Why is being strong so freaking hard?
I rest my head against the stone tiles behind me and add more water to the huge, deep tub. And then more bubbles. Because a sad girl deserves bubbles, dang it. And my bubbles keep popping. And isn’t that a great analogy for life right now? My bubbles keep getting popped.
Sigh.
I look at the clock on the counter.
8:45.
I have fifteen minutes to get to work. But I’m exhausted and sluggish. I barely slept last night and my eyes feel heavy and dark. They are heavy and dark, I realize as I stare at the bags under them in the mirror as I step out of the tub. Oh, well. I’m not Elena Kontou. I am not perfect at every given moment.
I yank my clothes on and then yank my hair into a limp ponytail.
My ponytail might as well match my spirits.
Limp as hell.
I walk woodenly through the house and say good morning to Marionette, who looks at me with concern and then I meet Mia outside the doors just as she’s coming up the stairs.
“You look like hell,” she observes.
“Thanks,” I answer.
“You didn’t talk to him?”
I shake my head.
“You’re going to have to,” she tells me.
“I know. But I don’t have to right now.”
“Okay.”
We get into the golf cart and ride the rest of the way to the shop in silence and I am grateful that she lets me mope, at least for the time being.
The tourists come in, smiling and happy. So I pretend to be smiling. I can’t quite muster happy, though. But that’s okay. They don’t know me well enough to tell the difference.
I hand out cheese.
I pour wine samples.
I give out crackers smeared with gourmet olive oil.
And every time I see the name Giliberti on the freaking olive oil bottles, I want to cry again. The most beautiful boy in the world was in my grasp for a scant second and I wasn’t strong enough to hold onto him. What is wrong with me?
The shop phone rings and Mia answers it as I speak with some tourists. I don’t even know what they are saying to me because I’m not paying attention. All I know is that they are happy to be here and they are happy to be eating free samples. But honestly, I don’t care about any of it. My thoughts are only on my own misery. I hope that I am hiding it well enough. But at the moment, I don’t care if I’m not.
And then Mia turns to me, hanging up the phone and her face is grave and scary.
“Reece,” she starts out hesitantly and takes a step toward me.
My heart stops.
Something bad has happened.
I don’t know how I know, but I just know.
“What?” I whisper.
She’s scaring me.
But she’s scared, too. I can see it on her face.
“There was an accident,” she whispers. “Dante.”
And then she can’t speak anymore. Because we are both moving.
We usher out the tourists, we flip the closed sign and we jump into the golf cart, flying toward the house.
“What kind of accident?” I demand from her as we speed as fast as the little cart will go. I almost feel like I could jump out and run faster than it is going.
“He brought his father’s car back here this morning. Apparently, he wasn’t used to it and it went out of control on a curve. It rolled.”
I can’t breathe.
I can only stare at her.
“He’s okay,” she tells me quietly. “He’s in the hospital. We’ll go there right now. It will be okay, Reece. And he’s asking for you. That’s why they called.”
They.
He.
Okay.
I’m hearing words in fragments and spurts and my thoughts are coming in blurs.
Dante’s car rolled. Rolled where? Down one of those jagged hills? OhMyGosh. I can’t think straight. My heart, which was broken and shattered and stomped on this morning, is now numb.
Dante has to be alright.
He has to be.
The world isn’t alright if he’s not.
I whisper a prayer as we jump from the cart and then into Mia’s little red convertible. I don’t know what kind it is and I don’t care. I roll up the window and lean my head against it, staring sightlessly at the blurring landscape as we speed past.
Please God.
Please God.
Please.
Please.
Let Dante be alright.
I’ll give you anything you want.
Just let him be alright.
I don’t know how long it takes us to get to Valese Community Hospital. Time runs together and I don’t care about it. All I know is that we’ve arrived now and I know that because the sign is blue and lit and huge and I am jumping out before Mia’s car has even stopped all the way.
“Reece, wait!” Mia calls from behind me.
But I don’t.
I run.
I run as hard as I can, until I get to what looks like a reception area with a receptionist sitting behind a computer and people milling about in the halls.
“Dante. Giliberti.” I breathe raggedly.
“You can’t just visit Mr. Giliberti,” she tells me pleasantly, with her pleasant Caberran accent and her pleasant receptionist face. “Your name?”
She picks up the phone and waits for me to give her my name so that she can call whomever she needs to call for permission to let me pass.
“Reece Ellis.” I’m still panting.
Her eyes light up with recognition and she sets the phone back into the receiver without calling anyone. She’s already been given my name.
“Suite 815,” she tells me. Her tone has changed now. “Take the elevator on the right to the fourth floor. It will be on your left.”
She’s no longer simply polite. Now she’s respectful and wondering who the heck I am, but she can’t ask. She thinks I’m important.
“Thank you,” I tell her and I take off running again. I decide the elevator takes too long and I find the stairs and I take them two at a time for four flights.
Please.
Please.
Please.
