Chapter 33 #3
“Okay, Nostradamus. What is it that I need?”
“A friend. Food. Water. Samantha, Carrie, Miranda and…what’s the annoying one’s name?”
“Charlotte.” She laughs. “Impressive that you know their names. But also, justice for Charlotte. What did she ever do to you?”
“Eh. Too frilly and prim and proper for me. I like my women mouthy and a little wild.”
“So you heard, huh,” she says softly as she turns in my arms, flicking her gaze up to me.
“I did,” I confirm as I softly use my knuckle to lift her chin so she can only see me. “Are you okay, angel?”
“You keep asking me this question, but are any of us ever really okay? Or can we feel like we’re just surviving and blissfully happy at the same time?”
“You tell me. I asked about you. Not the collective. I’m not looking for a theoretical answer. I just want you to tell me exactly how you feel.”
“Well, right now, in this very moment with you, I’m good.
More than good. I feel safe,” she admits quietly, pushing back even further into me, and I hug her tighter.
It’s taking all my restraint to keep my body’s physical attraction to her in check.
As much as I want to use touch to make her feel good, to forget, I don’t want it to be at the detriment of giving her the opportunity to confide in me.
To talk to me with her walls down and her mask discarded.
“But then I remember it’s fleeting and reality seeps in. Everything feels like it’s on borrowed time.” She blinks back tears. “Living in New York, my career, my living arrangements, my freedom to choose who I want to be with for the rest of my life.”
She pauses, but I don’t fill the silence. I want her to keep going. To lay herself bare and reveal the demons that plague her, knowing with certainty that I’m here to bear the load and catch her if she falls.
“Julian was a fucking pig, no doubt about it, but he was right about one thing.” She scoffs.
“I’m a fucking mess, Raf, and in what world would someone like you—successful, wealthy, prestigious—want to saddle himself with the Mafia princess who speaks before she thinks, drinks to forget, wears her trauma like second skin, and spirals into panic she still hasn’t found a way to get under control six fucking years later. ”
Her self-loathing flays me. I want to say all the things to make it better.
To tell her she’s wrong, to tell her she’s exactly who I want, but she needs more than lip service—she needs actions.
And the only thing I can think to do to convince her she’s worthy enough for me is complete madness.
Yet I can’t seem to find a way to put it on mute.
“Chiara, you’re one of the strongest people I know,” I say earnestly. “I don’t know how many people would have experienced the loss you have and still found the courage to keep pursuing their dreams. Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure, anything.”
“Have you ever spoken to a professional therapist?” I ask cautiously, cataloguing the way her body tenses. “I mean, I’m no expert, but it might be good to speak to someone to help with your trauma and panic attacks.”
“I did for a while, but then I just thought, what’s the point? It’s not going to bring them back. I still felt incomplete. I kept thinking, I can’t even get therapy right.”
“It’s not about getting it right,” I say, stroking her cheek. “It’s about finding some solace in getting the thoughts off your chest and out of your head. Maybe finding the silence you were searching for underwater.”
“Can’t I just keep talking to you? Maybe we call it bath-time confessionals.”
I chuckle. “Of course, any time,” I reassure her. “But just so we’re clear, I have my own bag of problems I should probably get therapy for, so I’d maybe keep me as the backup.”
“Maybe we’ll get a two-for-one deal if we go together?” she quips, but I know she’s deflecting. She’s a master at using humorous self-deprecation and pasting on big smiles to create the picture of wellness.
“Maybe. But seriously, I’d really like you to think about it. I spoke with Marco today, and he mentioned he’s booked in to talk to someone—maybe you can speak with him about it, get their details too?”
“I’ll think about it,” she agrees. Just then, her stomach rumbles.
“Come on. Let’s get some food into you,” I say, rising from the bath and lifting her up with me, keeping her back to my front.
I glide my hands down the sides of her body—to wipe off the excess water, I tell myself—reveling in the way her curves, slick with bath oil, feel under my touch.
Her breath hitches, and she pushes her ass back into me, but we’re not crossing that line.
Not tonight. I reach over and grab the towel from the shelf above, wrapping it around her before spinning her around to face me.
She looks up at me, her eyes shining with sadness. “Tell me something good, Raf.”
It may have been Seb who planted the seed and AJ who fertilized it, but it’s the deep pools of green seeking me for a fix that provide the only answer.
“I’ll marry you.”