44. Hendrix
Hendrix
F or the first few days, my hospital room was like a revolving door. Cops and doctors asking questions, nurses taking vitals, changing dressings, pumping me with a ton of meds. All while emphasizing how lucky I was to be alive.
Luck I stole from a man I cared so deeply about.
Whose funeral I cried through on FaceTime with Theory.
Christmas passed without mention, then the new year, even Saint and Theory’s birthdays. Those being the only two I felt myself enough to acknowledge.
Mom, Auntie, Vic, Theory, Archer, and Bex showed up in shifts, not wanting to overwhelm or push me to talk.
But Saint being Saint, refused to leave my bedside for a minute.
Every time I’d wake, he was either holding my hand in a chair next to me, sleeping on the couch, or threatening to kill anyone who denied taking my vitals every twenty minutes.
He spent the days in no specific order, flipping through channels, partaking in one-sided conversations, and force feeding me grape Jell-O when I refused to eat.
It wasn’t until I was released that I spoke to Saint with more than an absentminded “yes”, “sure”, or “no thank you”, and requested he take me back to the mansion. Where I’d end up spending three more weeks held up in my bedroom unwilling to leave it.
“I just have -eh to fix the clasp, then I’m all finished,” Antonio, Carlo’s jeweler who made his necklace, announces from across the table set up in my room.
He’s been here for over an hour, tools and all, repairing the broken links. Something I was told would’ve taken twenty minutes max if I agreed to let go of the necklace.
But this necklace isn’t just a necklace—it’s a sacred reminder.
Of how much Carlo loved me.
How much I loved him.
The ultimate price he paid to protect me.
In silence, I remain with my arm extended across the table, holding the horn between my fingers as I stare out the window.
My mother and Vic are behind me in another one of their whispering matches I keep pretending not to hear—because knowing I hear results in conversation and me having to actually speak to them.
No fucking thank you. They can shove questions and condolences up the ass with their secrets.
Mom, as relentless as always, goes on about being worried I’m not responding to my shrink, and Vic once again responds with things like, “Hendrix just needs more time” followed by “numbness is a stage of grief.”
He’s wrong, I don’t need time.
I can’t be numb.
Because numbness implies my feelings are masked, not gone.
In our fleeting time together, Carlo managed to fill spaces in my heart I never thought I should care about. Using unbound loyalty, protectiveness, and devotion to offer a glimpse into what my life would’ve been like if I had a father.
A real father.
Unlike the deadbeat I never met and the thrusted upon rich stepdad.
Carlo wasn’t only a sweet, scary mobster.
He became the only man besides Grandpa I could ever really trust.
The family I chose.
And when Carlo left this world, he took those filled spaces along with him. Leaving me here, unsure how to move on with them empty again.
“ Signorina… ” A distant male voice breaks through my thoughts, and when I shoot my gaze to where it came from I find a vision of Carlo, with bright light surrounding him like an angel.
He’s got an amused grin tilting his lips, the same one he’d wear every time I’d say or do something ridiculous. Especially if it was to piss off Saint.
Please come back , I beg him. I miss you so much .
Carlo’s face widens into a full on smile.
So, I smile in return with tears welling my eyes, not bothering to stop them as they trickle down my cheek.
“ Hendrix .” My mother comes through, making Carlo start to fade and my heart break all over again.
“ No…please don’t go,” I murmur right before a shake to my shoulder sends whatever’s left of his face poofing into thin air.
“Hendrix…” Mom continues shaking me, and I blink rapidly at her. “Let go before it breaks even more.”
As if it could get any worse than this.
I must’ve said the words out loud, because Mom interprets my hurt as a reference to the necklace I’m squeezing.
“I’m almost done, signorina .” The old Italian man tries to reassure me as I loosen my grip, but instead I’m hit with a sharp pang in my chest.
“Please, stop calling me that,” I tell him, drifting my gaze in the direction Carlo was a second ago.
“It’s just… eh …custom.”
“I know what it is.”
Antonio nods, and nothing else is spoken between us as he finishes working.
Mom and Vic stand beside me, examining what’s left of the gash on my head from surgery, all while I ruminate over the times I argued with Carlo about his use of signorina , and what I’d give to hear him call me the name one more time.
Mom over emphasizes how well I’m healing, triggering the same response from Vic, the two of them going on like this with every bruise until Antonio announces he’s finished.
