Chapter 40
Matteo
I WOKE TO light stabbing me in the eyes and a taste in my mouth that was worse than the shit I drank last night.
The inside of my skull throbbed like a heartbeat, and my neck was stiff from sleeping with my head propped on one arm of the couch.
The bottle of bourbon was on the floor on its side, no cap and no spillage beneath it, so I must’ve consumed every last disgusting drop before passing out.
It sure as hell felt like I did, anyway.
I groaned and sat up slowly. Something smelled like stale liquor, and I was pretty sure it was me and not the bottle.
My right side hurt, and I had no idea why.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to recall the last thing I could from yesterday.
Then it hit me, and I turned to look over my shoulder at the kitchen floor.
The teacup. I’d smashed it into a hundred little pieces on the terra-cotta tile—right after I’d stumbled in there and fallen against the island, my ribs hitting it with the weight of my drunk body behind it. At least that explained the pain when I sat up.
Blowing out a breath, I dug into my front pocket and pulled out my phone, more out of habit than hope. Nothing from Allegra. Of course not. She was too busy moving.
Moving.
Porco dio. Holy fuck.
The truck. I’d watched it pull away.
I don’t know why it took so long to hit me.
Maybe I was still drunk, or maybe I was in denial.
But when it did, a giant wave of nausea roiled my stomach, twisting so violently I knew I was about to be sick.
I dropped the phone on the couch and made a run to the closest place to throw up, barely making it out the front door before doubling over.
Dry heaves. Nothing came up, just air and bile and a searing burn in my throat.
I stayed hunched over for a while, one hand braced on my knee, the other gripping the doorknob to stop me from falling over.
I must’ve looked like hell, which was appropriate since that’s how I felt.
Eventually, I forced myself to lift my head and squint at the blaring sunlight.
That’s when I saw her car, still parked in the driveway next door.
The moving truck was gone, but the little five-speed rental she jerked to a stop every time she pulled in was still there.
My shoulders unclenched, and a warm rush of relief spread through me.
She didn’t leave. Not yet anyway.
But my relief was short-lived. What difference does it make? I’m not going over there. She was still leaving. Today or tomorrow, it didn’t really make a difference. Her car being there just meant I hadn’t missed the end.
It didn’t mean I could change it.
I shielded my eyes from the painful sun and stole one more glance next door before turning to go back in.
I was about to click the door closed when I heard the hum of a scooter and the crunching of gravel.
Hope filled my chest, only to have a pin stuck in it when I pulled the door back open and found the mailman, not Allegra’s purple Vespa.
He swung a leg over his scooter and dug into the box on the back.
“Ho un altra raccomandata per te oggi, Matteo,” he said. I have another certified letter for you today, Matteo.
“Oh. Grazie.”
I scribbled my name on the little screen and took the padded envelope. My name was handwritten on the front, and the return address was typed with a name I immediately recognized—the law firm that had sent me the letter to give to Allegra last month.
Shit. Now I was going to have to go next door. As much as I wanted to see Allegra’s face one last time, I wasn’t sure I could handle it. Sometimes it’s better to leave things as is.
I stepped back into the house, ignoring the bottle of bourbon on the floor and going straight to the kitchen, fingers already slicing open the edge of the envelope. Inside, just like last time, was a smaller white envelope. But unlike the last time, this one wasn’t addressed to Allegra.
It was addressed to me.