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I place my hand on his leg as he drives, squeezing, hoping he can feel the support moving through me.
“The doc says there’s nothing physical. It’s mental. Not handling my anger in the right way or some therapy shit, I guess.”
“You don’t have to downplay it,” I tell him, squeezing his leg. “Maybe it could help.”
“When I’m with you, I feel like it could never happen,” he says passionately. “My instincts know better. They want me to spend as much time with you as possible, every single moment.”
“I guess I’m your good luck charm.”
He smirks. “That means I’ll have to keep you around.”
I try not to let the shiver mean too much—how it dances through me and lights me up from deep inside.
“We could keep driving now,” I murmur. “Just keep going and?—”
I cut off when I see his hands go tight on the steering wheel. I’ve forgotten about his ma. My friends. Everybody. “But the Family.”
“NottheFamily,” he says. “Just family.”
We’re quiet as he drives through the nearly empty city, diners and convenience stores shining brightly in the night. “David is so cute,” I say, not even sure why. It just comes out. Or is that a lie, an excuse?
“Yeah,” Dante says. “I’ve seen him. He’s… got a pink face.”
I laugh. “I can’t tell if you think he’s cute or gross.”
“Babies are… easy targets.”
“What the fuck?” I snap.
He glances at me, jaw tight. “From a tactical point of view. They lack logic. They lack speech. For a twisted, sadistic person, they make easy targets.”
“But their parents protect them.”
Dante snorts, and I know he’s thinking of his dad. After a pause, he says, “What happened to your mom, Mia?”
“She died when I was ten.”
“Ah, dammit.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I know… but it’s life. Life is pain. Life is bad things happening. That shouldn’t stop us from trying for the good stuff.”
“Are you trying to talk me into having a kid with you or something?”
I turn to the window and fold my arms. That crazy, unfair tingle is dancing over my body again. I don’t want to listen to it.
“I want to be an artist,” I tell him. “A real artist. I want to have displays in galleries and maybe travel a little. I don’t want kids.”
“Imagine how worthless you’d feel, how sick, how messed up if something happened to them.”
Suddenly, I hate the darkness in his voice, even if it’s the thing that defines us—our darkness. “You can’t focus on the negative. Thewhat-if.”
“Sometimes, thewhat-ifhappens, Mia. Then you don’t have the luxury of pretending it’s not there.”
He’s talking in a husky, almost forced way. It’s like he’s reciting it to himself as much as telling me, as though he needs to convince us both.
“We don’t need to talk about this anyway,” I tell him. “It’s way too soon.”
“Does that phrase even make sense with us?” he says, looking at me with those dark eyes. “Too soon?”
