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“Yeah,” I say, “and this is no man’s land.”
But I fucking hear him.
Tearful goodbyes aren’t my scene, I say bye to Jay and leave it to the guys and Nadie.
I’ve got extra ammo, an extra gun, and I’m keeping the suit, even though I change. Something tells me there’s a chance I might need it.
She’s not looking at me. “I managed to get to the church hall today to have a class. We’re going to try and work out something consistent, maybe at the church, an after-hours thing . . . I don’t know. But I got that put together while you were gone.”
“Nadia.”
“So, I have to leave in an hour and . . .” She presses a hand to her mouth.
“Longstocking, it’s okay.”
“Feels empty,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say as Nadia stands looking forlorn in the living room.
It’s a pretty scintillating conversation I’m pulling off here.
She turns, blinking fast, and I know she is thinking of having a little cry. That’s Nadia for you. She thinks about it. Sometimes it gets to her, but she’s not a woman given over to bouts of tears, and there’s something stoic about that.
But I don’t know what to fucking do. The kiss I stupidly laid on her hangs there like a thing that needs feeding, just like the sex. It roils and twists around us, everything we’ve done, everything we want to do. And if it came down to just sex, it would be easy.
Even a moron like me knows this is beyond complicated and more than sex.
I want her back.
The thought plays in my head.
I don’t know how to do it.
Or even if I should.
See? Fucking complicated.
“It is . . .” Her hair’s still down, and she looks soft and delicious—and I need to stop this shit now. “I . . . I don’t know what to tell my brother.”
I try and find something to say but everything seems incendiary, and nothing feels right.
So, I nod.
“I don’t think I should.” She looks away.
Her brother hated me, I remember that now. Accused me of using his sister, once he even tried to push me away, though it didn’t work, and I think he did that because of who I was, where I came from. I don’t mean my Brazilian and Italian-American roots, either. Me, boozed up father, missing mother, and dirt poor.
So maybe she doesn’t want him to know of my involvement.
It’s my out, I know it. I need to do some things, get some fucking air. Run the fuck away. The usual shit.
“Just tell them the kid is gone to some camp thing with a few friends you know.” That picture cheers me up a little. “Your brother doesn’t need to know I’m involved. Hell, just tell them you sent him to military school. The kid could damn well benefit from it.”
She recoils a little. “Diego?”
I’m being a punk, I know it, and I can’t stop. What I want is to cross to her, hold her, and tell her it’s all okay.
I don’t.
