dryly. “I can’t say I like anything. I don’t drink coffee.”
“Then why’d you ask me out for it?”
“I figured I had a better chance of you saying yes to something as simple as a drink than a whole meal,” he said, gazing at the menu board. “Christ, who pays five dollars for a drink that doesn’t have alcohol in it? For that price it better come with a complimentary blow job or something.”