I snatch the necklace from him, and without thinking, wrap it around my neck.
I’m amidst a power struggle with the new clasp when Saint enters the room, balancing a tray of food in his hands.
“Breakfast for lunch, Jimi. Just how you like it,” he says, noting my frustration as he places the tray on the table.
Then, unlike the three unsure-what-to-do dingbats in the room, steps in to help secure the necklace around my neck.
Looking down I find each of my favorites—pancakes, crispy bacon, sausage, two tall glasses of orange juice.
Even a fresh pack of Newports. All of which, around two months ago, would’ve easily earned Saint a good “thank you” fucking.
But I haven’t even had the will to smoke a cigarette, let alone have sex.
A few seconds pass as I stare at the plate, then, when no rumble forms in my stomach, I go back to blank staring out the window.
Saint parks himself backwards on one of the chairs, not the least bit surprised by my lack of interest in food, him, or anything. Something to be expected from a guy spending almost two months holding the shell of his girlfriend together.
“Everyone out,” he orders, voice cracking like a whip, then without bothering to clean up his station, Antonio leaves the room with Vic. As for my mother, well, she opts for a stare down with Saint instead.
“That means you too, Juniper .” He spits her name, and if it were any other time with Carlo still here, I’d wonder why the tension between them has grown so thick.
But it’s not any other time, and Carlo isn’t here, along with my fucks to give about what’s going on in this family.
Salvini’s beef with the Ivanovs.
Ivanov’s beef with the Lavells.
Mom’s lies. Mysterious calls.
I have no strength left in me to care about any of it.
“You have to eat.” Saint implores when my mother’s guilt wins and she exits the room.
“I’m not hungry.”
He holds out a piece of bacon. “That’s because your stomach is shrinking.”
“Some would say that’s a good thing.”
“First the fuck off, baby, I was referring to your actual stomach. And second the fuck off…yes…losing over forty pounds starving yourself is a really bad thing.”
He’s got a point, yet still, I push the plate away, stand, then zombie over to the bed and fall on my side.
Saint follows suit, nestling behind me, throwing an arm over my waist. I shudder a sigh as his citrus cologne and the warmth of his bare chest surrounds me like a blanket. Allowing me to let go, breathe freely for the first time since he left the room.
Our love is the only part of me I care about, so without Saint around, even for a few minutes, my insides shut down.
He’s become my anchor. My last beacon of hope.
I’ve grown completely dependent on him.
Not my mom. My aunt. Even my best friends. Saint is the only person left in this world able to lessen my guilt for being alive.
“How about a shower then?” he suggests, brushing the untamed hairs out of my face.
It’s day four since my last one, and I’m pretty sure I started smelling on day two, so a good cleaning is definitely in order. But rationale is no longer steering the wheel of my decisions.
Only the emptiness.
And the emptiness doesn’t want to leave this spot.
“Alright, let’s go.” Saint rolls off the bed after a long stretch of silence, rounding it to scoop me up in his strong arms. Something he’s done with little effort many times in the past, but absolutely none now.
He carries me to the bathroom, where I don’t fight, because that involves energy, none of which I have enough of to withstand his muscles or determination.
Saint places me down on the toilet, ordering me to stay put, then strides over to the bathtub to turn on the water. After fussing a bit with the temperature, he picks up two bottles of bath salts, and I watch in a mix of awe and sadness as he deliberates which to use.
“Lavender please.” I make the decision for him since helping Saint help me is the least I can do.
Shooting me a wink, Saint twists open the cap, pouring the entire contents into the tub, swooshing the salts around in the water before returning to me. Kneeling down he lifts my T-Shirt over my head, then removes my flannels, panties, and socks, until I’m standing stark naked in front of him.
“You ready?” he asks, casting a single glance down my body, nothing more.
As much as I appreciate Saint’s patience, how long I’ve been depriving him of a vital part of our relationship sits bitter on my tongue.
Especially with how insatiable his appetite is for sex.
I nod and he picks me up again, as if I’m incapable of walking.
By now my brain is no longer swollen, bruises are mostly healed, burns gone.
Physically, I have no reason to keep allowing this man to wait on me.
But emotionally, Saint is the only thing standing between me and the edge of falling apart.
So, if surrendering myself to him is what it takes to ease his worries and mine, I’ll never ask for me back.