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“You hungry?”
“No.”
Instead of cajoling or trying to force the issue, I head to the kitchen and pull out all the ingredients necessary for a simple meal of ham and cheese sandwiches, only not so simple but with the works. I put the sandwiches on plates with dill chips and pickles on the side. And half a bottle of red wine. “Gia, come eat.”
“I said I’m not hungry,” she growls as she joins me in the kitchen. “But I will have a glass of that.” She plucks the glass off the table and takes two big sips before smacking her lips in satisfaction. “You’re drinking wine.”
“I am,” I confirm by lifting the glass and touching the rim to hers.
“Why? I’ve never seen you drink. Figured you were some teetotaler type.”
I laugh at her words, long and hard. “A teetotaler? Who even uses that word anymore?”
“Me,” she answers, her voice full of defiance. “So, what gives?”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. I really don’t want to get into this with her, but maybe it’s best if she knows. “It’s just something that happened a long time ago. I used to drink a lot, and then one day, I realized it was a problem. So, I cut back.”
Gia is silent for a moment, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. “Did something happen?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. It’s still hard to talk about, even after all these years.
“It’s okay,” she says softly, reaching out to touch my hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I give her a grateful look, but I know I need to tell her. She deserves to know, especially since she’s been so open with me. “My brother died,” I say finally, the words coming out in a rush. “He committed suicide and I found him. I was so angry at him, and at myself. I blamed myself for not being there for him, for not helping him. And I started drinking to forget. But it only made things worse.”
Gia takes my hand in hers and squeezes it tight. “I’m so sorry, Preacher. I had no idea.”
I shake my head. “Not a lot of people know. I don’t like talking about it.”
“It’s okay,” she says again, rubbing her thumb over the back of my hand. “I understand.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, and then Gia sits back and drinks her wine with a long, pensive sigh. “That was really intense.”
“The truth often is.” Our gazes connect for a long moment, the air cracking between us.
“Some days, I wish I didn’t love drinking and drugging and partying. But I do. I’m not trying to obliterate the pain, just dull it a little bit.”
I nod, my expression serious. “I get that. I do. But you have to be careful, Gia. You don’t know what they’re putting in drugs these days. Fentanyl is a killer.”
Gia’s eyes widen and she takes a sharp breath. “I know,” she says. “I am careful. I promise.”
“I really hope you are,” I say softly. “You’re a good person, Gia. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Yeah, about that." She smiles and a blush crawls up her cheeks. "I’m working on it,” she says in a dismissive tone that holds a wealth of truth in it.
I look at Gia and nod before I stand and take my plate to the sink. “I hope you do, Gia. You’re beautiful and talented, and I have a feeling you can do a lot more than you give yourself credit for if only you believed in yourself.”
She’s silent behind me, and I busy myself with rinsing to give her time to absorb my words, to let them sink in until she starts to believe them.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” she says, her voice right behind me. “But thank you for saying so.”
“I only speak the truth, Gia.” I turn and lean against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest.
We stand there for a moment, neither of us quite sure what to do next. Then Gia reaches up and brushes her fingers over my cheek. “Thank you for telling me your story.”
I catch her hand in mine and bring it to my lips. “You’re welcome, Gia,” I murmur. “Thank you for understanding.”
She smiles, and I know even before her smile fades what’s about to happen. The air between us thickens and electrifies, her pupils dilate, and she licks her lips in preparation for what comes next. She steps forward and wraps an arm around my neck.
