Chapter 4 #3
I thread my fingers through his curls without seeing them. There’s a snarl of conflicting emotions in my chest. Everything’s becoming so complicated, and I don’t know what’s right anymore.
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say. “It’s so confusing. Everyone’s growing up so fast. All the girls at school are talking about…things. Kissing and—” I stop, my face flaming. “Never mind.”
“What about kissing?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Mina.” His voice is soft. “What about kissing?”
I stare at my fingers thrust deep among his curls. “I wouldn’t know how even if I had anyone to kiss.”
I’m babbling. I clamp my mouth shut.
Cristiano opens his eyes.
“You could kiss me,” he finally says.
My heart stops.
“What?”
“Practice.” His voice is calm, like he’s suggesting we study together. “We could practice together. I haven’t kissed anyone either.”
“Don’t be silly.” The words come out breathless. My whole body feels hot. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re friends.”
“Friends help each other.” He sits up, his weight on his palms. Suddenly he’s right there, his face inches from mine. “Like you helped me just now. I trust you, and I hope you trust me. Wouldn’t you rather practice with someone you trust?”
I should say no. I should laugh and push him away. That’s what I always do when he says something provocative in that quiet, deep voice of his.
But I’m thinking about the girls at school, laughing hysterically at the thought of Cristiano wanting me. And he’s looking at me like he does.
Want me.
I look at Cristiano’s mouth, wondering how it would feel on mine, and whether he would taste like the summer heat.
“Just practice,” I whisper. “That’s all.”
“That’s all.”
“And you won’t tell anyone.”
“Never.”
“And it won’t be weird after.”
“It won’t be weird.” His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “I promise.”
His eyes are so close I can see the gold flecks among the amber. His breath is warm on my lips.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He kisses me.
Soft at first. Gentle. His lips barely brush mine, like a question.
Then I lean in, and he makes a sound low in his throat, and suddenly the kiss is something else entirely.
His hand slides into my hair. My fingers grip his shirt. He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, and I forget how to breathe and think. I forget everything except the warmth of his mouth and the way my whole body feels like it’s dissolving into light.
This is what the plays are about. The poetry. The madness.
When we break apart, I’m trembling. My lips are tingling. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it.
Cristiano’s eyes are dark and intense. He’s looking at me like I’m precious, like he never wants to let me go.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine. I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against his chest. My hands find his broad shoulders, his neck, the soft curls at the nape.
He groans, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through my whole body.
We sink back onto the grass, tangled together. His hands are in my hair, on my waist, skimming the curve of my hip. Every touch sends sparks across my skin. I’ve never felt anything like this. This desperate need to be closer, closer, closer.
“Mina,” he breathes against my mouth, and the sound of my name in his deep voice makes me tremble.
We kiss until my lips are swollen and my body is humming and the sun has turned the sky to gold and pink.
I pull back, breathless, and realize with a thump of panic that we’ve been here far too long. “I have to go. Mom will be looking for me.”
Cristiano’s arms tighten around me. “Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Stay.” His voice is rough. Almost desperate. “Just a little longer.”
“Cristiano—”
“Please.” His eyes search my face, his expression raw and almost frightening in its intensity. “Don’t go yet.”
His grip tightens until I can feel each finger pressing into my back, like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve if he loosens his grip.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say gently, touching his face.
His jaw tightens. For a crazy moment, I think he won’t let go.
Then his arms loosen, slowly, reluctantly, like it’s costing him everything.
I walk back to the house on unsteady legs, my lips still swollen. The kisses didn’t mean anything. It was just practice between friends.
But when I press my fingers to my mouth, I can still feel him there.
Still taste Cristiano.
The next day, I can’t stop thinking about the kiss.
I replay it constantly. The slide of his tongue against mine, the weight of his body, the way he whispered my name. My lips still feel swollen. My skin still hums where he touched me.
Just practice, I remind myself. That’s all it was.
But my heart doesn’t believe it. Calling it practice feels like it was the thinnest excuse for us to indulge in something reckless.
I’m helping Mom dust the shelves on the upstairs landing when I see Cristiano cross below.
He doesn’t notice me. He’s walking with a careful, guarded posture as though his ribs are hurting, and when he turns his head, I catch a glimpse of the bruise on his cheekbone. Today it’s a painful, angry purple.
