by S. Massery
I shake my head and move to the side. Paloma unlocks the door and eyes us, then disappears inside.
“I’m fine.” I spread my arms wide. “I went to speak with Mariella… and her brothers. I think things will be okay.”
“Because you tried to smooth things over?” His expression is skeptical.
“Because I told her the truth, and also because this has gone on long enough. They all stood by while Matteo assaulted me. I don’t really give a fuck about what happened before I arrived. Yes, it’s heartbreaking that Wilder was a colossal asshole to Mariella. But that is not my fault.”
He raises his hands. “You’re right.”
I huff. “I know I’m right. Mariella agreed with me.”
“Well, good.”
“Yes.”
He stares at me. “Okay.”
I sigh and go forward, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. This is new for me. Blatant affection. But it’s also nice to hug him after worrying about his health. He freezes for a second, then hugs me back. We stand like that for a solid thirty seconds, until I release him and step back.
“Thank you for worrying about me,” I say. “It’s kind of a foreign concept.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re like family.”
Paloma said that, too. I squint. “I was never married to Luca.”
“Yeah, but the feeling was there.”
No, it wasn’t. It’s so automatic to reject it, because that’s what will keep me safe. I take in a ragged breath, shoving down that damn loneliness again. I’m standing in front of a friend. I am in a city full of people. Paloma is waiting for me just inside. I don’t have any excuse for loneliness.
But I can’t stop the wave of it that crests above me.
I spin away before he sees anything on my face. “I’m sure you’ll turn up for dinner?”
“Or to walk you home,” he says to my back.
“Okay.”
And then I go inside, and Paloma keeps me blessedly busy for the rest of the evening.
It’s late by the time the dinner rush slows to a stop. My feet are sore, my legs burn, my eyes have been replaced with sandpaper. I’m pretty sure I have flour in my hair, although no one has pointed that out.
For the first half of dinner, I stayed in the back. I made the pizzas, which were luckily just a set few specials for the evening. Most of their business is the liquor, beer, and wine, but their pizza is just too good to resist. I tossed more dough than I ever have in my life—which, let’s be honest, I haven’t tossed dough before—and got the hang of the wide wooden paddle used to slip the pizzas into the ovens.
The second half, she sent me out to shadow Antonio on the art of pouring a glass of wine. I became efficient on using a bottle opener and locating particular bottles from the shelf. Antonio laughed and joked with his customers in Italian, and I kept falling in love with the melody of it. Over and over, different words, different people. It rings as music in my ears.
“Amelie,” Paloma calls now, beckoning me to the kitchen.
I leave Antonio with his few regulars, those who’ve just started on their meals, and step into the kitchen. I wipe the back of my hand along my forehead, about to ask what she needs. But then I freeze—and I mean that in the worst possible way.
It isn’t just my muscles that freeze. My brain stops working.
Luca stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands stuffed in his pockets.
My heart stutters and skips, and suddenly it’s racing. I can’t be near him. All I can hear when I see his face is an echo of my begging. I begged him and cried and pleaded, and that shame is what drops on me now. The shame I thought I’d shrugged off, left behind, fills me from top to bottom.
I never thought I’d be my own worst enemy, but here I am.
I hate you, I try to say. The words won’t come out. I fear I’m gaping like a fish, because I can’t speak. Can’t do anything except stare and hope my emotions translate.
He winces slightly. He has a shadow of a beard on his cheeks. Dark circles under his eyes.
I don’t care. I force my observations away. I’m lying to myself—that much is clear. My first reaction wasn’t the loathing that crawls through me like spiders. It’s the traitorous part of my brain that just wants the loneliness to go away.
Paloma is the one to grip my hand and shake off my ice.
I don’t break eye contact with Luca as I step backward. My heel hits the door.
“Amelie—”
“Do not say my name,” I whisper.
Hurt flashes across his expression.
“You do not have a reason to be upset.” I lift my chin to hide my tremor. “You don’t have a reason to say my name, or be here. You don’t have the right to look at me. Not after what you did.” Tears burn my eyes. “I hate you, Luca DeSantis. With every ounce of my being.”
Paloma squeezes my hand, and I can’t tell if she wants me to stop, or leave, or—
“I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”
I back out into the dining room. My hand slides free from Paloma’s. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’m certainly not entertaining a conversation with him.
Never again.
Antonio tilts his head when I return to his side. I try to be subtle about catching my unshed tears, blinking them away.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He grunts and names a beer, and just like that, I’m back to work.
Except sooner or later, the night will end. And it does, almost sooner than I expect. I peek into the kitchen and find it empty except for Paloma, and I creep in. My cheeks are already hot with embarrassment.
She comes over and wraps me in a hug.
This time, I’m ready for it and don’t fall apart. I spent the last hour stewing over Luca’s arrival, worrying over whether Cristian and Matteo will leave him alone, furious with myself for giving him the time of day.
“I’m sorry,” I say into her shoulder.
“Don’t be. He deserves a reckoning for what he did, don’t you think?”
I do.
