Chapter 22 #2
I grip my dress in one hand and climb the ladder hurriedly, my breaths raw and ragged with tightly-held despair. As soon as I reach the top I hear the door to the back of the house swing shut and my skin crackles.
He’s followed me out.
I crawl on hands and knees to the far end of the treehouse and sit with my back to the wall, my knees pulled up to my chin. Then I squeeze my eyes closed, bend my head and let the tears fall.
How could I have been so stupid?
I should have known it was always possible someone might find my journal. Nothing has ever been sacred in our house, not since Papa became entangled with the Di Santos, which has been for as long as I can remember.
The thought that Nicolò has read my words, my dirty words, my sexual fantasies, even if they were presented as someone else’s, makes me feel naked and ashamed. Stripped bare of my entire dignity.
Sure, I can be bold and adventurous behind a pen, just like I can be bold and adventurous behind the lens of a camera. But knowing my desires have been exposed, that someone has been inside my head, is paralyzing.
I can never face him again. And that thought makes my stomach bottom out. I don’t think I can live not seeing Nicolò again. But then again, seeing him will be akin to torture. Knowing what he knows is already too much.
Oh God. Tears stream down my cheeks as I look up with dreaded realization. What if he tells someone? What if he’s already told someone? I’ll be married off to the next available prospect. That’s what.
If Papa discovers what I’ve been writing, he’ll worry that I’m loose, that I’ll be quick to get a reputation. The only fix for that, in the eyes of the Italian mafia, is marriage. Marry her off and knock her up. Then she’ll have no time for wistful thinking.
My hands shake as I press them into the floor. It’s freezing out here but I can’t feel the cold. My shivers are borne of embarrassment.
How can I go back to the party now? How can I face everyone, not knowing if Nicolò has told them?
A hiccup leaches from my lips and I press a palm to my mouth. I’m forever having to conceal my voice and I’m so sick of it.
A creak sounds at the foot of the ladder and my heart stops.
I hold my breath.
He can’t know I’m up here. He won’t know for sure. I cut the lights so hopefully he’ll assume I’m too afraid of the darkness to venture into the treehouse alone.
Another creak.
He’s climbing the ladder.
God, no. I can’t face him. Not now.
My chest tightens and my lungs constrict until I’m hyperventilating.
Another creak.
This can’t be happening. My nails dig into the wooden floor, splinters jabbing into my fingertips.
A light appears at the doorway, shining brightly into the space. I turn away sharply, lifting an arm to shield my face. Where before I could see shadows, now I can’t see anything.
“Lina.”
My eyes fill again at the softness in his voice.
“Go away,” I whisper, hoarsely.
Footsteps on wood tell me he’s now inside the treehouse, but he’s keeping his distance.
“Please let me explain,” he says.
“Can you stop shining the light at me?” I sniff.
“Sorry. God, sorry.” There’s a shuffling sound and I feel his body heat come closer. He places his cell on the floor so the torch directly illuminates the roof of the treehouse but casts a little light everywhere else. I rub my fingers into my eyes before blinking up at him.
He looks anguished. Broken, almost.
“I did,” he says, steadily. “I did read your journal.”
My heart staggers through another beat and my bones ache with humiliation.
“That was private,” I manage.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what it was. I thought it belonged to my mother.”
I narrow my eyes, spilling more tears. “And you still chose to read it?”
“No, I thought it was a book she was reading. Then, when I saw the handwriting, I figured she was writing a book of her own. But then…”
I swallow, hard. “Then, what?”
He lifts his gaze to the roof of the treehouse. “Then I saw what you wrote about your visit to the doctor’s office.”
My chest heaves with the effort of hearing his admission. “You mean Ava’s visit to the doctor’s office,” I correct.
His sigh fills the small space and I watch in the dim light as he scrubs a hand over his forehead.
“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have read it. But it was on the living room table. It was right there, Lina. Anyone could have read it.”
My voice crumbles. “Don’t you dare blame me for leaving it out when you are at fault for reading something that doesn’t belong to you.”
He takes a step forward, making my back press against the wall. “All I’m saying is, it was an innocent mistake. I didn’t realize what I was reading until it was too late.”
I frown, curling my hands into small fists to keep the blood pumping. “What do mean, too late?”
He drops his head, a long breath emptying from his lungs, then he lifts his lashes slowly. “Too late to turn back.”
“What do you mean?” My whisper trembles in the cool air.
“Once I’d read that part, I was intrigued to know if you’d used any more of our… interactions… in your writing. So I carried on.”
My teeth chatter with nervous tension. “How much did you read?”
He takes another step and I press my head back against the wall—anything to create another inch of distance.
“All of it, Lina,” he says, his tone tight. “I read all of it.”
