5. Sly
Two Months Later
“If I ask you something, would you answer me truthfully?” Rosie asks from where she lies naked in my arms. My fingertips drag over her arm as I take a puff of the cigarette she’s just passed me.
“I have never lied to you, mia preferita. I see no reason to start now.” I take a deep inhale before offering it back to her.
“Do you ever feel guilty?” She doesn’t say more. She knows I will understand her question. And I do.
From the moment I met Rosie, I’ve been honest with her about my heart and where it belongs. Who it belongs to. She does not know the details—something I decided to omit, and she respected by never pushing for more information—but my intentions have never been to lead her on.
Rosie and I began sleeping together shortly after we met, both craving an escape from the pain we harbor deep inside. It has never been romantic between us, purely physical. Our emotional connection is nothing more than a deep-rooted friendship built from a mutual understanding that the only thing we want from each other is exactly the arrangement we have.
Friendship.
Companionship.
And the added benefit of a physical release.
Do I ever feel guilty?
Guilt is not the correct word for what I feel. Heartbroken. Disappointed. Empty. Those are the words that accurately describe what it feels like when I slide inside a woman who isn’t the love of my life.
But not guilt.
“No,” I tell Rosie honestly. “Sometimes, when I hold you, my heart shatters again, knowing it is not her I am holding. But she made her choice. Whether it was her choice all along or a decision she made once I asked her to run away with me, I am unsure, but it was her choice all the same. She chose her family.”
Rosie’s head nods against my arm that cradles it. “Makes sense.”
“And you, mia preferita? Does our arrangement make you feel guilty?”
“No,” she says without hesitation. Tilting her head, she looks up at me, her face glowing and bare of makeup. “I won’t ever give him another chance, Sly.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “Never say never. The stars may align, and things may be different. He could prove to you he is a man worthy of your love.”
Her situation is complicated. The man who shattered her soul is now housed beneath this very roof, and she is legally bound by an overlooked clause in her escrow paperwork to allow him to stay.
“Hell would have to freeze over before I give him a chance. I don’t even want to hear him out at this point.”
“And that is valid. It might change in the future, though, so try to remain open-minded.”
“Do you ever think about going back?” Rosie asks, flipping over onto her stomach. The sheet slides down her back, resting at her waist as she positions her chin on her hands. “To fight for her?”
Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and envision Vincenza.
In my mind, we’re back at the greenhouse, at the castle I took her to on our first excursion away from the city, walking hand in hand. She steps forward, pulling my arm with her so it extends, and she looks back at me with her stunning smile, her two pools of blue shimmering under the sunlight. Her laughter fills my mind, and then the memory fades.
Opening my eyes, I tighten my lips and shake my head. “No. I could never be in the same city as her when she wears the ring of another. It would hurt too badly.”
“What if she ended things and is looking for you?”
“She’s not,” I snap, a little ruder than necessary. “I’m sorry. She is very much still engaged. I won’t deny that I have searched for her name a few times, and it is clear she has not called things off. The wedding is in August.”
The irony is not lost on me that the month they are to be wed shares the name of the bastard she’s marrying.
Rosie leans forward and plants a kiss on my cheek. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, she hops out of it, naked as the day she was born, and bends to pick up her jeans.
“Well, never say never,” she singsongs, throwing my words back in my face as she pulls her pants up her legs, jumping to shimmy them into place before buttoning them. “That’s still several months for her to wake up and realize what an idiot she is. She’d be stupid to let you go forever, Sly. You’re a catch, and any woman who doesn’t see that needs to make an appointment with an optometrist.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as she pulls her shirt over her head, not bothering to put her bra back on.
Her sweatshirt goes on next. Pulling her hair from the hood, she smiles.
Pushing myself up, I lean back against the headboard of the bed. “Are you going back home?” I ask, pulling my phone from the side table to glance at the time.
Home.
The word pulls at the organ in my chest, tugging it with a familiar, longing twinge.
This city still does not feel like home, though I have made it a temporary one.
Many of the Sinners have a room above the bar, and I am no exception. We spend a lot of time here, and I’ve found I’d rather be around people than alone in the apartment I rent across town.
I often think about home—my actual home. About family and friends. About Vincenza. But being around the club, and Rosie, lessens the ache.
It kills me every day, being so far away and choosing to be no-contact with them, but right now, for me to heal, it is for the best. One day, I will go back for a visit.
But today is not that day, nor is tomorrow.
