Chapter 8 #2
I jerk back so fast I nearly fall off the bike.
He gets off first, swinging his leg over with that easy grace that makes everything look effortless. Then he turns to me and reaches for the helmet, his fingers brushing my throat as he unfastens the strap. He lifts it gently off my head and hangs it on the handlebar.
My hair is a mess. I can feel it, tangled and windswept, sticking to my cheeks. I probably look ridiculous, but he’s standing over me and gazing at me like I’m beautiful, and I don’t know what to do with that.
He offers me his hand.
I reach for it, expecting him to help me get off the bike and limp inside. My ankle is throbbing again, the pain rushing back now that the adrenaline of the ride has faded. I’m already dreading the stairs.
But he doesn’t help me stand. Instead, he slides one arm behind my back and the other under my knees, and he scoops me off the bike and into his arms.
I gasp, clutching him reflexively. “Cristiano.”
“I’ve got you.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like carrying me is the most natural thing in the world.
He straightens, and I’m so high up. My arms go around his neck automatically, clinging to him for balance, and our faces are inches apart. I can see the dark lashes framing his eyes. The curve of his lips, slightly parted.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry me.”
“You can’t walk. That’s the point.”
He carries me through the garage and into the house like I weigh nothing. His arms are steady beneath me, his chest warm and solid against my side. I can feel the flex of his muscles as he moves, the easy strength in his body. He’s so careful of my ankle as he passes through doorways.
I should tell him to put me down and hobble up the stairs myself, even if it takes forever. Even if it hurts.
But I don’t. I just let him carry me, my head tucked against his shoulder, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
This feels like a dream. The kind you have just before waking, where everything is perfect and nothing quite makes sense, but you don’t question it. There’s no fear in me. Just gratitude and confusion and warmth unfurling in my chest.
He takes the stairs like they’re nothing, two at a time, and then we’re in the hallway outside my room. He nudges the door open with his shoulder and carries me inside.
My room is cramped compared to his. The bed takes up most of the space, covered in the faded quilt my grandmother made.
There are posters on the walls. Bands I liked in middle school, and a map of the world with pins in all the places I want to visit someday.
It’s a child’s room, really. A girl’s room.
And Cristiano Montoni is standing in the middle of it, holding me in his arms.
He lowers me onto the bed so gently, like I’m made of glass. His hands linger for just a moment, one on my back, one on my thigh, and then he pulls away.
He straightens up and looks down at me. His expression is unreadable.
And then he turns and walks out without a word. The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the ceiling, my heart still racing, my body still warm from his touch.
What just happened?
I lie there for a minute, maybe two, trying to make sense of the last half hour. The fall. The bike. The ride home pressed against his back. And now this, carried to my room, like a princess in a fairy tale, and then left alone without explanation.
I feel a flicker of disappointment. I guess that’s it. He was just being thoughtful and helping out the housekeeper’s daughter because it’s the polite thing to do.
There’s a soft knock on my door.
“Come in,” I say, and my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
The door opens, and Cristiano is back. He’s holding an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel.
“For your ankle,” he says, crossing the room to hand it to me. “Keep it elevated.”
“Thank you.”
I take the ice pack and arrange it carefully over my swollen ankle, wincing at the cold. When I look up, he hasn’t left. He’s leaning against my doorframe, hands in his pockets, watching me.
There’s something in his expression. Something he wants to say.
“What?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I got you something,” he says. “For graduation.”
I blink. “You did?”
“I’ve been wanting to give it to you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d accept it.” He runs a hand through his hair, and the gesture is so boyish and uncertain that it makes my chest ache. “It’s nothing big. Just something that made me think of you and smile, remembering…you know. Better times.”
When we were friends, and I wasn’t afraid of him.
He looks so vulnerable standing there. So different from the aloof Cristiano I’ve been avoiding for four years, and the menacing figure on the motorcycle who stared at me through a dark visor.
This is the boy I used to know. The one who waited for me at the school gates and who let me stroke his hair when he was hurting.
