Page 58 of Be With Me
I sighed. He was trying to deflect the conversation to me so he wouldn’t have to talk about himself.
Fine. I’d humor him.
“In high school, I had anxiety. It got pretty bad for a while.” I stopped at a light. “Had to see a therapist.”
“Anxiety over what?”
I hesitated. “A lot of things. My classes. My grades. My family.”
Why my dad sent me away and never visited unless I begged.
It wasn’t that abnormal at Valais Academy. Fabi and Elena’s family never visited either. Most kids there had parents who were busy running multibillion-dollar corporations or managing their generational wealth.
If my mom had been still alive, I knew she would have been there as often as she could. She would have loved the campus. Especially the view of the mountain range from my dorm window. I’d have taken her to my favorite restaurant in the village and made her try the fondue.
I would have felt wanted and loved, instead of discarded.
“What did you do about it?” Romolo’s voice pulled me back to the present.
I cleared my throat. “For a long time, I didn’t do anything. I showed up to class and pretended I was fine. But I wasn’t. Then, one day, I had an anxiety attack during a final exam. Had to be escorted out and taken to the school medic’s office.” I winced at the memory. “It was humiliating. But after that, I realized I needed to deal with my problems instead of pretending they weren’t there. So I found a therapist.”
“Did it help?”
“It did." Of course, I knew that just because it hadn’t happened again, didn’t mean it never would.
“I’m not going to a shrink, Mia,” Romolo muttered. “And I fucking hate the Hamptons. I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when I’m back in Manhattan.”
“It can start to rain again at any moment. You really want to have a repeat of what happened? Alone in the car this time?”
“I would’ve preferred to be alone.”
“You’re more concerned about your pride than staying alive. The male ego is truly something,” I said, trying to lighten the heavy mood that had descended inside the car.
He flicked a clump of grass off his jeans “What pride is left? I look like some mud creature. These clothes are ruined.”
I glanced at him, regretting it immediately. Heat prickled at my cheeks as I took in the soaked fabric clinging to his chest and outlining the powerful lines of his shoulders and arms.
I found his current state of disarray to be charming. His usual polished exterior was gone. He was unfiltered. Sulking. Grumpy.
But real.
I liked real.
“It’ll be fine after a wash,” I said, forcing myself to focus on the road. “And there’s no judgment here,” I said. “I look just as bad.”
He shot me a sidelong glance, his gaze dipping to my bare legs just long enough to send goosebumps racing up my skin.
“You’re cold.” His voice had lost its earlier edge. It seemed I’d won the argument.
He reached behind his seat, grabbed his leather jacket, and tossed it across my lap.
I adjusted it to cover myself.
“Mia?”
“Yeah?”
A beat passed.
