76. Allie
Allie
I waited until I was sure Rico would be at work before having Vinnie drive me back to the brownstone—Rico’s house, never mine—to grab the last of my things. Most of my stuff was already packed up, neatly folded in my upstair closet, making it easy for Vinnie to scoop and dump it into the trunk.
Unfortunately, I had a few stray items lingering in his closet. Which meant I had to venture back into enemy territory.
“I’m gonna grab the rest of my things from the basement,” Vinnie says, pointing toward the basement stairs.
I nod. “Yeah, I just need to clear out Rico’s closet. Small stuff. No worries.”
I shoo him away because, honestly? The man has been living off the same two pairs of slacks, a couple of shirts, and whatever new boxers he bought in a panic after we left. He needs this trip just as much as I do.
Stepping into Rico’s closet, I take a deep breath.
It still smells like him—cedar, something crisp and clean, and just a hint of whatever cologne he wears that I refuse to Google for the sake of my pride.
His side remains perfectly neat, untouched, his limited wardrobe of tailored suits and neutral-toned basics hanging like an exhibit in a minimalist museum.
Meanwhile, the seventy-five percent that used to be mine? Bare.
Just another reminder of how easy it was for me to disappear from his life.
Shaking off the thought, I focus on the shelf above. My things. Boxes I’d stored here—keepsakes from Mama, little trinkets from Nonna. Not Nonna Bennetti, but my real Nonna, the one who passed away years ago.
I stretch up on my toes, reaching for one box. Can’t quite get a grip. I glance around, spot a hanger, and decide to MacGyver the situation—who said that show was useless? A quick swipe knocks the box loose—along with another one I didn’t mean to touch.
What follows is a rainstorm of yellow, blue, and orange Post-its, fluttering through the air before the entire damn box collapses in a papery explosion.
The universe hates me.
I pluck one off my head, flipping it over to find his handwriting. Perfect. Meticulous. Irritatingly neat.
Rico: I might be born in America, but I still refuse to call soccer anything but football.
My stomach twists as I turn it over, recognizing my handwriting on the opposite side of his.
Allie: I watch SOCCER every Saturday.
Dated. Three months ago.
My heart pounds as I drop to my knees, gathering handfuls of scattered notes. Dozens of them. Every single one of his stupid daily facts, neatly stacked and saved. Dated. Like they meant something.
Why keep them?
I mutter a string of colorful curse words as I scoop up the spilled Post-it notes from the floor, stuffing them back into the box like I’m loading guilt into a confessional. But one little bastard clings to my jeans, refusing to let go. Traitor.
I grab it, ready to slam the lid shut on this emotional Jenga tower, because I am not about to fall apart in Rico’s closet while surrounded by his deeply repressed feelings disguised as sticky notes.
Nope. Not today. Not when every breadcrumb of hope he leaves me ends with my heart getting demolished.
But then I see it.
No creases. No smudges. No hastily written snarky reply from yours truly. It’s pristine, and the blank side stares up at me, daring me to flip it over.
So, of course, I do.
Rico: No one has seen me without a shirt in over twenty years. Once the wounds healed and I no longer had to show them to Mama, Papa, the doctors, or Marco—who was a curious freak about them—I covered them. Permanently. I don’t even look at them myself in the mirror. I can’t.
My fingers go still.
My lungs forget how air works.
He never gave me this. Never shared it. Just wrote it down, dated it, and tucked it into a box like a time capsule of emotional landmines.
Why?
My eyes shift to the stack, now a rainbow of untold truths. I rifle through them, heart pounding, until I find another one with only his writing.
Rico: I hate clocks. Clocks remind me of how much can change. They’re a reminder we’re all just waiting for time to tick by until the end. Time is precious, and I don’t waste a minute of it. Which is why I hate that new clock you put in our dining room.
I blink. Then blink again.
Because these aren’t just random facts. These are pieces of him. Real pieces. Scattered in a shoe box instead of being handed to me when I needed them most.
Dozens of them.
Thoughts. Confessions. Little windows into that steel-trap mind of his.
He wrote them. Dated them. But never gave me a single one.
What was the plan here, Rico? Stuff every raw thought into a box, die, and let me find it post-mortem? A little bonus content for the grieving widow?
I don’t know what’s worse—that he hid them, or that he wanted to tell me and couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
If he had just handed me one… just one… maybe I wouldn’t have spent half our marriage feeling like I was married to a human brick wall. Maybe I could’ve cracked through the mortar and seen more of the man underneath. The one I know is hiding in there, buried deep in shadows and sarcasm.
