Chapter 14
ROMI
When I wake, I realize I’m in my bed. Borris licks at my face happily as I sit upright, confused as to how I got here. I find my phone on my bedside table. It's midday? I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.
I rub my eyes, already feeling immensely better than I was last night. My body still aches, but I don’t have a fever or pounding headache like I was pushing through yesterday.
My eyebrows furrow as I look across my bed and see a pile of folded clothes on the chair.
What the fuck?
I get out of bed, realizing my room has been cleaned. I pick a shirt off the top of the pile and sniff it. Did that weirdo really wash my clothes and then fold them? What the actual fuck?
I storm out of my room and bang on his bedroom door. When he doesn’t answer, I push it open, holding the shirt up like a madwoman, ready to reprimand him about personal boundaries.
Except he’s not here. Borris sniffs around his room, curious.
It hits me like an avalanche, and I suddenly fall into myself, a shift of memories resurfacing from this room.
Lorraine and I were laughing about dates gone wrong, playing board games because she had a ridiculously large collection of them.
On the odd occasion, we’d even get high in here together.
I was never much for the stuff, but I enjoyed it with her.
Now it's turned into one of my crutches to try and block out the memories.
It smells like Dante, and feels like him with the clinical minimalism—sheets and blankets perfectly straightened. I even peek into his closet, which holds rows of suits and more casual clothing items. But it’s not him I’m seeing; it’s not his laughter that haunts me.
I back out of the room.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Fuck.
I rush to the kitchen for my cigarettes, my hand shaking as I try my hardest to take a full breath. It feels like it’s all closing in around me, as if, for a moment, I had forgotten, and now the pain, shame, and guilt are returning tenfold. I light the cigarette and take a deep drag.
A knock comes at the door, and I stare at it, shocked. Borris begins barking, and I snap my fingers at him so he’ll stop. He does and sits obediently in the middle of the living room, watching on. When I open the door, a deliveryman offers me a large black box tied with black ribbon.
“Romi Lutton?”
“Yeah.” I can’t recall ordering anything, and I feel dazed from what felt like hysteria just moments ago. How can this still come in such strong waves?
I sign for the box as the cigarette hangs from my lips.
I take another inhale as I watch him leave.
My hands are still shaking as I place the box on the kitchen counter and puff on the cigarette like I’ll die if I don’t.
And maybe that’s why I’m doing it—punishing myself at the same time as trying to take the edge off.
I grab the dog food and feed Borris, trying my hardest to forget, yet my gaze continues flashing in the direction of Dante’s room, then to the spiral staircase leading to my studio. I try to blink both away.
“Wouldn’t it be best if you moved apartments?” Lily had once suggested.
“No. I’m not ready to leave. If I do, it’s as if she never existed. I can’t just pretend she was never part of my life!” I’d yelled at my dear friend, thinking her idea was the most preposterous suggestion one could make.
But I don't think I can be here anymore.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’ve been wallowing within my own self-sabotage for so long that I’ve now become trapped.
I open the top cupboard and realize I’m all out of liquor. Or a certain roommate has thrown it out. Both are possible.
Fuck. And, of course, Dante isn’t here, so I can’t fuck him instead to distract myself.
That startling thought snaps me out of my spiral.
I don’t need Dante; it could be anyone. I light another cigarette with the smiley face lighter, staring at it longer than I should.
He’s slowly crept into my thoughts, and it irks me. I don’t want to let anyone in.
Then my gaze drifts to the black box. I tug the bow, the silk spilling around the box as I open the lid, and my jaw drops. I suck in a harsh breath as I pull out the leather jacket, turning it around. And my heart stops. So much pain. So many memories.
Colored stones litter the back, shaping the llama to mimic almost precisely the one from the jacket I had as a child.
My breath comes in short bursts until it’s fueled with something I’m far more comfortable with.
Rage.
I go to my handbag and notice the envelope is still there. Dante must’ve gone through the photos. There’s no fucking way he didn’t. No one else but my mother would know about this.
I swipe up my phone and call him, drawing back on my cigarette, almost choking as he answers on the first ring.
“Good morning, Cattivella. I’m assuming you got my present?”
I ignore the nickname. It only further enflames the memories I have with my father.
“And it’s going straight into the fucking trash.
Are you fucked in the head or something?
What part of privacy don’t you understand?
You had no right to do something like this.
” The more I talk, the angrier I become.
I don’t even know what I’m saying, but when I hear him laugh, I lose my fucking mind.
All this asshole does is wind people up, and I’m eating right out of his fucking palm.
Bang!
A gunshot rings through the phone and stops me in my tracks.
My stomach sinks with dread. “Dante?"
I hear a grunt and then heavy breathing. “I told you not yet, for fuck's sake.” Dante curses, and I hear an insincere apology from another man. What the fuck is happening?
“I understand, sweetheart. I’m glad you like your present. I’m a little busy right now. Don’t wait up for me tonight, I might be later than usual.”
Then he hangs up.
My eyes widen as I stare down at the phone. I call him again. And then again. He doesn't answer.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Fucking doctor, my ass!” I throw my phone across the room, and when it shatters into pieces and Borris flinches away, I immediately regret it.
“I’m sorry, little guy,” I coo as I go over to scoop him up into a hug. I hate the tears that have the nerve to stream down my face. Because I can’t keep this raging monster away, she’s unpredictable, hateful, a tsunami of emotions I can’t control, and I’m so exhausted from fighting.
It’s not even about Dante. It’s about losing this battle with myself.
Maybe this is truly what I deserve. Maybe this is what Lorraine left behind for me—a life coated in madness caused by grief.
Grief doesn’t even begin to describe the vulgar truth of my beast. It’s a roller coaster of pain, anger, and constant torment. The moment I allow myself to breathe, it comes back stronger, punishing me forever thinking it was okay to step away from its clutches.
But I’m not the only despicable person living under this roof right now. I look back toward the leather jacket. The man I’m living with is certainly not a doctor.
I’m hellbent on calling him out on his lie.
I promised myself I wouldn’t show an interest in him, but right now it feels like my only lifeline from drawing this insufferable pain in on myself.
If I look outward, I can focus on his shortcomings, instead of delving deeper into my own despair, because it’s not so easy for me to run away from it anymore.
I’m being given no choice but to wade through the emotions I’m doing everything I can to shove down and run away from.
And the tactics that once helped me get through each day are no longer working.
So I make up my mind. I’ll expose Dante for the ugliness he is—his lies and secrets—to avoid looking further into my own.