Chapter 24 Sloan
Sloan
Livorno—not Florence, because Talon really doesn’t know geography—looks like it’s probably quite beautiful from the balcony of the ship.
A crumbling fort sits to the left, stretching out from the city, almost touching the quays of the harbour, and beyond the modern port terminal, all glass panels and shining windows, it looks like there’s a cobblestone street leading right into the central piazza.
According to Talon, who was most definitely fed the information by the suite concierge, the port can accommodate up to eleven ships.
And today, ours is the only one docked.
Apparently, it’s a nice city with enough to see when you’re walking around. So much so that he made an executive decision to skip the ninety-kilometre drive to Florence, saying it would be hipper, cooler around here. Less touristy.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that probably wasn’t something he could achieve in one of the main port cities of the Tuscan coast, but as it turned out, I didn’t have the heart to get out of bed on time today, either.
Blinking behind my sunglasses, my brain feels foggier than it should, in this dull post-Ativan haze.
Maybe not really post at all because it’s barely nine a.m., and I didn’t look at the clock when I took it, but it couldn’t have been later than five.
It’s quiet though, my thoughts and all those mean horrible things moving along so sluggishly that they’re in the distance, and I can’t really touch them.
But the balcony door slides open, and I start forward at the same time Bohdan walks out—shirtless—shoving a tiny bottle to his left nostril and pressing down on the right side before inhaling.
“Sloan,” he says at the same time I push my sunglasses up, worry bleeding into my voice when I ask, “Are you okay?”
His brow furrows, but I point uselessly to the spray bottle in his hand, and realization dawns across his features, beautiful and sleepy in the morning sunlight, every muscle in his body tensing and rippling unfairly.
“Zolmitriptan.” He holds it up, and the obliques stacked along his side tighten.
“Oh.” I blink. That’s not what I meant—I could name all of his medications without even having to think about it, and I certainly know which one he needs to shove up his nose. “Is your head okay?”
Bohdan nods, pocketing the bottle in a pair of black athletic shorts that sit two inches above his knees.
Those aren’t fair either.
He scrubs his face before answering. “Yeah. It’s coming down . . . I just took it to take the edge off. Feels almost like a regular headache now.”
“Do you even remember what one of those is like?” I tip my head, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
He snorts, lips tugging in a rueful smile. “No.”
I nod softly, and he does the same. We don’t look away, even though this awful silence permeates every inch of distance of the trench he dug between us that doesn’t really belong.
Bohdan clears his throat and hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I can go. I didn’t realize you stayed onboard today.”
“Onboard,” I repeat, rolling my eyes, and he smiles. It makes my lungs fuller than it should. But I whisper, pointing towards the lounge chair beside me anyway, “No. Stay.”
I hate the thought of him being in pain alone more than I hate the thought of being alone here with him.
He tips his chin towards the porcelain mug with the cruise emblem stamped on it. “Can I get you another coffee?”
“Oh.” I blink. “Sure. Just—”
“Three small splashes of milk, and the tiniest bit of sugar.” He arches a brow, voice incredulous. “I didn’t forget your coffee order, Sloan.”
I’m careful not to brush my fingers against his when I hand him the mug. I don’t look at him at all, I watch the passengers file off the ship and become tiny dots when they move through the port terminal.
I don’t want to see him reach out with those hands that I thought would hold me for the rest of my life, how they’ll wrap around a mug of coffee so he can get me another because he didn’t forget how I like it.
It’s a simple thing that shouldn’t be sad at all, but the first tear splashes on my thigh, right beside the frays of denim from my shorts brushing my skin.
I wipe a finger across my lash line with a shaky inhale when the mug reappears.
“Sloan . . . why are you crying?”
I hear the scrape of the chair, Bohdan dragging his closer to mine, and he leans in, a wave of amber hair tumbling onto his forehead.
“It’s sad,” I whisper, hands wrapping around the mug of coffee and my finger tapping against the porcelain rim.
He looks like he might want to reach forward, to stop me before I can start counting, but he exhales, palming his jaw. “What’s sad?”
“Nothing.” I sniff, taking a small sip. “You’re just a stranger getting me coffee.”
Bohdan says nothing, silent again, and I wonder if he sees it between us—that yawning trench full of awful things, casualties of the war between his brain and mine.
He must, because he gives his head a slow shake and whispers roughly, “I’m sorry.”
More tears roll down my cheeks, splashing against my legs, and I think a few even make their way into my coffee. “No, I’m sorry. I set these stupid rules and I can’t even follow them. Strike one for me. I guess we’re even.”
He’s not sorry for the same things I am, but I’m sorry all the same.
I try to smile when I hold up a finger, but I start crying harder. Bohdan looks like he’s in physical pain, scrubbing his face instead of touching me the way I know he wants to.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” He closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think—” He drags his chair closer, his legs almost brushing mine. “No matter what, you need to remember that I respect you more than anyone in the entire world. Okay, Sloan?”
I swallow, frowning. I don’t see how that could be true. But Bohdan touches me, his hands wide and strong across my exposed knees.
I feel a bit like I’ve been electrocuted. The kind that could either save a life or end a life, I’m not really sure.
“Not a reassurance, Sloan. That’s a fact, okay?”
I nod quietly because Bohdan doesn’t lie. Not about facts.
“Zlatí?ko,” he murmurs, one hand coming up, thumb ready to wipe the tears away, but he hesitates, hand hovering right there, and when I don’t pull back, he cups the side of my face. “Why are you crying?”
My eyes close, I lean into his palm and pretend for a moment we’re back there in the life we used to have, with all those simple things I took for granted because I thought they were mine forever.
His thumb brushes across my cheek, and my fingers scramble up his forearm, traversing old pathways and finding old friends in the cords of muscle, and I cup his hand with mine.
The sob sneaks up on me, and I let it out, so it doesn’t threaten to choke me the way all the horrible things I think do.
Blinking, I inhale, shuddering and lips quivering. A mess, really. But I think he might be looking at me like I’m still beautiful to him.
“I can’t pretend not to know you,” I tell him, pressing his hand into my cheek even harder.
Bohdan shrugs, thumb stroking my freckles. “I wasn’t trying that hard.”
I choke on a laugh, and he smiles quietly, the lines of his face still all sharp edges.
His hand leaves my face, his fingers wrap around my wrist, gently, reverently, and he carefully pulls my hand away from my temple.
He tips my chin up and I have to look at him now: bronzed from the sun, harsh ridges and lines of his body that were never hard on me, and a face that looks like it could make a statue weep.
“Let’s change the rules,” he says, like it’s simple. “Spend the day with me. Spend the rest of the days with me. No pretending. Just me and you.”
“And what, you’ll give me the picture and I’ll give you the ring back at the end of the week in exchange for my time?” I murmur.
Bohdan shrugs one shoulder again. “I don’t care about the ring, Sloan.
Keep it. Don’t. Throw it overboard Titanic style.
Just—don’t pretend not to know me. Know me for the next few days, even if that means hating me, and I promise you, before we get back to Barcelona, I’ll give you everything you want. ”
I nod softly.
His hand stays wrapped around my wrist.
I don’t look away. Neither does he.
Our eyes stay on each other, and neither of us look down because we had everything we wanted, and it lies ruined at our feet.