“Go home. Sleep. Come back tomorrow for noon, all right?” She pats my back.
“Yes, ma’am.” I force a smile.
There’s only a slim chance Luca waits for me at his house, right?
“He’s staying with me,” she adds.
I exhale my relief and grab my denim jacket. I slide it on and step outside. Ricardo leans against the wall next to the door, a cigarette in his hand. He blows smoke at the sky and straightens, following me to the street.
“Amelie.”
I turn sharply toward Luca, who emerges from the shadows at the front of the building. His gaze flicks to Ricardo, then back to me.
“Can I talk to you? Please.”
There’s a little voice in my brain that wants to hear him beg, but I’m exhausted. I tip my head in the direction of the house—his, mine, I’m not sure what to classify it as anymore. “I just want to go.”
“I’ll make it quick. On the way.”
I stare at him and wrestle with my emotions. “Okay.”
He falls into step beside me. Not close enough to touch, but… too close.
We walk down the center of the street, and it isn’t until we’ve put some distance between us and Ricardo that he says, “I want to apologize.”
I grit my teeth. “For?”
“For everything.”
“You can’t just say sorry and expect forgiveness. If that’s why you came here—”
“It’s not. God, I just…” He kicks at a loose stone, sending it clattering ahead of us. “I’ve been replaying it.”
“Why did you do it then, Luca?” I’m breathing through the broken pieces of me all over again. I don’t want to say his name or think about what he did. The mold is shattered, but I’m terrified he’s going to shove me back into one. “Why did you lock me away when I told you that was the thing I was most afraid of?”
He’s silent for a moment, and then he nod
s. It’s almost to himself, like he’s deciding how much to tell me.
I don’t bother saying it better be the whole truth, because I need him to come to that conclusion on his own.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the reasons behind my actions,” he starts. “Trying to make sense of everything after the fact. I couldn’t see it when we were in the thick of it—when I was actively hurting you. I did it because you were mine, and then suddenly not. I thought it was because I wanted to keep you safe, but I was selfish. I was cruel. I thought if you were in my control, I had you. But that’s not right. That’s not remotely true. You were my prisoner.”
He takes a deep breath and faces me. We’ve both stopped now, squaring off with only three houses left to go before mine.
“I’m so sorry for that, Amelie. For not listening to your fears. For not letting you make your own decision about us. I’m sorry for taking away your freedom and hurting you.” He steps forward, his gaze intent on mine.
Just as fast, I take a step back.
I don’t know how I’m feeling. I had weeks to build up my hatred, and now I’m confused. How can I be confused? He threw me in a room and forgot about me—because his father told him I wasn’t his?
I rub my eyes. “I can’t, Luca. I need to think about this—away from you. That’s why I came here.”
His expression falls. “I know. I’m staying with Paloma, so you have your space. Just… let someone know if the Costas give you any trouble, okay?”
I laugh. “Why? You didn’t stop Matteo from touching me the first time.”
“I fucked up,” he murmurs. “I was breaking your trust before we’d even been married for twenty-four hours. You’re right—I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve killed him.”
Uncertainty is a snake coiling in my chest. I stop myself from moving back again and square my shoulders. “Thank you for your apology. I’m going to go.”
He nods once and watches me pass him. Ricardo doesn’t follow me, either, and I wonder if both of them will just watch from their current positions. I make it inside and lock the door, then set a chair under the handle. It won’t stop someone determined to get in, but even if Luca has a key… I’ll hear the chair be knocked aside, hopefully.
I climb the stairs and shed my jacket. Moonlight comes in through the sliding doors. It reflects off the small pool. I move through the dark house, hooking my purse on one of the chairs, pulling the gun and holster out. I set them down, then kick off my boots and remove the knife and sheath. I’ll need to clean it properly, better than just wiping it on a patch of grass.
My hand lands on a piece of paper.
I squint, trying to decipher the paper in the dark, and finally turn on my phone’s flashlight.
Not just one, but two papers.
The first is a copy of Wilder’s death certificate. It lists his cause of death as a gunshot wound to the chest, dated our wedding day. I set that aside and lift the second one.
This is…
The marriage certificate I signed with Luca.
’Til death do us part, I distinctly remember thinking as I signed it. If only it were that simple. Death did part us, but it was living that really came between us.
There’s a folded paper clipped to it, taped shut. I gently tear the seal to discover a page of Luca’s cramped handwriting. My heart gives an extra hard thud, reminding me it has a say in this. My heart and my brain aren’t in agreeance.
Amelie,
I’ve returned this original copy of our marriage license to you to do with what you will. Destroy it, if you’d like. Dad never filed it, obviously. You fulfilled your duty by marrying Wilder, and through no fault of yours was he taken away. I think Dad knew your father had sent in the license with Wilder’s signature, and then… it took too long to get everything straightened out.
But with Wilder’s death certificate, you’re a free woman.
I considered, for a brief moment in time, just sending in our marriage license. I thought it might erase the wounds between us. But… that’s not what either of us want. You don’t deserve the bars of a forced marriage containing you. I don’t want to tie you to me if you don’t love me.
