Dante’s Girl

by Cole , Courtney

  “Never mind,” I stammer quickly. “Don’t answer that.”

  “It’s complicated, Reece,” he tells me. “I’m sorry. It’s just really complicated.”

  And apparently, liquid courage is also sort of like liquid fire-starter because my temper flares right up.

  “It’s not complicated,” I tell him icily. “Either Elena is your girlfriend or she’s not. It’s pretty simple, actually.”

  “You don’t understand,” he sighs. “My world isn’t the same as yours.”

  And suddenly, the fire in my veins is doused with ice cold water.

  Because he’s right. We’re from different worlds and I’ve known that from the beginning. I shouldn’t have asked him to kiss me because he can never be with me. I know that. I’m not in his league at all. And I suddenly realize that I’m not sure that I even want to be in it. His world is so complicated, after all.

  “This was a mistake,” I mutter as I try to get up from the lounger.

  I stumble and fall back down, directly into Dante’s lap. His legs are strong beneath me and I fight the urge to linger there. He holds me for a second, his eyes glued to mine. His are clouded with regret and I ‘m not sure why. Does he regret kissing me? Or does he regret that he can’t kiss me again? Either way, it’s enough. I bolt from his arms and run.

  And I’d thought that I wouldn’t have to run in my heels.

  My footsteps are loud on the marble floors and anyone in a hundred yard vicinity can hear me coming. Guards are stationed at periodic intervals in the Old Palace and although they look at me curiously, they don’t interfere. I can hear Dante behind me and I can hear him calling my name. But he never asks the guards to stop me.

  I almost make it to my room before my left heel tangles in my gown and I fall to the ground in a heap. My dress is spread around me and my hands don’t quite break my fall. My shoulder scrapes the floor. I should be humiliated since this is exactly what I was afraid of from the moment I put the high-heeled-stilts-from-hell on, but surprisingly, I don’t care. I lay there for a moment and compose myself. I can hear Dante next to me.

  “Are you alright?” he asks softly.

  I don’t say anything.

  I stay still and he bends down and scoops me into his arms.

  He holds me with one arm and opens the door with his other and then carries me inside, placing me gently on the bed. He doesn’t sit down.

  “Are you alright?” he asks again, staring seriously at me. He picks up one of my hands and examines it, but I pull it away from him. I want nothing more than for him to touch me, hold my hand, hold me, but that can’t happen.

  I steel my heart and nod silently, then I look away.

  “Goodnight, Dante.”

  I am dismissing him. It is clear.

  “Can we talk tomorrow?” he asks. He is almost pleading. He’s so polite. So… Caberran.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please, Reece. Let’s talk tomorrow. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  I nod silently. I can’t talk right now. I just can’t.

  “Sleep well.”

  He turns and leaves and I bury my face into my pillow and cry.

  It’s what any normal girl would do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If I’ve ever, at any point in my life, thought I was dying, I was wrong. I wasn’t even close then. I know that, because I’m dying now. So now I know what it feels like.

  I groan and shove a pillow over my face as the morning light assaults my eyes with a cold-blooded vengeance. My head is splitting apart. Someone is crushing my skull with a hammer. And poking my eyes with a sharp stick. And banging my head into the wall. And then stomping on my forehead.

  I squint one eye open. Who am I kidding? I’m alone. And I’m hung-over.

  And I am not enjoying it.

  I groan again. This is so not worth it. Why would anyone in their right mind do this to themselves?

  My phone buzzes and I realize that it is what woke me in the first place. I have no idea how long it has been vibrating, but I throw out an arm to clumsily grab it. I peer at the screen.

  Quinn McKeyan.

  Oh, perfect.

  Just who I need to talk to.

  Not.

  I drop the phone back onto the bed and then throw my arm back over my eyes. I’m not answering it. And no one can make me. I’m hung-over and grumpy.

  My phone is silent for a scant minute before it starts ringing again. I let it go to voicemail. It starts ringing again. We go through this process two more times before I realize that Quinn is not going to give up. He’s bound and determined to talk to me.

  Eff.

  I growl into the phone.

  “What?”

  Brief silence.

  “Reecie?” Quinn is taken off guard because I’m not usually bitchy, even during “that” time of the month. Even-keeled, girl-next-door. That’s me. It’s my eternal curse. “Are you alright?”

  And he actually sounds concerned, so I feel bad about biting his head off. Sort of.

  I swallow the build-up of saliva that is pooling in my mouth. Oh, the joys of hangovers. Again- really- why do people do this to themselves?

  “I’m fine,” I assure him and I even sound somewhat convincing. “I just have a massive headache. Why are you calling me a hundred times? Is something wrong?”

  “Everything is wrong,” he groans into the phone and I can hear the pain in his voice and I am instantly alarmed, sitting straight up in bed even though my head might explode from the contact with the light.

  “Is Becca alright?” I ask quickly. A hundred different scenarios roll through my head, none of them good and most of them involving blood. Car accident. Horse-back riding incident. Drowning. Sickness. Surgery?

  “No,” Quinn answers. “She’s not. She won’t listen to me and I don’t know what to do.”

