“I wouldn’t.” I step closer. Can’t help it. “But if I don’t, he sends someone else. Someone who’ll enjoy it.”
She’s still crying. Silent tears tracking down her face.
I hate it.
I hate that I made her cry and I hate that I don’t know how to fix it and I hate that the only language I speak is violence and she deserves so much better than someone like me.
“You have to stop,” I say. “Coming back. Visiting. At least until this blows over. Until I know Sal’s not watching.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Dario? We just fucked. He’ll think it was that.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll understand.”
She nods. Wipes her face again.
She’s still wearing his shirt. It hangs off her shoulder, exposing skin I shouldn’t be looking at. The collar is too wide. I can see her collarbone, the curve of her neck.
She’s beautiful.
She’s always been beautiful but right now, crying in another man’s shirt, looking at me like I might have answers, she’s devastating.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” I manage. The words feel like gravel. “I don’t, that’s not, I was scared. I’m not good at scared. It comes out wrong.”
“As yelling.”
“As everything.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m a hammer, Stevie. That’s all I’ve ever been. Point me at a problem and I hit it until it stops being a problem. But you.” I stop.
She’s watching me.
“You’re not a problem I can hit,” I finish quietly. “You’re a problem who makes me cookies and looks at me like I’m not just knuckles and bad decisions. And I don’t know how to fix that.”
“You could try talking.”
“I’m shit at talking.”
“You’re doing okay right now.”
The panic backs off, just enough to breathe.
She moves closer. Close enough that I can smell her, vanilla and something floral and underneath it, cedar. Dario’s cologne on her skin.
She’s wearing his shirt. His scent. And she’s standing in front of me looking like maybe she wants me to kiss her.
“Stevie.”
“I care about you,” she says softly. “You know that, right? It’s not just, I know it’s complicated. With Dario. With all of this. But I care about you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.” Her hand comes up. Touches my chest. Just her palm, flat against my heart.
I stop breathing.
“You see me,” she whispers. “You showed up at my grocery store and bought pasta sauce you didn’t need just to talk to me.”