But instead, he locked the door, swallowed the key, and expected me to guess the combination to his heart.
And I would’ve. I wanted to. Not to fix him—I’m not running a rehab center for emotionally suppressed men—but just to know him. Just a foot in the door. Hell, half a foot. A toe, even. Something.
But no. He handed me silence and locked doors, then acted shocked when I walked away.
I’m halfway through color-coding my heartbreak—orange for trauma, blue for existential dread, yellow for suppressed childhood memories—when a deep voice cuts through the air and snaps me back to reality.
“Looking for something?”
I freeze. Inhale sharply. Then, schooling my face into I don’t care mode, I stand, placing the box on the built-in dresser and turn to face him. “It fell when I was trying to grab my things.”
I focus on the actual box I meant to retrieve, not the one that might as well be labeled Allie’s Idiotic Hope and Emotional Torture Kit. I consider handing it to him, telling him to use it as kindling in the fireplace.
I didn’t say I wasn’t still bitter.
Broken or not, he broke me. Cheated on me. Used me. Purposely hurt me.
Most importantly, he doesn’t love me, and my immature side isn’t ready to let that fact go. You’re not loved back by the man you love. Let him go, woman.
Instead of saying a word, I shove the last of my items into my duffel bag and zip it up, but when I stand—he’s there. Blocking the doorway. Arms crossed, watching me like he’s waiting for something.
I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care. But the words slip out, anyway.
“Why…why did you keep them?” I nod toward the box. “The notes.” I don’t bring up the ones he never showed. Not yet, at least. I need to know why he kept them at all.
He steps forward, just once, as if he’s debating whether to close the distance entirely. “Why would I throw them away?”
“Because they were pointless, Rico. Just another loophole for you to meet my request while simultaneously throwing it in my face.”
His frown deepens as his gaze flicks to the box. He has to know that I saw some notes he didn’t give me. “You thought those were pointless?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s examine the evidence. Rico, who the hell says kale is a government conspiracy and actually means it?”
“I do. Seriously. I wasn’t making fun of you, Allie. I really think kale has some secret endgame, and it sure as shit isn’t making us healthy. Nothing that tastes and feels like cardboard in your mouth can be that good for you. Broccoli? That’s debatable.”
A laugh nearly bubbles up, but I choke it back because no. He doesn’t get to make me laugh. Not now. “But why keep them?”
He shrugs. That shrug. The same one he always gives when he’s pretending not to care. “It was my way of holding onto something.”
My stomach twists. My throat tightens. “Oh? And what exactly were you holding onto, Rico? Because you don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”
“I’m not.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “No shit.”
Zipping my bag, I hoist it over my shoulder and move to pass him—but his hands catch my shoulders, holding me in place.
“Don’t you want to know why I kept them?”
"No." Because whatever answer he gives will only make it harder. Because he won’t mean it. He’s trying to win me back. His logical solution. I cannot give in.
He angles his head, eyeing me. “Why not?”
“You made it clear,” I say, keeping my tone flat even though my insides are throwing furniture and lighting metaphorical curtains on fire, “that anything you said before wasn’t real.
Just a box to check. Give me what I need so you can collect your prize at the end of the arranged marriage obstacle course. ”
I step in, narrowing the space between us.
“And let’s be honest… what you needed sure as hell wasn’t me. Any woman could’ve played the role. Wore the ring. Shared the bed. Did the whole smile-for-the-family routine. Right?”
His jaw tightens, that familiar tic making an appearance. Good. That means I struck something—probably that black hole he calls a heart.
I should walk away. It would be the smart thing to do. But I’ve never claimed to be smart where Rico Bennetti is concerned.
“Why didn’t you give me the other notes?” I ask, voice quieter now. A part of me already knows the answer, but I want to hear it from him.
Rico takes a slow step back, his usual blank expression cracking just a hair. “I… I tried to. About a week after you moved into my room. I wrote something that felt… heavier. Something that mattered. I even placed it on the pillow while you were sleeping, but picked it back up.”
His eyes flick up to the ceiling like he’s searching for divine assistance. “I couldn’t put it on the pillow. I starred at it for an hour and then shoved it in the box.”
“Why?” My voice shakes now, and it pisses me off. “Why couldn’t you just give it to me?”
“You know why.”
I nod. Because I do.