I once told you I married you because I was happy to finally have someone of my own. Someone to love, to cherish. I don’t regret telling you that—and I don’t regret marrying you the first time. You changed me, and I’m so thankful for that. Even if it was painful.
The house is yours.
Your life is yours—forever.
I promise.
With love,
Luca
I cover my mouth and reread the note.
I’m Amelie Page, not DeSantis. And I’m… free?
A laugh bubbles out of me. I sink to my knees and hold my head in my hands, unable to contain the lightness. I can’t stop, even when tears blur my eyesight. He thought about filing our marriage license, but he didn’t. He wants my freedom.
My parents aren’t here to order me around. Luca… he won’t. I do trust his word on that. I never thought I’d be ecstatic to not be married. Never thought undoing it was a possibility. I rise and stare at the gun on the counter, the knife next to it. I set down the note, the certificates, and peel off my shirt. I unhook my bra and step out of my jeans and socks.
Outside, the cool night air pricks at my flesh. My nipples harden. I cross to the pool and test the temperature with my foot. It’s colder than I was expecting, but not unbearable.
I slide in fully, going under for a long few moments.
When I break the surface, I roll onto my back and open my eyes. My limbs are weightless. The sky is full of stars above me.
And I can finally breathe easy.
32
Luca
Paloma and Antonio are out of the house bright and early this morning, leaving me to sulk. Maybe not sulk, exactly. I didn’t expect Amelie to accept my apology. The whole flight over, I was tormented with the why behind my actions.
Part of letting her go—really and truly—is allowing her space to heal.
Whether that takes her a day, a month, a year, is up to her. Maybe she’ll never forgive me. I have to be okay with that.
I lean on the fence in their backyard, staring out at the view of the ocean. The rust-colored rooftops line up like dominos all the way down, built practically into the side of the hill. Antonio asked me to accompany him into town later to pick up more liquor, and he’ll be expecting me soon.
But the sun creeps higher in the sky, and still I don’t move.
My mind is stuck on Amelie. If she found my note, what she thinks of it. If she’s okay. I try to recall every detail about her, but I can’t. All that comes back to me is the fire in her gaze. If looks could kill, I’d be dead three times over.
“Hello,” Ricardo calls, stepping out of the house. He joins me at the fence.
“You seem better,” I say.
“I feel better. Still stiff, but the doctors say my muscles are repairing nicely.” He shades his eyes. “What are you doing?”
I tilt my head. “Enjoying the morning breeze. What are you doing?”
“I’m wondering why you aren’t at the restaurant.”
“Because they don’t need me until later.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re daft. Amelie is there, so you should be there.”
That sounds like a bad idea.
“You love her,” he states. “Only men in love do crazy things.”
I shift.
“Besides, if you don’t act soon, she’ll start dating one of the locals. Word of a pretty foreigner working at Paloma’s travels fast, and all the men are thinking of swinging by for a drink tonight.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
Anger kicks up dust in my blood, and my heart pounds faster. It’s impressive how swift a reaction I have to that news. She’s free… but that doesn’t mean I can let Italian assholes moon over her or sway her with pretty words.
“Ah,” he says. “See?”
“I hur
t her,” I state. “I don’t trust my love.”
I’ve never done it before. I love my mother, and I love Paloma and Antonio. I love my father and brothers. But those aren’t romantic. They don’t fill me with the desire to protect like I feel around Amelie. That platonic love doesn’t drive me to the point of madness.
He shrugs. “Has she been in love? Did she fall in love with you?”
“I don’t know. High school, maybe. Or Wilder. We didn’t talk about it.”
He laughs and pushes off the railing. “You’re less fun than a wet basket of laundry. Go to the restaurant. Show the girl you’re not leaving, hmm?”
I grunt, and he departs. It takes me all of five seconds to realize I can’t not go, not when I know people are aware Amelie is there. What if Matteo or Cristian pay her a visit?
I change quickly into a fresh shirt and get to the restaurant in record time. I go in the front, walking down between the bar and tables. The last time we were here was bad, and I meant what I told Amelie: I should’ve fucking killed him for touching her.
If he so much as looks at her, I will. I’ll pull the trigger without remorse.
The kitchen door swings open, and Amelie appears with a box. She stops dead.
“Luca?”
I scan her. I didn’t last night, but now I take in all of her. The way her clothes fall on her frame, like they’re a bit too loose. Her hair has grown more wild, pinned back away from her face. There’s a raised scar cut across her forehead that stands out more now than it did in the darkness.
I step forward, then pause. When she doesn’t retreat, I take the box from her and set it on one of the tables. It’s filled with utensils and napkins to roll together.
“I’ll help,” I say.
She nods once and slides into a chair, and I choose the one diagonal from her. I used to have this job when I was a boy, back when my mother and Paloma ran this place. We’d fold so many, only for them to be used each night.
I didn’t like it as a kid, but now the action is soothing. Our silence isn’t awkward.
