Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Hannah
I knew all along he wasn’t staying. This isn’t permanent.
But even so, I let myself sink into it. Enjoy the false domesticity.
Cooking. Eating. Doing dishes. Him taking the trash bag or recycling box out of my hands and telling me he’d do it.
Dying a little when he returned from the dumpster with empty boxes for Shadow to play in.
It’s obvious he has grown a fondness for my kitten, and my heart pitter-patters at the thought.
But tonight he’s a no-show. I stalled. I worked late, making more arrangements than we need around here, hoping he’d show up, but he hasn’t come.
My stomach tightens.
I have a phone number for him, but when I called it, there was just a generic voicemail, and he didn’t answer my text. For all I know, he’s changed phones by now. I’m not sure what the mafioso do. Get new burner phones every other week?
I’m not even sure that texting and calling him is appropriate. He’s hiding at my house because someone’s trying to kill him, and he wants to keep me safe. And we also happen to be having sex. Lots of it. But that doesn’t make him my boyfriend, no matter how much it feels that way.
He already made that clear.
No matter that this deranged unlikely scenario might actually be my healthiest relationship. Because Armando sees me and doesn’t flinch. And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
I get in the van and drive home, my fingers tight on the steering wheel as I navigate city traffic.
It takes me forever to find a parking spot because I came home so late, but eventually, I catch someone pulling out, and I back-and-forth it thirty or forty times to fit the giant van in the small spot.
When I get up to my apartment, I hesitate outside the door.
I hear the TV.
My stomach somersaults in a weird mix of elated and pissed off. I push open the door to find Armando on my couch, feet on the coffee table, watching TV. I thunk my purse down on the table and shut the door. “You’re here.”
“Hey.” He wears his expressionless mask that right now makes me want to kick him in the shin.
I head into the kitchen. He has boxes of Chinese takeout open on the counter, and it looks like he’s already eaten.
It’s one of those moments where I know I’m overreacting—I know I’m doing clingy and weird, but I can’t stop the trainwreck of petty emotions coursing through me. I dump some of the food into a bowl and pick up a fork then turn around, eating standing up.
“So, I never agreed to just having a permanent roommate,” I say.
He’s acting casual, uncaring. It seems like a legitimate statement.
He picks up the remote and mutes the television then unfolds his large body to stand. His relaxed position on the couch was deceptive. Now he’s suddenly imposing, both in size and his don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor.
He walks toward me, a frown on his face.
I have to work to hold my ground and not shrink from his intensity.
“You want me to find another place to go?”
My stomach bottoms out. This is the ironic behavior of relationships—where you push away when you actually want more. I set the bowl of food on the table. Thrust my chin forward and shrug.
He gets closer, towering over me, but not touching. I want him to touch me—to handle me in that rough, insistent way he has, but doesn’t. “Yes or no?” His tone is total authority, demanding my answer.
I swallow and shake my head, turning away.
He catches my arm and pulls me back. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing,” I snap, annoyed now.
“Tell me.”
Maybe I don’t want to be handled because I’d definitely prefer to turn away from him now. My neck and chest flush with heat. I shake my head again and look away. “I don’t know.”
“ Bullshit.”
Armando has a way of saying bullshit that hits like a punch. It’s an assault on my senses, and I feel it everywhere. When I flinch, he pulls me even tighter, right up against his body. “Don’t say you don’t know when you do. Why are you pissed at me?”
I blink back the tears. Damn them! Damn him! Damn me. I’m so ridiculous!
He circles one arm around my back and brushes my curls back from my face with his free hand. “What’d I do?” he asks it softer, now.
“I’m sorry,” I gulp then berate myself for apologizing. “I’m being stupid. Let’s drop it.”
He doesn’t move, just stares down at me. “We’re not dropping it. Just say it.”
I shrug, defeated. It’s so freaking embarrassing, but I admit it. “You could communicate a little more. You know—call to let me know you’re coming here instead of the shop?”
