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Spewing all of that shit about what happened when I was younger? That took even me by surprise. I don’t talk about that. Not ever.
Especially not in front of people who don’t deserve my truth.
I sigh just as Niccolò, who must be ruminating over the same things as I am, says, “What did you mean by that? Back with Stefano. The last man who thought he’d get away with hurting you is dead?”
He speaks it like a question, but it’s one hundred percent a statement.
I don’t know if I want to get into this.
If reminiscing about my time with my captor all those years ago… If it’s wise.
If it will only bring back all those memories that I keep buried inside of me, send them crawling up my chest, into my throat, suffocating me with their weight.
So instead of getting into things, I say, “Yeah. It was a long time ago. And it’s not something I like to talk about. It’s part of the past.”
He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, glancing at me. My stare meets his, only for a second, before I look away, but I see something that looks less like pity and more like sadness in his dark orbs.
“Sometimes talking about the shit that’s fucked us up can be surprisingly therapeutic.”
I don’t respond, and we ride in silence for a few moments. I’m grateful he’s dropped it, for now, but something tells me he won’t let this die.
We make a left, and I turn to look at Niccolò, who smirks at me.
We haven’t spoken since we left his warehouse, but I immediately know he’s up to something. He reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out a key.
Immediately, my heart bursts.
The key to my store.
He drops it into my palm, and I clutch it like my life depends on it, like he’s going to rip it away and tell me he’s just kidding. I can’t stop my eyes from watering as I feel it in my palm, and I clench them shut.
“Thought you’d be happy,” he says, and I don’t have to look at him to hear the smile on his face.
I nod in response, and a thought pops into my head. I’m happy, yes. Ecstatic. But I’m not a big crier. Haven’t been in so long…so this is probably partially in thanks to pregnancy hormones.
I push the thought of a human growing inside of me far away, tuck it into the farthest corner of my mind.
I’m not thinking about that right now.
My inner voice chastises me because even it knows I’m an idiot and that simply not thinking about something doesn’t make it not real. But still. I’ll just continue lying to myself. It’s worked well so far.
Even when the doctor came to check on me and the supposed highly sought-after OBGYN came when Niccolò was out the other day—I just disassociated. My favorite coping mechanism.
We pull up to the shop, and I let the two of us in. The enforcer stays parked outside, and I’m sure I won’t have long, but I’m grateful nonetheless.
“Thank you for letting me come,” I say as I look around the space.
It looks the same. Like I’ve stepped back in time. Same tables and chairs and antique lamps I found down the street. Overflowing pile of donated books tucked in the corner waiting to be inventoried. Stacks and stacks of books separated by genre and name.
My space.
The one thing on this earth that is mine.
“Giana’s been taking care of the place for you,” he says, and I finally turn around to face him. “I know being here in the middle of the night isn’t the same. I just thought…”
I walk up to him and shake my head. “This is perfect. Just being here. Even for a few seconds. Breathing in the books and feeling home. It’s enough.”
I look into his eyes, and although his are some of the darkest I’ve ever seen, aside from the honey flecks, there’s a sparkle inside of them. Happiness.
