Chapter 43
Inès didn’t understand what was going on.
Her heart sank as she kept tapping away on Facebook, trying to find some trace of Milo.
He hadn’t posted anything for three days or reacted to anything she’d posted.
What was going on? Whenever they saw each other there was such ease in their interaction that it felt completely natural and right.
She felt good in his company and she knew—yes, she knew!
—that he felt the same. And then, for no reason at all, he had become conspicuous by his absence and indifference.
Conspicuous was the word—he was always there in her thoughts, her dreams, and her aspirations.
Since the first evening they had spent together, and even more so since their first kiss, her heart beat faster whenever she thought of him, with an airy cadence that gave rhythm to her days, the gallop of emotional excitement that so intoxicated her, she found herself constantly dreaming of distant and unfamiliar places.
Though she refused to admit it, Inès was falling in love.
Why was he not answering her calls or responding to her messages? What was wrong? She hadn’t dreamed it—the way he looked at her, their complicity, their closeness, the kiss . . . It had all happened!
Was it possible he’d just been polite, he couldn’t do otherwise for fear of upsetting her, and she, carried away by desire, had been imagining something that existed only in her head?
Inès felt completely lost. Angry and upset.
She missed him. She had a vague but constant burning in her chest, as if her lungs were on fire.
She didn’t know what to think. She wanted to flood him with messages on Facebook and email, but she didn’t let herself, knowing it would only trigger the opposite reaction to the one she was hoping for.
“Where are you, Milo?” she whispered, as she scrolled down her Facebook page trying to find him.
Everything was falling apart. Fate was against her.
Even her father wasn’t answering her calls.
Absolutely no sign of life. He was playing dead.
The same question was going around and around in her head, the same word repeating itself indefatigably, like a nagging echo rattling around in her skull: why?
What had happened? Was each of the men behaving by choice, or under pressure? She wanted to pour out her heart to one of them . . . Milo . . . She wanted to snuggle up to him, lie in his arms, knowing that he would never hurt her, that she could always depend on him.
But no. It was impossible. He wasn’t there, when she so desperately needed him.
Filled with apprehension, more questions began to waltz around her head, ringing out like a cackle: Are you sure you didn’t imagine it all?
The way you get along? You’ve hung out with him twice!
Your closeness? A few giggles about some dumb memes that everyone’s talking about at the moment.
That kiss? You were the one who made the first move!
None of it was proof he felt anything for her.
Open your eyes, you stupid girl. This guy doesn’t give a damn about you. You bore him.
She had seen that glimmer of annoyance, that tiny twinge of irritation on his face when, on two occasions, she had rung at the door.
She hadn’t been welcome either time. The first time he had managed to get rid of her.
The second, he hadn’t had time to come up with an excuse, and she’d marched in like she owned the place.
Get down off your high horse, you idiot!
Not every guy is going to throw himself at your feet. And this is the proof!
Inès’s eyes welled up, and two heaving sobs caught in her throat, pressing against each other, trying to break through the dam of pride to escape. She began to cry, desperate to pour out the overwhelming desolation that was consuming her from within. For several long minutes, she wept with sorrow.