My throat tightens.
He probably stood up to his father, and this is what he got for it. Bruises and silence and a mother who won’t even look at him.
I think about yesterday in the garden. The way he clung to me, craving the comfort that no one else gives him. The raw devastation in his eyes as I tried to pull away.
I have a creeping feeling that the kiss was a mistake.
Not because I don’t care for him, but because it’s opened the door to feelings that can go nowhere.
Touching his hair and holding his head in my lap was crossing lines as well.
We’re not children anymore. I should tell him so, but how can I hurt him when no one else cares?
I set down the duster and tell Mom I need some air.
The garden is bright with afternoon sun, and I see Mrs. Montoni near the rosebushes, secateurs in hand, carefully snipping away dead blooms. She’s wearing a pale blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and she looks elegant and fragile.
I should walk away to another part of the garden before she sees me. Better yet, I should go back inside and mind my own business about the whole Montoni family, like Mom always tells me I must.
But if Cristiano had more love and affection in his life, it would mean the world to him. I can almost understand Mrs. Montoni not wanting to see her son’s pain when she’s in so much pain herself, but if his mother could only open her eyes and love him—
A wave of emotion crests in my chest, and I hurry forward.
“Mrs. Montoni?”
She looks up, startled. Her eyes flick over me, taking in my plain clothes, my presence where I shouldn’t be.
“Mina.” Her voice is cool. Polite but distant. “Is there something you need?”
My fingers are twisting together. “I wanted to talk to you. About Cristiano.”
“If my son has been rude or unkind to you, you must speak with your mother, who will in turn speak with my husband. There are proper channels for these kinds of things.”
“I wanted to talk to you about you and Cristiano.”
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe, or wariness. “That’s not appropriate.”
“Please.” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. “He’s so lonely, Mrs. Montoni. And he tries so hard. He won the track meet last week, and no one even said congratulations. He’s hurting. You must have seen the bruises.”
“Mina.” Her voice sharpens. “This isn’t your concern.”
“But he’s my friend. And he needs—” I swallow, trying to find the right words. “He needs someone to be proud of him. He needs you to love him.”
Mrs. Montoni’s face goes pale. The secateurs tremble in her grip, and her expression veers wildly between fury and fear.
I take a tentative step closer. “You do love Cristiano, don’t you?”
“Love my son?” she says under her breath, more to herself than to me.
Her voice is barely above a whisper, and her eyes are fixed on the roses.
“Every day he looks more like him. Acts like him. Moves like him. The same eyes. The same—” She breaks off, pressing a gloved hand to the back of her mouth as though she’s going to be sick.
“It’s not his fault that he looks like Mr. Montoni,” I say fiercely. “He can’t help that. Cristiano is nothing like his father. He’s kind and gentle and he would never hurt anyone. He’s the best person I know.”
Mrs. Montoni flinches like I’ve struck her.
“You don’t know him,” she whispers. “You don’t see what I see.”
“I see him perfectly.” I’m shaking now, anger and desperation tangled together in my chest. “I see a boy who works so hard for approval that never comes. Who gets beaten for just trying to be himself. He has no one who tells him he’s worth anything. You’re his mother. You’re supposed to love him!”
She’s crying now. Actually crying. Tears streaming down her cheeks, her whole body trembling. The secateurs fall from her fingers into the grass.
All the anger drains out of me at the sight of her tears. “Mrs. Montoni?”
Her body bows forward as she sobs.
Horror washes over me. What have I done? I’ve accused her of not loving her son when she’s clearly terrified and broken and barely holding herself together.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, backing away. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”
“Please go.” Her voice is shattered. “Please. Just go.”
I turn and run.
Through the garden, past the hedges, around the side of the house. My heart is pounding and I can’t breathe. I replay the look on her face when she started to cry.
I did that. What if she tells Mr. Montoni? What if she tells him the housekeeper’s daughter cornered her in the garden and made accusations about Cristiano and yelled at her until she cried?
He’ll be furious. He’ll blame Cristiano, and he’ll hurt him even more.
I find a quiet corner behind the gardener’s shed and sink down against the wall, pressing my hands to my face. I was trying to help. I was trying to make things better for Cristiano. Instead, I’ve made everything worse.