  I start to feel calmer. No accident. Why am I such a paranoid freak?

  “So, nothing has happened to her?” I just have to clarify.

  Short pause.

  “No, nothing bad has happened to her. It’s just that everything is a mess. And it’s all your fault, you know.”

  “Oh, great. Not you too,” I snap. “Listen. Becca read my diary. Doesn’t anyone care about that? She went into my house to borrow my clothes and she snooped through my stuff. But no one cares about that part. No, everyone just wants to act like you and I cheated. And we didn’t.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” he sounds hurt. “I realize that we didn’t cheat.”

  “So, why is Becca mad at you?” I’m curious about this and since Becca won’t talk to me, Quinn is my only source of information.

  He sniffs. Is he freaking crying? Really? Oh-my-word. It must be bad.

  “When Becca called and told me about your journal, somewhere in that conversation I mentioned that once upon a time, years ago, I had a crush on you too. I thought it was funny because of the bad timing and all. But Becca didn’t think it was funny.”

  The world grinds to a stop and freezes.

  Or at least, my world does.

  “You had a crush on me?” I whisper. I find that anything above a soft whisper drives nails into my skull. Long, three-inch nails.

  This information should be earth-shattering. Mind-blowing. Amazing. And a scant week ago, before Dante Giliberti effectively took control of the full-on crush that I had on Quinn, it would have been.

  But now, it only seems sad.

  Or funny.

  The bad timing is slightly hilarious. Especially given all the drama that the whole incident has incited.

  “Yes, I had a crush on you. But that’s not that surprising. Most of our junior high had a crush on you.”

  Our age at the time took a little of the impact out of the revelation.

  “It was in junior high?”

  “Why are you whispering? Yes, it was in junior high. And I think our freshman year, too. And then it was Becca. It’s been Becca ever since.
But now she thinks that I’m only with her because you didn’t like me back- even though that was years ago. And she’s worried that since I found out that you are crushing on me now –bad timing, by the way- that I’m going to break up with her and get with you.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  “Are you going to say anything?” he asks. I can’t read his tone. Is he actually hopeful? No. Freaking. Way.

  “Quinn,” I begin carefully. “You aren’t hoping that I will say that we should get together, are you?”

  Silence.

  “Of course not,” he finally answers. Thank God he possesses enough perception skills to read my tone.

  I sigh. “Good. Because I’m not crushing on you anymore. And even if I were, we couldn’t do that to Becca. I firmly believe that she will get over this as soon as she realizes that you are not breaking up with her to date me. Because that’s not happening.”

  “No?” he asks and I can’t even believe that he asks. Are all guys this dense?

  “No,” I answer firmly. “Quinn, you and I have been friends a long, long time. I value our friendship. I value Becca’s friendship even more. Please, let’s all just be friends.”

  “Alright,” he agrees. “Good idea. As long as you can get Becca to talk to us again.”

  “Well, you’re on your own with that,” I tell him. “But personally, I’m going to give her some space. Then I’ll talk to her when I get back.”

  “Reecie, why are you whispering?” he asks again.

  “Because I have a headache,” I answer quietly.

  “Are you hung-over?” he crows. “Little Reecie-Piecie is hung-over? Miss Rule Follower herself? No freaking way!”

  I hang up on him.

  His voice is just too loud and too crowing.

  My phone instantly rings again but I ignore it this time.

  I lay still for a minute, remembering everything that happened last night.

  Dante kissed me.

  Dante’s life is complicated.

  I ran, I fell and Dante carried me to bed.

  And then he left me here.

  I.

  Just.

  Want.

  To.

  Die.

  Not really.

  Well, sort of.

  I crawl out of bed and drag myself to the shower. I lean my head against the shower tiles and let the cool water run over my body for at least twenty minutes. I don’t even feel guilty about wasting the water. I need it more than people in the Gobi desert right now, I am sure.

  When I finally feel a teench more human, I step back out of the shower. And instantly get light-headed and instantly drop onto all-fours on the bathroom rug. My head might fall off and roll away. That’s what it feels like, anyway. And part of me wishes that it would. It would at least solve the headache problem.

  I crawl back out to my bedroom. My head feels better if I’m not upright. I slump against my bed as I pull on some clothes. And then there’s a knock at the door.

  Oh, no.

  It can’t be Dante.

  Not right now.

  Because I’m on the verge of death.

  I slowly get to my feet and creep toward the door.

  And open it.

  And there’s no one there.

  But there is a small white box with a navy blue velvet bow atop it sitting prettily at my feet. And a card.

  I stare at it for a moment before I pick it up and head back inside, dropping into a heap on the bed.

  I tear off the bow and the box lid, and find a woven leather cuff bracelet with a big silver sunflower on it. It’s got pretty Mediterranean beads woven in the leather strands and it’s beautiful and I love it. And I know, even before I open the card, that it is from Dante. His little Sunflower. That’s what he called me last night.

  My breath freezes in my throat as my fingers automatically snap it onto my wrist. It looks beautiful there, I have to admit. It suits me.

  I open the card.