I suddenly feel nauseous. “How? I only left it out that one time.” And that was two months ago. I only wrote the words ‘little fawn’ this past week.
He doesn’t need to reply, because there is only one answer.
He snuck into my room. In a breath I feel like we’re reaching even ground.
He’s admitting to something abhorrent—breaching my privacy like that.
Maybe there’s a chance he hasn’t told anyone what I’ve written because it would expose him too.
“Nicolò,” I force out. “Have you been sneaking into my room to read my journal?”
The change in his demeanor stuns me. “Yes,” he bites out. “Yes, I fucking have, Lina.”
“Why?” I ask, shakily.
“Because I needed to know—” He stops and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.
My toes curl into the floorboards, gripping them ready to run. “Needed to know what?”
He shifts his weight, spreading it across braced legs. The curve of his thighs is silhouetted in the light of his phone torch. A combination of lust and despair rattles my insides and I force my gaze back to his. He’s almost standing over me, his dark eyes blazing into my skin.
“Nicolò,” I repeat. “What did you need to know?”
He chews on a lip, gives his head a brief shake, shoves both hands into his pockets.
“Are you Ava, Lina?”
My breath lodges itself in my throat and I stare back at him unblinking. I can’t do it, can I? If I admit this to him, it’s all over. My secret’s out. And what will he do with it? Will he be disgusted with me? Will he laugh at me? Will he tell Papa?
He doesn’t know it but he’s holding my future in his hands. My life. I decide to lie, but then he bends at the knees, bringing his eyes level with mine. They’re no longer dark and spearing. They’re almost warm, sensual, soft. His voice thickens.
“Lina, be honest with me. Are you Ava?”
I don’t know what makes me change my mind. Maybe it’s because he’s the only one who’s cared to used my preferred name. Maybe being the youngest Di Santo means he can relate to my frustrations. Maybe I’m lulled into a false sense of security by his hypnotic gaze and pretty lips.
Whatever the reason, I nod. Just once.
I swear something lights up behind his eyes, but his frown only deepens. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in the dim light when he swallows.
“And… am I Brodie?”
My breathing shallows once more. Of course it’s him. He knows it’s him. Why would he make me say it out loud?
“Lina,” he murmurs, his voice oozing into my ears like a drug. “Am I Brodie?”
I swallow, but unlike his, mine can be heard bouncing off the walls.
A small whimper escapes my lips and I look around frantically. I don’t know if I can do this.
“Tell me, Lina,” he whispers, patiently. “Is your writing about me and you?”
I still in the darkness and close my eyes.
“Yes.”
Nothing happens.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Not one floorboard creaks.
I tentatively open my eyes to see him staring at me, a sheen of something desperate crossing his brow.
In a beat, he stands to his full height and takes an unsteady step backward, scrubbing a hand over his whole face.
My heart plummets to the ground. He’s shocked. And not in a pleasant way. I’ve just severed my relationship with him, and when Papa and Antonia ask why my stepbrother can’t stand to be in the same room as me, I’m going to have to explain why.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, gripping the wall as I clamber to my feet.
He turns to me, whip fast.
“You’re sorry? Why?”
“For writing that stuff. I didn’t mean anything by it. If I could take it back, I would.”
He steps closer, the scent of him filling my nostrils and making me swell with regret.
“I’ll destroy the journal. I’ll make sure no one else will ever find it—”
“Lina, don’t.” He wraps his hand around my wrist, jerking my eyes to his. “Don’t do that. It means something to you.”
To me.
I look away so he can’t see the shame fill my irises. “I need to go back inside.” I choke out a bitter laugh. “I’m supposed to be enjoying my birthday party.”
“I’ll go with you.”
I pull my hand from his grip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think you should leave.”
He lifts his head and looks back at me. “I don’t want to leave you like this.”
I shrug one shoulder and wipe a finger beneath my eyes. “You don’t have a choice.”
“What about after tonight?”
There’s a faint trace of hope in his eyes that breaks my heart. I don’t know what he’s expecting or what he wants. All I know is nothing will ever be the same again. He’s trespassed into my dreams, my fantasies. Whether he intended to or not, he’s trodden on them in his posh, expensive shoes.
I won’t ever write about him again and that makes me more sad than anything.
“There is no ‘after tonight.’ You’re going to leave now and let me try to enjoy my birthday party. You’re going to forget everything you read and I’m going to forget I ever felt anything for you.”
I pause to let that sink in, for my sake as much as his, then I walk past him to the edge of the treehouse. But then his hand grips my wrist again.
“You felt something for me?”
I don’t turn my head, because I’m devastated. He already knows too much.
“Don’t, Nicolò,” I whisper. “Just forget you ever read anything.”
His fingers slip from my arm and I climb back down the ladder and across the lawn, back to the safe arms of my sisters, my father, and a house that now promises only emptiness and old memories.