25. Virgilio
Chapter Twenty-Five
VIRGILIO
S omething is happening with Valerie, and it’s personal. It has happened to us all. All three of us.
We wake up one day and realize we have been fucked by life from all angles. Neither of us is where we want or hoped we would be at this stage of our lives, and every time it hits, the blow feels worse.
“She will come around,” I move closer to Zoe, and she is already fidgeting with the lapel Valerie gave her. “Zoe?” I stop before I make her any more nervous.
I fucking hate that she reacts this way when I’m around her.
The last thing I want is to evoke fear in her.
“Yes,” she stands, hitting her knees against the edge of the table but sucking in the pain, and goes over to the table I had set up for her, one that is a little away from the others so she can have some privacy when working.
“What do I have to do to make you stop doing that?” I point at her even though her back is to me.
“Doing what?” She feigns nonchalance but her voice is so faint I’m straining to hear her. I hear her clattering teeth more than I can hear the sound of her voice.
“You know what I’m talking about, Zoe,” my voice drawls deeply, partly from vexation that she might be ignoring me even though I know I’ve been acting like a jerk over and over again.
I get that she thinks she is my personal servant, but she is human. And I know she is used to being hit, but I guess the kind of blows I deliver are worse than the physical blows she had to endure.
Mine are emotional. I can always feel her confusion and devastation every time I leave her hanging.
“Look at me,” I clip, the thread of my patience almost snapping.
She inhales deeply, then tilts on the stool before the table to look at me, finding a magazine to clutch in her hands as if it is a lifeline.
“What do I have to do to make you stop being afraid of me?” I go closer, pulling a stool with me until I’m in front of her. “Tell me,” I sit, and she whimpers, drawing her legs close and shuddering with each breath.
I lean back, studying her.
“Zoe,” I drag my stool so close to her that our knees meet, and she tries to pull away. It reminds me of the one time she tried avoiding me in high school after she found drugs in my bag.
She wasn’t judgmental, but she was pissed I didn’t tell her much about my life, whereas I was constantly peaking in the door of her life trying to get entry.
If time hadn’t watered the beauty of the memory, I would smile right now. But even looking at her, I want to punch something. I want to hurt myself or anyone else for everything that has broken that girl I used to know.
I still love the woman in front of me. I would die for the woman in front of me. But I fucking wish the girl had been allowed to grow into the woman she wanted to be instead of being forced into slavery.
“You don’t like me,” I nod, “got it.”
“I didn’t say that,” she hugs the magazine. “I can never say that.” She is blinking anxiously.
“You sure?” I crook an eyebrow as she lifts her eyes to stare at me.
She nods eagerly. “Never”
“And why is that?”
“You are…”
“If you say I’m your master, I will throw myself out the window.”
I thought that was funny but the horrified expression on her face tells me otherwise. I clear my throat, straighten up, and decide here and now that I should leave comedy for the likes of Cesare.
“I just want to help out.”
“I can handle the suits, but…” She stretches, reaching out for a container with trembling hands. “You are welcome to help with the stones.” She shakes the container, and the shuffling sound of stones breaks out.
My eyebrow stays up. “Stones?” She is not being serious now, is she?
“That’s the only thing you can do here to help. I can’t let you skip from level one to ten. You don’t know how to sew.”
I clear my throat, mimicking her posture of leaning my elbows on my knees. “God forbid I go anywhere near your art.” It used to be an inside joke between us, a lifetime ago, and her eyes catch it before she blinks it off. “I want to offer you a bargain concerning the Met Gala.”
She searches my eyes, curiosity, and suspicion intertwining in her gaze. “A bargain?”
I nod, “Yes. I mean, heaven forbid I become your apprentice. You would seize the opportunity to poke me with pins.”
She draws her eyebrows tight for a second, then bursts into another bolt of laughter. I was hoping she would do that.
Hearing her laugh is addicting.
“I would never,” she slows her laugh, her body still vibrating. She is promising something. Something bigger than what is in plain sight.
I can’t say why, but my hand shoots to the corner of her lips, and I stroke the smile line on her face before she wisps it off.
“Met Gala,” she slams back her fort, cowering like a rain-beaten cat and I retrieve my hand.
“Right,” I nod, clearing my throat and slipping back into what she is used to. “I can get you tickets to the Met Gala and accompany you there,” her eyes expand with trickles of excitement in them. Still, I continue to the important part of the deal. “In exchange, I need you to come with me to my mother's wedding as my girlfriend.”
Her face falls, “In exchange? But I'm already your property... You don't need to offer me a bargain to get me to comply.”
Fair point.
She does not even have to accompany me, but I have a record of going a little crazy when she is involved. I nod, thinking my next sentence through carefully so I don’t rat myself out for being impulsive around her.
“I did buy you,” the words like chalk on my tongue, “that is true… but if you agree willingly, it will be more convincing. They need to believe that you genuinely care about me and that our relationship is real.” It's more like I wish this could be the case.
“I’m not sure I’m a good actor,” she fumbles with the container in her grip.
The word actor punches me in the gut. The idea that she would have to put on an act to show that she cares for me, and even then, she doubts that she could pull off the trick, is worse than torture.
Still, I continue. “This isn't just about showing up. It's about selling the story. If they suspect you're being forced, it could create more problems than it solves. Questions will arise, and the whole thing could backfire.”
She inhales shaky a breath, chewing on her lips, “So, you need me to play the part convincingly, and you think offering a bargain will make me more believable?”
I nod, “Exactly. If you have something to gain from this and a reason to be there beyond just following orders, it will be much better.”
“I can try,” she mumbles.
I add, melting my tone, “I trust you to understand the stakes and play the part well. This is about protecting us from unwanted attention or suspicion.”
“I will try,” she sounds more confident this time.
“Deal or no deal?” I hold her gaze and memories of her beside my locker in high school flash through my mind.
She goes blank for a second, as if she is back there, too. “Deal,” she breaks eye contact and drops her head.