  Reece,

  I’m so sorry about last night. Please accept this as a ThankYouForComingToDinner and SorryThatIGotYouDrunkAndKissedYou gift. I’m really sorry that my life is complicated. But I’m really glad that I have met you.

  DGG

  I can’t decide if I am angry or touched. My heart sort of melts at his last I’mReallyGladThatIHaveMetYou line, but the fact that he thinks a gift will just wash away any hurt feelings is annoying.

  He simply can’t answer the Elena question with It’s Complicated. Not cool.

  I notice something else nestled in the cotton of the box and pull out a little packet of aspirin. Nice.

  I can’t help but smile.

  But I do need to find Dante and give him this gift back. I don’t want him to think that he can do anything at all and a trinket will fix it. I slip it off and regretfully put it back into the box. I keep the aspirin, though.

  I set off to find him, but it is difficult. The Old Palace is huge and I’m not that familiar with it. I find myself wandering the halls with the little white box in my hands. I slip quietly in and out of cordoned-off areas and I don’t see anyone familiar. Heaven is nowhere to be found and I don’t know any of the other staff. I realize that I should call or text Dante and then realize that I left my phone in my room.

  Dummy.

  I stumble into a long quiet corridor. There is no one here and there aren’t even that many windows. It’s quiet in a disturbing, unnerving way. I can’t explain it and I want to turn around and go back the other way, but I don’t.

  I open the first door to my right and take a step inside.

  And gasp.

  It’s a huge studio.

  And it’s filled with a hundred different pictures of me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I take a trembling step inside and stop dead in my tracks as I look around in wonder.

  Oh.

  My.

  Word.

  Pictures of me, in black and white, hang from various clips, wires and easels around the room. There are dozens of other pictures too, older pictures of scenery and pictures of another woman, but at least half of all of these prints are of me.

  Light slants in from a wall of windows. There is a desk, several easels, a wall of art supplies. Overall, it’s a cheerful room. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that my face is plastered all over it.

  “I see you found my lair,” Dante murmurs from behind me.

  I whirl around.

  “Your lair? What is this?” I demand. “Why are there so many pictures of me?”

  He looks abashed. Guilty. Caught. My heart flutters a little. Why does he look so guilty?

  “I’m sorry,” he answers quietly, his face impassive. Guarded. “I know it seems strange.”

  “Strange doesn’t begin to cover it,” I tell him. “More like criminally insane. Please tell me that you don’t have a cat-suit made from human skin in one of these closets.”

  Dante smiles slightly as he skirts around me and enters the room. He picks up a camera lying on a nearby table.

  “It’s a guilty pleasure,” he shrugs his shoulders. “I love photography. I always have. Life is so interesting from behind the lens. People seem more real, somehow. I take pictures of pretty much everything. See those cabinets over there?” He motions toward the opposite wall filled with shelves and cabinets. “Those are filled with stacks of photos that I have taken over the years.”

  He aims the camera at me and I hear it snap a picture. I stride across the room and yank it from his hands. I want to throw it, but I don’t.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss, ignoring the pain in my temple. “I’m trying to ascertain that you are, in fact, sane. And you’re just standing there taking a picture of me. Which, I might add, is not helping your cause. I think you’ve got quite enough pictures of me already. Who is the other woman in the pictures?”

  “That’s my mother,” he answers softly. “She loved photography too or so I’m told. I found those old picture
s in a box that my father had packed away. I didn’t think they should be hidden, so I’ve kept them in my studio. My father hates this hobby. He thinks it’s a waste of time. But it also just reminds him of my mom. So I never have to worry about him coming in here, into my space.”

  I felt instantly bad for snapping at him.

  Honestly, sometimes he seems like a vulnerable little boy. A vulnerable little boy without a mother. My heart breaks a little bit and I look at him.

  “Your mother was very beautiful. Look, I’m sorry for being angry. But I don’t feel well, there are enough pictures of me here to wallpaper a room with and I’m grumpy. What happened last night, well, it was embarrassing.”

  Dante nods, takes the camera from my hands and puts it back on the table.

  “I know. I’m really sorry.” He motions to a loveseat on the far wall. “Would you like to sit down? Can we talk now?”

  A boy who actually wants to talk? Dante is definitely different from most.

  I walk woodenly across the room and take a seat.

  Dante slides the desk chair over and situates it next to me. So, he doesn’t want to share the loveseat. Interesting.

  I thrust the white box into his hands.

  “The bracelet is beautiful,” I tell him. “But I can’t accept it. I’m upset with you for not being straight with me about Elena. I can’t take gifts from you.”

  He all but smiles.

  “That makes no sense,” he tells me. “I want you to have it as an apology. I feel horribly about last night. And I saw the bracelet and thought immediately of you. Please keep it. It shouldn’t be on anyone else’s arm but yours.”

  Lord, but Dante has a way with words.

  “I want to be mad at you right now,” I announce. “You’re playing with my emotions. And that’s not cool.”

  He looks shocked. “I’m definitely not playing with your emotions,” he says. “Not on purpose. Look, Reece. My life-“

  “Is complicated,” I interrupt. “Yeah, I know. You told me already.”

  I start to get up but he reaches over and puts his hand on my arm.