13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Our leisurely pace through Croatia had taken its toll, and we arrived late in Venice. By the time Emil parked the car in Piazzale Roma and wakened me, night had fallen hours ago. We set out for the hotel, which I’d marked on my phone near the Rialto Bridge.
On slow, stiff legs and with several wrong turns, it was at least a half hour before we finally stumbled upon it. Warm light spilled out the narrow entryway, my tired feet eagerly crossing the threshold. The tiny space featured a deep mahogany counter, behind which waited a hawk-eyed receptionist.
“Buonasera,” she said.
“Buonasera,” I parroted back.
“Reservation?”
“Yes, under Roth. Mallory Roth.”
Her fingers sped across the keyboard. “Three nights?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, leafing through sheets of paper.
“I need to book a room as well,” Emil spoke up.
Her hands kept working as her eyes slid to him. “We are full.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip, grimacing at him. How stupid. Why hadn’t I thought to call ahead?
“That’s all right,” Emil said quickly. “I can find someplace else.”
The woman’s gaze darted to the clock. “It’s summer, late at night. It will be hard.”
“Do you have any recommendations?” I asked.
She sighed. “No, but your room has two twin beds. For twenty-five euros more, he can take it. We include complimentary breakfast.”
Nerves spiked my heart rate, but there wasn’t another option.
“No, that’s—” Emil started.
“All right,” I cut in.
The woman was quick, adding the details to my reservation and printing out a receipt.
“Are you sure?” Emil whispered.
“Yes,” I said, my hand trembling a little as I signed the bill. He slipped the woman the extra money, and I gave her a tight smile as I handed over my paperwork.
I barely heard her as she spoke about nearby attractions, when breakfast would be available, and the checkout time. I scooped up the information pamphlets she offered with the room key.
We walked upstairs to the second floor, pivoting in the cramped space to avoid hitting the picture frames decorating the walls. I stopped in front of number twelve, working the antique key into the lock.
“Thank you,” Emil said softly.
“Of course,” I answered before letting the door swing inward.
The room was lovely, splashed in swaths of pastel colors. Old-fashioned floral wallpaper added to the cheerful ambiance. The honeyed ceiling reflected light from the upward-facing sconces, which hung on either side of the beds. Lacy curtains draped around the opening to a balcony. Shining beyond through the French doors waited Venice in all its romantic intrigue.
I moved inside, past the bathroom, and dropped Bertha to the ground. She landed with a thud at the foot of the bed closest to the entrance.
“You don’t want the bed by the window?” Emil offered as he followed and gazed out across the balcony. “It’s quite a view.”
“That’s okay. I’ll probably sleep better away from the light.” I swept a lock of hair behind my ear as I busied my hands with my toiletries.
“Are you hungry? We could go get something before turning in.”
I let out a small breath, meeting his gaze gratefully. “Starved.”
Night lights flickered off the undulating waters of the canal outside our hotel. A steady, but not packed, flow of fellow late-night wanderers guided us around the corner. There, waiters bussed tables along the canal edge, one restaurant stacked after another.
“There are so many,” I said with wonder.
“And more where they came from, I’d bet,” Emil said, smiling.
“Do you want to look at menus or just pick one?”
“Ladies’ choice.”
I grinned, moving toward one with a charming green canopy.
After we were seated, the waiter promptly approached. “Buonasera,” he said, handing over menus. “If you have any questions, let me know. We have two specials: the Risotto al Nero di Seppia, which is a risotto with cuttlefish and ink sauce, and our Fegato alla Veneziana, which is liver cooked our Venetian way. Would you like anything to drink to start?”
“Wine with dinner, I think,” Emil said, “but one moment to decide our order first, please.” The waiter nodded and disappeared. “What sounds good?”
“Everything,” I laughed. “The risotto seems interesting. I’ve heard about it before. I might try that.” I closed my menu with finality.
“Hmm,” Emil mused, returning to the list of delectable dishes. Eventually the waiter returned, took our order, poured the wine, and left us to our people-watching. Gondolas danced up and down the canal, some with dangling lanterns like a trail of fireflies over the water. One passed close by, and the gondolier bellowed out a soulful melody.
“What do you think of those?” I asked. “Cool or touristy?”
Emil looked at me from behind his wineglass and shrugged. “Both. ”
“When in Rome, right?”
“I suppose,” he said, grinning at my lame joke.
As we waited for our food to arrive, we chatted absentmindedly about our wish lists while in Venice. I added the gondola and St. Mark’s Basilica and its square to mine, then turned it on him. “You?”
“I’m most interested in just exploring the city. It’s a marvel, how the structures float.”
“Floating structures?” I repeated, holding back a smirk.
He saw it anyway. “Did you know that they are built on wood? Big logs stuck into the seabed like toothpicks. That’s what they built the foundation on.”
“Wood?” It was a surprise. Mostly that the buildings had lasted for so long.
“The salt water hardens them,” he said as if reading my mind. “They are being changed for more modern materials as the buildings are repaired, but it is amazing.”
I stared across the water at the rainbow of colors the building faces painted, each leaning against the other as if for moral support. It did affect how you saw them, seemingly normal above the surface, apparently anything but from beneath.
“I’d like that. Let’s get lost.” I raised my glass to his, and he met it with a clink.
“Here we are,” the waiter said as he approached and gracefully swept our plates onto the table. My eyes popped at the jet-black dish before me. Grinning like a kid on Halloween, I checked out Emil’s carbonara before I noticed him staring worryingly at my meal.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the waiter asked.
“I think we’re good, thank you,” I replied, and we were alone once more.
“You really want to eat that?” He eyed the pitch-black color with distaste.
In response, I scooped some into my mouth, my eyes closing of their own volition. It was creamy, pleasantly briny, and deliciously sweet.
“Mmm,” I moaned.
“You’re kidding?” Emil raised a brow.
I smiled. “Nope!”
His mouth gaped as he watched my reaction.
“Try some,” I urged, holding out my plate.
“No thanks.” He busied himself with his pasta.
“Emil, are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I’m not dying, and it’s delicious!” I loaded another spoonful and held it out as if I was trying to entice a toddler with an airplane.
Subtly, he pushed my water glass closer.
“Your teeth are the same color.”
My grin disappeared immediately. “No!”
“Yes.”
I swished some water around before asking, “Better?”
He finished a mouthful of pasta as he nodded. “Yes, but it’ll just be back in a moment.”
“I don’t care,” I decided, eating the bite he refused. “It’s worth it.” Purposefully, I smiled wide after swallowing.
His expression was slightly disgusted even as he chuckled.
We were both ravenous, but the mouthwatering meal poised a difficult decision—to scarf or to savor? We managed both. By the time we’d finished our main courses, we were stuffed and opted to share a plate of tiramisu.
“Hmm,” I breathed with my last bite. “Amazing.”
“Yes, it is.”
I caught him looking away. Propping my head up on one hand, I followed his gaze, basking in the soft scent of the sea in the air. Sleek boats mixed with the gondolas, their lights’ reflections skipping across the waves hypnotically. There was a warmth to the scene, even as the cool breeze raised goosebumps along my bare arms. I relished the moment, closing my eyes and listening to the sounds of the water sloshing against the dock and the distant melody of music.
“Mallory? Wake up.”
My head jerked. Wow, had I really just dozed off?
“Sorry.” I rubbed furiously at my eyes.
“It’s all right,” Emil said, straight-faced. “I know I’m not great company.” I laughed, and he cracked a smile.
“I’m dead,” I admitted.
“Me, too.” He stood, offering his hand. My forehead crinkled. It was such an old-fashioned gesture, but somehow it’d never felt artificial or forced when he did it. