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Regardless of all of that, apparently, Matteo, Lucky, and even his father hadn't been fooled. They all knew I'd been staying with Luca.
Or, possibly, one knew and had shared that information with the others.
Either way, I had shot up in the bed, turning to look down at him, eyes wide.
"Are you in trouble?"
"In trouble?" he repeated, smile lazy, tired. "What's he going to do? Take my Xbox away?" he added, shaking his head.
"You don't have an Xbox. But you know what I mean. Are they angry?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I didn't ask."
"But didn't they, I don't know, imply what their feelings were?"
"Not particularly," he said, putting both hands behind his head, widening his chest, smiling at me, clearly enjoying my discomfort in the matter.
"Men," I grumbled, shaking my head.
"It doesn't matter if they're mad, sweetheart."
"What kind of logic is that? They're your family. Of course it matters if they're mad."
"Even if they are, they'll get over it," he told me, shrugging again.
This was—this was simply not how my family operated. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that my family was disproportionately female, and we were always worried about pissing each other off, or hurting feelings.
I couldn't imagine knowing I made a family member angry and thinking they'll get over it.
"It's my life, Romy. They don't get to weigh in on it."
"But this is more than just your life. This is your work too."
Luca reached out, grabbing my arm, yanking me down. "It must be exhausting to worry about every little detail."
"It is," I admitted, curling up on his chest. "But sometimes you need to worry about things."
"Before they happen? Can't imagine that is ever a useful way to spend your time."
'Well, no. It's not useful. But it's what normal people do regardless."
"So, we can just be abnormal," he suggested, finger starting to sift through my hair.
And, well, he made it sound very possible.
At least for those quiet couple of minutes before sleep.
Once I was rested and conscious again, though, all I felt was anxiety.
About what his father was thinking about me, his brother, Lucky, all his other men. About my sister. About what kind of recovery she might need to have. About what was going on with Luca and me. About what kind of future we might have. Or what it would be like to lose him.
I worried myself into knots before noon.
"What did I say about stressing about all this shit we can't change?" Luca asked when he came home at lunch time, running his finger between my brows, erasing the worry lines there. "How about we get out of here for a little bit?" he suggested. "You're probably just stir crazy."
