Page 329 of Mario
Mario sees my face change. “Victoria.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
He moves then, fast enough that I barely register him until he is beside me with the small wastebasket from near the bed. He places it in my hands and turns slightly, shielding me from the door, from the room, from nothing and everything.
I lean over it and just breathe shakily. Nothing comes up, but my eyes water, and I'm trembling.
“Breathe,” he says.
I try.
It takes a few seconds.
Maybe longer.
When I finally manage to lift my head, he takes the wastebasket and sets it next to me on the floor. Then he gives me the glass of water from the bedside table.
Even though I didn't throw up, the cool water still feels like a blessing against my raw throat.
“They saw me,” I whisper when I'm done.
“We do not know exactly what they saw.”
“They knew about the baby.”
His silence answers before his words do.
“They saw enough,” I say.
His face hardens.
“Yes.”
I close my eyes.
The shame is immediate and awful.
There shouldn't be any shame. I know that. Intellectually, I know that. I did not invite them in. I did not consent. I did not do anything wrong by existing in my own apartment while frightened and sick.
But knowledge does not stop the heat crawling up my throat.
“They watched me,” I say.
Mario’s voice is low. “Yes.”
No soft lie or pretty version.
The honesty hurts, but it studies me.
“And the rest of the articles?”
“They built them for you.”
I frown. “What?”
“Those first couple of Italian gossip pieces exist. They were old and ugly. You were right to dismiss them.”
“I didn’t.”