I beg God. I don’t even have to tell him what I’m begging for. I simply pray that he knows. I don’t have enough breath to explain because these stairs are killing me and I can’t breathe.
Please.
Please.
Please.
I round the corner of the last landing and burst onto the fourth floor.
The nurses at the nurse’s station look at me in alarm but I don’t stop, even when they call for me to. I find Suite 815. I burst into Suite 815.
I stop dead inside the door of Suite 815.
Dante is staring at me from a hospital bed.
There are tubes and needles and machines with black screens and green lines.
And he is lying in a sea of white sheets and he’s so very pale.
But Dante is staring at me. And his eyes are electric blue against that vast sea of white sheets. And the most important thing is that he is staring at me because that means his eyes are open.
Thank you, God.
“Hi,” I pant, leaning slightly over with my hands on my knees. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe because I am relieved and I just ran up four flights of stairs.
“Hi,” he says quietly. “You came.”
I stare at him in shock and surprise.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
I had to. It wouldn’t have mattered if the earth was on fire and flooded with flaming lava and brimstone. I would be here if it killed me. I could be nowhere else.
But here.
Right now.
With him.
He shrugs and then winces. And then I notice that his face, his beautiful, amazing face is so scraped. His left eye is black already and swollen. There is a white bandage on his right temple and I can see blood soaking through the bandage.
His hand has an IV
in it.
But he is alive.
“You know how I told you that your driving doesn’t scare me?” I ask.
He nods, and I think I can see a slight twinkle in his eyes. God, I love it when his eyes twinkle.
“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
He laughs, then winces and I cross the room and grab his hand as gently as I can.
“You scared me,” I tell him softly, and my voice catches in my throat and my eyes fill up with tears. I can’t help it. I know I’m strong, but I can’t help it. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “I’m fine. Just bumps and bruises. Thank God for airbags and seatbelts.”
“Were you going too fast?” I ask, and as I do, I remember speeding along the curves with him the other day and of course he was going too fast.
“Probably,” he says. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I was thinking about you. And then I was out of control. The brakes weren’t working and the tires were skidding. It happened so fast that I couldn’t even think.”
Except for about me.
He was thinking about me and then he wrecked.
Oh, brilliant.
He wrecked because he was thinking about me.
“I’m sorry,” I say and the words start spilling out. “I’m sorry. I should have just talked to you and then you wouldn’t have felt guilty and then you wouldn’t have gotten into this accident. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”
I’m still holding his hand and he’s looking at me with his beautiful blue eyes.
“You’re sorry?” he asks in confusion. “You’re sorry? For what? It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
“I was being a baby,” I tell him. “I didn’t know what to say to you and I was trying to be strong but I was so upset that you were kissing Elena.”
“Elena kissed me,” he answers. “I just want to clarify that. And she kissed me because I had just told her that I can’t see her anymore. Because I want to be with someone else.”
“Someone else?” My voice is small in the large hospital suite and all of a sudden my heart is numb again. This time, it is numb because it is waiting hopefully for words that I am desperately wanting to hear.
“Yes,” he nods. “Someone else.”
My heart is still waiting.
There is a pause.
Then another pause.
He doesn’t say anything so I do.
“Is it anyone I know?”
I look down and he looks up and our eyes lock.
“I should hope so since it is you,” he says.
My heart stops.
And then starts again.
And then I bend down and kiss Dante Gili-bear-ti as softly and gently as I can.
“You want to be with me?” I ask this as I pull away and look at him. He smells like iodine and rubbing alcohol and bleached hospital sheets. It’s a foreign, unfamiliar smell. And I don’t like it. But his hand is strong and he squeezes mine.
He nods. “Ever since you ran into me in the airport.”
“You ran into me,” I answer.
He rolls his eyes and I kiss him again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ten times.
That’s how many times I’ve visited Dante over the five days that he’s been in the hospital. I go in the morning, I sit until lunch. Then I go back to the groves and work until the gift shop closes at 5:00pm. Then I go back to the hospital and sit until 9:00 pm. Then I go home, text Dante when I arrive safely, then do it all again the next day.
Dante tells me that I don’t have to.
But I know that he wants me to.
And there’s no place I’d rather be.
So many people come to visit. Mia, Gavin, Nate, Nate’s dad, Marionette, Darius, Mia’s parents, kids I don’t know, other members of Dimitri’s cabinet, Elena’s parents. Even Elena herself comes at one point.
A hundred times.
That’s how many times Miss Perfect glared at me while she was here, but she was sugary sweet to Dante and brought him candy. I know she thinks that he and I are just a passing thing, a phase. But I’m the one he wants to be with.
Dante wants to be with me.
We’re as different as we can be.
But Dante wants to be with me. With me. With me. With me.
And that’s all that matters.
Dimitri comes to visit often, obviously. And if he is curious or concerned that I am here so often, he doesn’t say anything. He is his usual pleasant, charming self. He’s not angry that Dante wrecked his fancy Jaguar. He’s just happy that Dante is alright. And that’s how a father should be, I decide.
