Chapter 7 #3
She got up without a word. We walked back, side by side, not touching, but not as far apart as before.
I felt the distance shrink with every step, even if it wasn’t visible.
We crossed a bridge over the river, shadows from the railings striping our faces.
She stared down at the ice below, then at the city on the other side, as if she was already seeing the possibilities.
Halfway home, she said, “Would you . . . be able to stop, if I couldn’t do it?”
I thought about it. “Yeah. I could. I’d want to, if it wasn’t right.”
She nodded like she believed me, which was more than I expected.
Back at the apartment, I started making breakfast. It wasn’t hunger, not really—just my hands needing something to do, my body craving the rhythm of prep.
She came in, slower than before, watched from the doorway for a minute. Then she crossed the room and, without ceremony, swung herself up onto the counter next to the sink.
She tucked her knees up, heels balanced on the edge, hands clasped around one ankle. She looked smaller like this. Young. Not a girl, but something you wanted to protect, or at least not fuck with.
I looked up at her, waiting.
She said, “I have three questions.”
I nodded, kept slicing.
She counted them on her fingers. “One: Have you done this before?”
I didn’t dodge. “Once. Years ago.”
“How did it end?”
I laid the blade flat on the board, wiped it clean. “She left. Not because of the dynamic—because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I wasn’t built for anything long-term.”
She bit her lip, thinking. “Did it fuck you up?”
“Yes,” I said. “But that wasn’t her fault. It was mine.”
She nodded, like she expected that.
She said, “Two: Do I have to . . . wear a diaper? Act like a kid?”
I said, “You don’t have to do a single thing you don’t want to.
I won’t even ask. Most Littles find it soothing to let go of their adult personas and inhabit Littlespace.
You can look it up, see whether you feel okay about it.
But you don’t have to. I don’t mind either way—I just want you to be happy. ”
She didn’t say anything, but I could see her cataloging it.
I said, “It’s not about power for me. It’s about being useful. The rest of my life, I’m not allowed to be gentle. This is the only way I can be, and not fuck it up.”
She absorbed that, face blank.
“Three?” I said.
She said, “What happens if I try it and I hate it?”
I let out a breath. “Then you say so, and we stop. The contract is for you, not me. It only works if you want it.”
Her jaw worked, just a little.
She said, “And you’ll be okay with that?”
“Yes,” I said, and meant it.
She stared at the tiles for a long second, then looked up at me.
“Okay,” she said.
I made her a sandwich. She watched me eat, not saying anything, but the questions were still running behind her eyes, and that was fine.
I could wait.
I could wait forever, if that was what she needed.
But thankfully, I didn’t have to wait forever.
We were sitting in the kitchen after lunch, both of us pretending to read. I watched the way her eyes tracked the page—too slow, then too fast, then not at all. She had a mug of tea cupped in her hands, the steam rising up and fogging her glasses. She didn’t drink from it.
When she finally spoke, she did it without looking up. “I have terms.”
“Tell me.”
She tapped the rim of her mug. “Twenty-four hours. No touching, no pressure, nothing but normal. I want to think about it.”
“Done,” I said.
“I want to research. On my own. No hovering.”
“Of course.”
“And I want a night alone. You out of the apartment, me here, just . . . just to see what it feels like.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Get someone to guard me, but please, give me space.”
“Angela, I—”
“If you want this to work you have to give me a little. Let me trust you.”
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll get someone to guard. Maybe Sal would do it.”
She looked up, surprised, like she’d expected me to argue. “That’s it? No more persuasion, no sweet-talking?”
I smiled, a real one this time. “You’re the one in charge, Angela. Not me.”
Her lips twitched, almost a smile.
I stood, rinsed my cup, wiped the sink. “I’ll call Sal, then I’ll leave at five. You can call if you need anything. Or if you don’t.”
She nodded, then went back to her book.
I called Sal, who was more than happy to come watch over her. There was a separate apartment he could stay.
At five, I put on my coat, slung a bag over my shoulder. I checked the locks. Then I paused, hands on the knob, and looked back.
She was at the window, staring down at the city. Her shoulders were rigid, but her hands had gone soft, one resting on the glass.
“I’m at the carriage house if you need me,” I said. “Call any time.”
She didn’t turn. “I know.”
I left.
At the carriage house, Tonio was already at the table, Olimpo sprawled across his feet. The place smelled like tomato sauce and the ashes from last night’s fire.
Tonio poured me a glass of whisky, set it at my elbow, and went back to his paperwork.
I drank it in two swallows, then stared at the wall for a long time.
He didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.
I went to bed at eleven. I did not sleep.
At midnight I stood at the window, watching the dark. I watched for headlights. I watched for her number to flash on the screen. I watched until two, until the city had gone quiet, until it was just me and the silence and the sense that, this time, if she called, I’d be ready.
I wasn’t the man who’d failed a woman at Catania.
Not anymore.