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“Fowr,” he exclaims as he hands me the daisy. He has quite the serious look on his face.
“I think you have to take that,” Raniero grins.
I thank Gabriel for the flower and twist the stem between my index finger and thumb. “He took my flower earlier,” I explain.
My brother nods his head. “I figured. He always returns things, but not always in the best condition.”
This flower has fewer petals than the one he took from me. In fact, it only has one.
She loves me.
I don’t need to pluck the final white petal to know the childhood game is complete. While this flower can’tactuallytell me whether Francesca loves me or not, I decide to trust it. And not just because Raniero is telling me to be honest with Kessa. But because I think I’m tired of playing games, the childhood ones and the adult ones.
15
FRANCESCA
Cesare barges through the front door like he’s a cop. I drop the book in my hands, and it echoes through the house when it connects with the kitchen tile. “Jesus Christ, Cesare,” I chastise, “what the hell is wrong with you?” My pulse gallops a cool 110 beats per minute, according to my Fitbit. I am not prepared to have a heart attack today, and Cesare needs to calm down before he gives me one.
He has his mouth open, ready to say something, until he sees all the paperwork scattered across the counter. “Wait. What’s all this?” He starts looking at documents and frowning, trying to read headlines and take it all in.
“I’m selling the house, Cesare. It’s time.” It was time four years ago when Peter died. Every room was a reminder of our relationship. The walls held our pictures; the sheets held our memories. I don’t know why I’ve clung to them for so long. Peter would have understood if, after a year or two, I moved on. He would never have wanted me to mourn him forever. So why was that what I chose to do?
Cesare keeps rifling through the paperwork. I have a contract from a realtor that says she’s going to sell my house and another contract that says we’ll work together for the next sixty days while she tries to find a house for me. I have sale paperwork on my house, disclosure agreements, and comps in the neighborhood. I have printouts of places my realtor thinks I’ll like. “You’re going to move to Junction City?” He looks at me. “Are you quitting Bluemont?”
It’s been a long couple of weeks since Cesare and I hooked up in his bathroom. We’ve lived a strange little life since then. He treats me with the utmost respect, but I can tell he’s waiting for something. He wants me to fall in love with him or tell him that I never want to see him again. I’m not sure what he’s hoping for more, but I know that Cesare wants an answer. He says he’s patient, but no one is patient forever.
“No, not now, anyway. I guess that sort of depends on how things go with the blackmailer.” We haven’t gotten a single note since I came home that day and broke down in his lap, but I know the guy is still out there. He’s probably watching and waiting for me to do something he disapproves of, then he’ll ruin my life.
Cesare crumples the paper beneath his hand as he closes his fist around it. The Junction City home disappears into a white ball as he tries to withhold his anger. “I told you that my brothers and I are working on that. If you’re running from that guy,” he starts to plead.
I quickly shake my head no. “I’m not,” I swear. “At least, not really. I don’t know what I’m doing, Cesare. I just know that I need to sell the house, and I need to move.”
His face is resolute when he says that I can move in here. When I tell him that there isn’t enough space, he says he’ll get rid of stuff. “If you need me to sell my couch, I will. If you want my bedroom, you can have it. I kind of like the downstairs guest bedroom window anyway,” Cesare admits with a smile.
My stomach hurts the longer I look at him. “It isn’t that simple. I don’t want to push you out of your house, Cesare. It’syourhouse.”
“It’sourhouse,” he corrects with a frown. “You’ve been here for weeks. You nursed me back to health.”
“You were fine.” He could have lived alone and been fine. I just wanted to do the right thing. “You don’t need me anymore. Your sling is off and you’re doing physical therapy. You’ll be back to normal in no time. Besides, at some point, you’re going to want to date or get married or something, and having a woman in your house is going to be a problem.”
I feel like I’m holding my breath as I wait for him to respond. I don’t want to say goodbye to my best friend, but I’m being honest with him and myself. We are better off as friends. Not because he hurt me once but because I used that one time to punish him for nearly two decades. I’m a bad person.
“That’s bullshit.” Cesare tosses the crumpled piece of paper over his shoulder. “You’re running away from me, Kes.”
“No, that’s not—”
Cesare flings all the papers off the kitchen counter and they fly in the air like fifty-two card pick up. “Don’t lie to me. Isn’t that what we’ve always promised one another? To behonest?”
I know of at least three different occasions where he’s lied to me in the last year. They weren’t really big things he lied about, but the point is that we’ve never been 100% honest with each other. I never even told him about Eric until the blackmailer threatened to expose me. “Iambeing honest, Cesare.” I cross my arms over my chest in frustration and he laughs at me.
“Yeah, okay,” he snorts. “So why are you moving out then? And don’t say it’s because I’m going to have another woman in here the second you’re gone because that’s a crock of shit.”
Generally, when Cesare gets mad, it isn’t at me. We haven’t had a yelling match since we were in our twenties. But today, he raises his voice like that’s somehow going to change my mind. “It doesn’t even matter why I’m moving out, Cesare. I am. That’s all you have to know. I don’t pay rent. I don’t have a lease. I can leave any time I want.”
Cesare stalks across the kitchen toward me and if he were anyone else, I’d be afraid. But he’s my best friend and he’s never raised a hand in my direction. “No, you can’t,” he says finally. “You’re staying and that’s that.”
“No, I’m not. Stop being a baby about this. I’m moving and that’s that.” I start to gather the papers he’s scattered across the kitchen, but before I even make it three feet away, Cesare has me by the arm and he’s pulling me toward him. I slam into his chest and he holds me in his grasp like he’s afraid to let me go.