Yep, I sound clingy. His expression turns vacant, and he releases me and steps back, just as I expected.
“I told you—I’m being stupid. You’re not my boyfriend.” I throw my arms in the air. “I don’t know what the hell you are, but you’re not that.” I pick up my bowl of food again and walk around Armando, who’s just standing there like a stone statue. I flop down on the sofa and turn the volume back up.
Armando doesn’t move. I see nothing on the TV screen, even though my gaze steadily fixes on it.
All I can do is force myself to swallow down the emotion in my throat.
He’s going to leave now, and that’s fine.
That’s what needs to happen. Because the sooner I get him out of here, the sooner I can stop caring.
He walks to the door but stops and stands there, facing it. When he turns back, I dart a glance at him. “I can’t be your boyfriend, Hannah.” He sounds ancient. Exhausted.
I cringe. I don’t want to hear this. I definitely don’t want to hear this.
“I got nothing to offer. I’m fucking empty and dead and apparently one inch from having someone blow off my head.”
“I know,” I rush to agree, wanting to end this conversation. “Can we forget it?”
“I’m an asshole for staying here. I know I’m a dick for taking from you when I have nothing to give.” He gives me a long, unfathomable look. “But I don’t want to leave.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
My stomach’s up in my throat, and I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to say.
He shrugs. “You want me to go, I’ll go. That’s all you gotta say. Your choice.”
Like a fool, I get up and rush to him, wrapping my arms around his middle and pressing my face against his chest. His arms band around me, strong and protective. This guy would kill for me in a heartbeat. I know that already. Loyalty is his gig, and I’m under his protection.
“I don’t want you to go,” I admit. My belly shudders trying to hold in a sob.
He slides his hand into my curls and massages the back of my head. “Cry for me, Flowers,” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of my head.
I sob a little into his shirt. “That’s so wrong.”
“Maybe I’ll wake up,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’ll wake up and be your prince.”
My prince. He already is my prince. Maybe that’s not saying much, maybe that’s just proof that I haven’t dated any men of quality. Or maybe I just desperately want him to be my prince. I want to believe there’s a happily-ever-after for the two of us. Love will conquer all and all that sap.
But for now, it’s enough. Knowing he wants to wake up and be my prince is everything.
And I also love him for accepting my tears. Never once has this guy told me not to cry, and I’ve been told that my whole damn life by nearly everyone in it.
Armando tells me to cry more. To cry for him. Cry his tears.
It makes them like a tribute. Gives them meaning. Makes them pass through me more easily. I dry my cheeks with my fingers. “What are you watching?” I say to bring things back to normal.
“Old Parks ‘n Rec episodes. Come here.” He takes my hand and my bowl of food and pulls me to the couch. “What do you want to watch?”
I curl up beside him, and he puts his arm around me, tucking me into his side as he opens Netflix and scrolls through my recommendations.
“Married to the Mob ,” I blurt then regret it because now he’s going to think I want to marry him. I’m sure my subconscious produced it because I’ve been mulling over the consequences of dating someone in the mafia.
“Oh Christ,” he mutters but looks it up.
“We don’t have to watch it,” I backpedal.
“Nah, it’s funny. And Michelle Pfeiffer’s hot. Just don’t ask me if anything’s realistic.”
“I won’t,” I promise, but I want to. I want to know everything there is to know.
Even more because he won’t tell me. But I also love that he keeps the lines so clear.
Shadow mews and jumps up on the couch then promptly curls up in Armando’s lap as he pulls up the movie. He sets the remote down and rubs under Shadow’s chin.
“Hi, buddy,” he says as Shadow starts purring loudly. “You are the coolest cat, you know that?”
I smile and join in on petting Shadow. “Sorry I was bitchy.”
“Don’t apologize.” He kisses the top of my head like a real boyfriend. “I fucked your life up, I know.” He lowers his head and brushes his lips across mine. “I appreciate you letting me stay here.”
And just like that, I forgive him for everything.