“Why were you driving your father’s car, anyway?” I ask Dante as I’m helping him put his things in a bag. He gets to come home today and my heart sings at the thought. And then I smile because I just thought of Giliberti House as home.
“My car was being serviced,” he explains as he carefully pulls a soft t-shirt over his head. His chest and ribs and shoulders are still mottled with bruises, marring what is otherwise perfection. His body could truly be a marble sculpture. It’s just that perfect. Except now the perfection is bruised. I gulp and look away. His near-miss still terrifies me.
“You’ve got to be more careful,” I announce. “You drive too fast on those curves.”
“I thought you weren’t afraid?” Dante asks, with his blue eyes sparkling again. “You grew up on farm trucks sliding around dirt corners.”
I glare at him. “Don’t turn my words around on me. That’s true. I did. And I wasn’t scared. But that was back when I thought you were a better driver. Now I know the truth, so now I’m scared.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Have you heard from Becca?”
He’s very good at changing the subject. That’s something that I have learned this past week. And we’ve learned a lot about each other over these last few days. We’ve had nothing to do but talk in this hospital room. I told him all about Becca and Quinn and Connor and home.
He told me all about Elena, his father, Caberra, and growing up as a Giliberti.
It’s been fascinating.
And now I feel like I truly understand him.
He’s a really good person who just happens to have been born in a gilded cage.
“Yes,” I answer. “I spoke with her again this morning. She wishes you the best and can’t wait to meet you.”
Dante suggested yesterday that Becca fly here for a week or two at the end of the summer. I thought it was a brilliant idea and so did Becca. She’s currently working on hounding her mom until she agrees to let her make the trip. I briefly wonder if Dimitri would call to help our cause, but then I am distracted when Dante wobbles just slightly as he picks his suitcase up and puts it on the bed.
“Are you alright?” I ask in concern as I rush to steady his elbow.
“I’m not an invalid,” he tells me. “I just haven’t gotten out of bed for a week. Ooh- now there’s a thought.” And then he waggles his eyebrows suggestively and with huge exaggeration and I laugh. His pain meds are loosening his normally gentlemanly tongue.
“Normally, that would be an interesting thought, but right now, not so much,” I tell him. “Hospital tubes and a drugged up guy don’t really do it for me.”
“No?” he looks disappointed.
“No,” I confirm. “And I’m not thinking about anything of the sort right now. I’m too worried about you for that kind of nonsense.”
Lie.
Five hundred times.
That’s how many times I’ve thought about Dante’s hands on my body over the past week. He’s been lying in a hospital bed and I’ve been thinking impure thoughts. His ancestors’ paintings would surely be glaring at me now. If they could see me. Which they can’t.
“Are you ready?” I ask, fighting the blush that is sweeping my cheeks at my ridiculous and impure thoughts.
“Yes. Are you?”
Boy, am I. But that is a loaded question. And now is not the time to thi
nk about it.
“I’ll have your car pulled around, okay?”
He nods and I leave to ask them to bring his car out of the garage. At his direction, I’ve been driving it back and forth to the hospital this week. At first I was terrified to drive such an expensive piece of machinery, but now it feels normal. And I can see now how he is so casual about his luxurious things. I’m almost ashamed to say that I’ve become accustomed to them, too. It’s weird. I guess it’s human nature. You become accustomed to what is around you.
I help Dante into the passenger’s seat and he still seems pale to me. But he’s all hopped up on pain medicine so I doubt he’s feeling any pain. And because of the pain medicine, he’s very talkative on the way to Giliberti House.
“Are you sure that you aren’t into Connor?” he asks me for the third time since we left the hospital. I have to smile and shake my head while I concentrate on navigating the curves outside of Valese.
“Yes, I’m very sure,” I assure him again. “He’s like my brother. He’s always been like my brother. He used to pull my pigtails and hide my Barbies.”
“I’m jealous of that,” Dante announces. “He knew you when I didn’t.”
And now I’m grateful for the pain medicine that makes Dante talkative. It’s revealing a side of him that I’ve never seen before. A very human, less than perfectly self-assured side. And I like it. It tells me that Dante Giliberti isn’t quite perfect.
It makes me love him even more.
The curves and sways of the road combined with the pain meds make Dante sleepy and so he falls asleep, snoring slightly, long before we reach the house. I pull up in front and wake him up and then I help him through the house.
Marionette scampers ahead of us, surprisingly spy for an old woman, and opens the door to Dante’s bedroom so that I can help him through it. He’s leaning on me and I’m lugging his stuff and helping him walk, all at the same time. The pain medicine makes him groggy and out of it. He’d never let me shoulder all of this weight normally.
But it’s okay with me because it makes me feel like I’m finally doing something to help him. I thank Marionette and she leaves me alone with Dante.
In his room.
Alone.
As I help him onto his bed, I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen his room. I was never in his room at the Old Palace and that’s okay. Because I know as I look around, that this is his true room, his true space. The place where he is truly himself.
Dante’s Girl Page 16