“Can I give it to you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “Please.”
Relief flickers in his eyes. Or hope.
He steps out into the hallway and bends down, picking up something he must have left just out of sight. When he comes back, he’s holding a small, wrapped package.
I take it from him, my fingers trembling slightly. The paper is simple, blue with no ribbon, but he’s wrapped it carefully, the corners neat and precise.
I tear it open, and open the box.
Inside is a snow globe, large enough to fill my hands. And inside the globe, surrounded by glittering flakes, is a figure I recognize immediately. A woodland satyr with tiny horns and a mischievous smile, sitting on a mossy rock surrounded by flowers. Puck, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
The fairy who causes chaos. A trickster who meddles with love.
Written across the bottom of the snow globe in curly golden lettering is, Give me your hands, if we be friends.
My throat is suddenly burning.
“Mina?” His voice is worried. “If you hate it—”
“I don’t hate it.” The words come out thick and choked. “I love it.”
The tears are spilling over now, sliding down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them. This is the Cristiano I remember. The one who knew me. The one who paid attention to the things I loved.
My best friend.
“Hey.” He’s closer now, sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand hovering near my face like he wants to touch me but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I lie, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I just wasn’t expecting this.”
“I know.” His voice is soft. “I don’t deserve to give you gifts. Not after what I did.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and impossible to ignore.
He looks down at his hands. “Mina, I…” He swallows hard. “I scared you that day. Really scared you. And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is too tight.
“There is no excuse for what I did to you.” His voice is rough. “I’m so sorry, Mina. I know that doesn’t fix anything, and you won’t ever forgive me, but I need you to know that I would give anything to take it back.”
The snow globe is clutched in my hands, the glitter swirling around Puck’s tiny figure.
“Why didn’t you ever say this before?” My voice is barely a whisper. “It’s been four years.”
“I was trying to respect what you asked of me. And I was afraid that if I tried to apologize, you’d confirm what I already knew. That you hate me. That you’ll always hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and he looks up.
“You don’t?”
“I…” I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know anymore. “I was scared of you. But I don’t hate you, Cristiano. I never hated you.”
He’s closer now. When did he get so close? He’s sitting right beside me on the bed, his thigh almost touching mine, and I can feel the heat of him through his jeans.
“Mina.” He says my name, soft and urgent. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
He hesitates. Looks away. His jaw is tight, like he’s fighting with himself.
“It’s nothing,” he says finally. “Forget it.”
“Cristiano?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me, please.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, so softly I almost miss it, he confesses, “I still think about you.”
My heart convulses painfully. “What?”
“I think about you.” He still won’t look at me. “All the time. Every day. I tried to stop. I told myself it was wrong, that you’d never want me, that I ruined everything. But I can’t…” He takes a shuddering breath. “I can’t stop, Mina. I’ve tried, and I can’t.”
I stare at him without moving.
“I know.” He laughs, bitter and broken. “I ruined everything and you’re afraid of me. I know I’m probably the last person in the world you’d ever trust again.”
I grab his hand.
He goes still. Completely, utterly still, like a deer caught in headlights.
“Mina?”
“Look at me.”
Slowly, he turns his head. His amber eyes meet mine, and there’s so much fear, hope, and desperation in them that it makes my chest ache.
This is the Cristiano I’ve been longing for beneath the cold exterior and the four years of silence. Sweet and vulnerable and real.
And God help me, he’s more beautiful than ever.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he says, his voice rough, “I’m going to want to kiss you.”
I should remind myself of all the reasons this is a terrible idea, but I’m not thinking.
I haven’t been thinking since I climbed on the back of his bike.
I’m just feeling. The warmth of his hand in mine, the heat in his eyes, the ache in my chest that’s been there for four years, waiting for this moment.
I pull him to me. His lips meet mine, and the world falls away.
He kisses me like he’s been waiting for this ever since our last kiss. His mouth is soft and gentle, and I melt into him the way I melted into his back on the motorcycle.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against mine.