Page 100 of Someone Exactly Like Me (Wounded Hearts 1)
He stares blankly at me. Silence echoes through the room.
“Why do you have this letter? Why do you keep it?” I ask softly.
His swallow takes effort. “I keep it to remind me. To remind me of the pain. To remind me of the truth.” He breaks our gaze, looking down at our hands. “I keep it to remind me to close my heart so I can’t be a disappointment to anyone else, and I can’t get my heart broken again.”
Clarity smashes me in the face. My chest caves, goose bumps cover my skin, and pain lacerates my heart.
Tilting my head, I search his eyes. “Nicco, this is not your truth.” I hold the letter toward him, shaking my head. “This isnotyour truth.”
When I squeeze his hands, he pulls his lips in tightly, his eyebrows pinch together, and mist coats his eyes. He heaves an inhale and swallows, releasing a stilted exhale.
“How can you know?”
“I know,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.
His jaw clenches as his eyes shift, searching mine.
Rising from the sofa, he takes the letter from my hand and returns it to the wooden box.
“I think I won’t write tonight. I’ll go to bed.” He grabs his guitar. “Tomorrow you’ll not want to wear a dress since we’ll be on my motorcycle. Jeans will be good.”
“Okay.”
His tall body hunches, looking physically exhausted. I close my laptop and get up from the sofa then walk across the cool tile to my room.
He walks behind me, our steps slow, heavy. We reach my room and, as I turn to face him, he’s close. I step back and I’m against the wall. He leans an arm above me, smelling of stale smoke, and strokes my cheek with his thumb.
“Buona notte, mia dolce ragazza.” The phrase holds a depth in the fragility of his voice. “Thank you.” Moving his arm, he holds my face in his hands then kisses my forehead.
“Buona notte.”
Closing the door, I walk over to my bed, sit down, and lie back, taking in a deep breath. So much makes sense now. All I want to do is hold him in my arms and ease his pain.
Nicco
After a cigarette to calm myself, I go to my bedroom, having to consciously exert effort to move the weight of my legs. I sit on the edge of my bed, raking my hands through my hair. I hadn’t intended to ever tell her about Ana. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But when she said I’m good with kids, she knocked me fucking upside down. I felt safe telling her.
Having her in my childhood home, meeting Mamma, and hearing her tell me Ana’s words aren’t my truth, keeping her out of my heart is impossible.
Reminding myself that she leaves soon is fucking torture.