“Nah, not yet. I’m going to help Indie close down the bar, then I’ll head home,” Rosie tells me. Her hand is already on the knob of my bedroom door, readying herself to leave.
“If you get too tired to drive, please feel free to come back up. You’re never a bother, mia preferita.”
“I will.” She smiles again, although this time, it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “See you later.”
Then she slips through the door, closing it quietly on her way out.
My phone rests next to me on the sheets, and I can’t help but stare at it, fighting against the urge to pick it up. My thoughts are still on New York, and I can’t help but think how easy it would be to call my loved ones and check in. It is late, but Sully would be awake. I could update him, ask him to let Mamma know I am okay, and then?—
No.
Calling would reopen the wound that is still healing. Hearing their voices will only make things harder.
Instead of calling, I do the only other worst thing I could possibly do in this state of vulnerability and loneliness.
I search Vincenza”s name again.
Air constricts in my lungs as I scroll the page and come across a link to a New York Times article I hadn’t noticed in past searches. A wedding announcement, dated from just after Christmas.
Nearly two months after I left.
Clicking it, a wave of nausea twists in my stomach as I stare at a photo of Vinnie and August, both smiling happily at the camera. My brain deceives me, telling me her smile is forced, but I recognize it as a cruel lie I’m telling myself.
Reluctantly, I read the article.
A Love Story for the Ages
By William Tybalt
Vincenza Paladino and August St. Jean began dating in secret earlier this year, but after a perfect Halloween proposal, it’s clear these two were meant to be from the start.
Vincenza “Vinnie” Paladino is the owner of a growing publishing house, Star-Crossed Publishing, located on the Upper West Side, and August. St. Jean is the COO of St. Jean AM, the asset management firm that has been in the St. Jean family for three generations.
The couple kept their courting a secret. Friends close to them say Vinnie played hard to get, but that August put up a good fight and won her over with his charms. The two began dating exclusively, and when they told their families, both the St. Jeans and the Paladinos were thrilled.
August shocked the city, and his new fiancèe, Vinnie, with a Halloween proposal that left everyone speechless.
It’s a whirlwind romance that keeps friends and family members swooning over their love story, from the secret love and late nights talking to the stolen glances.
Excitement is buzzing all around the city for the previous most eligible singles to become Manhattan’s most influential couple of the year.
The two are to be wed in August in the Catholic church.
The article ends there, but there is more about Vinnie and August linked at the bottom, with thumbnail photos of each of them above the article’s titles.
I read every one, taking in the words, looking for any indication through the photos that this isn’t what she wants—that she didn’t actually choose him. That somehow, it was forced.
But there is none.
Every pretty word, every perfect photo, depicts nothing other than happiness.
Fury boils within me, white-hot and pulsating, as I grip my phone and grit my teeth. Slamming my head back against the headboard, I fight the urge to yell out, the anger so thick and powerful it makes me want to bring physical pain to someone other than myself.
It is the first time in months the monster within has grappled with me—clawing his way to the very top and threatening to take over.
I should let him. I should welcome him with open arms and fly back to New York to find August.
The monster”s claws scrape against my insides, ripping through the organs and flesh as the pain tears through me, slamming into me so potently my vision swims.
Wrestling with the emotions, I tighten my hold on my phone, wrapping my other hand around it too, as I bring everything to my face and close my eyes. My body rocks in the bed I still sit in, the sheet draped around my waist sitting loose and moving with me as my hips hinge.
It feels as though I’m on the brink of a heart attack, as though it might explode within my chest, and I struggle to breathe.
Finally, I lose all control and a strangled cry pushes through my throat, but I’m able to catch it at the last moment, right before the howl becomes audible. It’s painful as I swallow it down, but I do, my instinct to shatter and my determination to persevere fighting against each other.
I will never let her go—not entirely. A part of her will always be embedded in my heart, my soul, and the very fiber of my being.
But after tonight—after months of holding onto a single thread of hope—the articles have seemed to sever that tiny, thin string.
It’s funny how words on a page can set forth the rawest emotions and gut you deeper than a knife.
Now, as I lay in my bed, bleeding colorless blood, I feel myself becoming numb. And if there is one thing left I can do for myself—a simple promise I can make—it’s to allow myself to truly move forward and heal from this, no matter how difficult that may be.
When you’ve reached the very bottom, the only place to go is up. But with the way my heart is feeling, I know I am lower than the bottom. I’m in the grave, and I’m going to bury my heart in it before I claw my way out of the darkness, and hopefully, never look back.