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“Chloe.”
“You make me sick. You think you can control me, that your words and looks can influence me, but they can’t. I couldn’t care less what you think of me. You don’t know me. You don’t own me.” Words fly from my mouth like birds at the opening of an aviary door, their wings batting against the air as the plume of feathers sticks to my tongue.
“Chloe.”
“The first time I met you, I knew you hated me. Then I heard you talking to your brother about me, saying you wanted to get rid of me. I’ve known how you feel about me all along, so you can’t stand there telling me it’s not true, that none of it was ever true.”
“Chloe, this isn’t about you and me. None of this is about you and me. This is about tonight.” He pauses, and a flicker in his eye catches my attention. The sharpness in his words cuts at my train of thought. “I just want to help you.” His voice softens, along with his face. It is a rare sight.
“You want to help me?” My breath is short as I glare at him, the stoop of his back, the hold on my forearms all trying to pin me down. “And how the fuck do you propose to do that? Have you ever seen a man die? Have you ever watched a person’s life slip away while you kneel next to them, knowing there isn’t a fucking thing you can do? Have you ever spoken to someone knowing your words are the last they’ll hear? Have you ever listened to a dying man trying to tell you something? Do you know how it feels to hear their last words, knowing you are the only person there to hear them?” My mouth stops running as the gravity of what I’ve said pulls on the atmosphere. He’s lost, a shadow crossing his brow, his eyes darkening, and in that instant, I think he has gone entirely. But then he blinks and answers me.
“I was in the car with my wife when it crashed. I sat next to her and watched her die. So, my answer to all your questions is yes.”
ChapterNineteen
Ihold his forearms as he holds mine like a human bridge. There’s a silence suspended upon the bridge, hovering between us, the magnitude of what he isn’t saying weighing heavily in the middle. How have I missed this? I should have guessed he was harboring more than just the loss of his wife. I know what it’s like to watch someone die but to watch someone you love die must be torture.
I see the knife. I hear my name. A distant siren wails in the background.
“I killed him. He died because of me. How do I live with that?”
“You don’t,” Gianni replies, his hands gripping my arms as if they might let go at any minute. “We were arguing in the car. An argument I’d started. We were on the way back from a party. I wanted a drink, so she said she’d drive. What if I hadn’t wanted a drink that night? What if I’d been driving? What if I’d not started the argument? What if I am to blame? The questions are endless. It’s up to you to stop asking them.” His eyes hold a hollowness that if I were to look close enough within, I might see what he has seen. “I’ve spent two years asking myself these questions, and I still don’t have the answers. I never will.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s such a feeble comment.
“So am I.” His voice is deep and soft.
Everything feels off-kilter. I don’t dare let go of his arms. The thought of whatever we’re holding onto might collapse at any moment. He knows. He understands.
“Now, will let me help you?” I loosen my grip. He releases my arms and threads his hand through mine as he leads me from the bathroom onto a long landing. I keep my head low as I follow, the bare floorboards cold beneath my feet, the strangeness of this night feeling precarious underfoot.
Gianni pushes open a white wooden door. The darkness of this new room feels solitary. He lets go of my hand, and I stop, my feet registering a different floor, still wooden but warmer than the landing. I watch his dark shadow cross to the far side of the room, his right shoulder dipping as he fumbles for a switch. At the click, a small portion of the room illuminates with a warm glow. My eyes adjust to the soft lighting as I examine the room.
The gray tones mixed with light brown and cream make it feel stylish but practical. Look but don’t touch. This is his room. It oozes Gianni.
He makes his way over to a large walk-in closet I’d have easily missed, the black gloss doors blending in with no visible handles. The door releases at the push of a button, and he disappears behind it. I cling to the towel, my eyes scanning the room again, wondering why he brought me in here. He quickly returns, holding a white T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. He passes them to me.
“I can wear my things,” I stammer, but even as I say this, the thought of putting on the oversized uniform fills me with dread.
“You need something different.” I nod and accept the clothes.
He walks over to the bed, turning his back on me as I shimmy into the boxer shorts before pulling the T-shirt over my head, releasing the damp towel from around my body. His clothes feel light, and the smell of him fills my lungs. My eyes blur at the thought of these clothes next to his skin, the underwear sitting on his hips, tight and close. The intimacy of this alone makes me tingle. A familiar feeling trickles under my skin, a sign the numbness that had hit me might only be temporary, and there may be a way out of the nothingness of the last few hours.
He pulls back the gray sheets, his head beckoning me over. I fold the towel neatly and walk over to him. He takes the towel from me and places it on the floor as I near the bed.
“You need to rest.”
“Is this your bed?” My question sounds lazy, but I’m tired. The whole night feels like one long performance for which I’d had no rehearsals.
“Yes. Is that a problem?” His face is cold, a seriousness having descended.
“No. Where will you sleep?”
“Here.” He motions with his head to the other side of the bed, and I stumble slightly. My eyes meet his, my unasked question flowing between us. “I’m not leaving you alone,” he says. “You will wake, and when you do, you will need me.”
I stare at him, wondering what he means by this as the heaviness pulls, the lure of the clean, fresh sheets making me want to drop my head and lose myself in the linen.
I settle myself into the bed. The hardness of the mattress feels alien compared to my own soft, lumpy bed. My head sinks into the pillow as Gianni pulls the cover over me. A thousand questions about his wife clutter my head, but the night has taken its final part of me. I close my eyes and feel Gianni’s hand on my head as he smooths my hair from my face. My body stirs, the touch of his hand igniting a fire within me only he seems able to light. I gulp, and my head fights the tiredness, but my body is alive with a thousand receptors all blinking at the stroke of his fingertips.
