5） It Hurts
Gio
I stand up, go to the closet, and reach behind the old books and a box of tangled cords. My hand finds it. When I sit beside him again, he's watching me closely.
"What's in there?"
"My kind of awful past," I mutter. "A few really bad choices." For the first time... I don't feel proud of what's inside. But I open the box anyway. The lid creaks.
An old burner phone, dead and chipped.
A USB, taped shut.
A fake ID with my seventeen-year-old face and a fake name.
A folded list of numbers and names in my handwriting.
A wad of cash, mostly euros.
A silver ring. Dented. Blood on the edge.
Usually when I look at this box, I feel that little spark of pride. Like, yeah, I fucking did that.
I see it as proof I'm not just some random loser on a bike, I'm someone people fear, someone capable of things they only pretend they'd do.
Now it just looks…ugly. Kinda pathetic. It's not like there's a straight-up murder confession in here or something, but there's definitely enough to put me behind bars if it ever lands in the wrong hands.
It's "hey officer, here's twenty different reasons to lock this guy up" energy.
I feel small and embarrassed.
I hate it. I can't tell if I'm making it better or worse by not saying anything now. All the times I thought I was built different.
Now it just feels like I'm fucked differently. Now I just see a list of every reason he should get dressed and walk out the door.
If he gets up and leaves, I can't even be mad. It'd be the most logical thing he's ever done.
"Guy I'm sleeping with pulls out a crime starter pack"?
Yeah, you go home, babe. You run.
Fuck me sideways.
Why did I bring this out?
Why did I think this was a good idea? Post-sex sensitivity my ass. This is actual insanity.
I glance at him finally, ready for the worst. If he stands up right now, puts his clothes back on and says "I can't do this," I'll get it.
Rava leans in, carefully. "You kept all this?!"
"Yeah." My voice comes out low. "I used to think it made me untouchable. Like I was ahead of the game or some shit."
He says nothing. Just picks up the ID, studies it. "You look like a baby here."
"I was."
He looks at the list, then back at me. "And now?"
"Now?" I let out a breath. "Now I just feel like an idiot.
" He doesn't laugh. "I was proud of this once," I admit.
"Thought it meant I had control. That I didn't need anyone.
Now I can't stop thinking about how if someone found this, if someone traced it back to me, I'd lose everything. Including... you know. You."
I realize that this sounds way too real. And I almost forget we are not supposed to do real.
"By saying you, I mean, you know…whatever this is..."
His expression softens. "You showed me anyway."
"I didn't want to hide it from you," I say. Rava puts a hand on my knee. "Thank you. For trusting me with it."
The fuck?
I'm still waiting for the earthquake. It doesn't come. My brain can't handle that. "So what now?" I scoff, leaning back a little. "You're just...what, fine with this? That's it? Box of crimes, little show-and-tell, end of story?"
His brows twitch. "Did I say I'm fine with it?"
"That's what it feels like," I throw back, because I'm wired and uncomfortable and this is my natural habitat. "You looked at all that as if these were old school photos. 'Oh wow, Gio, what a fun little scrapbook of fucking felony.'"
"Okay, wow. First of all," he says, shifting to sit cross-legged, "nothing about that is 'fun.' Or 'little.' Or a 'scrapbook'."
"Yeah." I shrug. "No shit."
He looks at me again. "I'm not saying it's okay," he says. "And I'm definitely not saying I like it."
"Right," I mutter, looking away.
"Hey." His voice sharpens. "Look at me."
I do. He holds my stare. "What I am saying," he continues, "is that you did the right thing by showing me. If this is part of your life, part of whatever the…hell you've been doing, then I'd rather know. I'd rather you trust me with it than keep it rotting in a box alone."
"Congrats, Ravioli," I say dryly. "You're now an accessory by knowledge."
He actually snorts. "Yeah, well. Can't unsee it now, can I?"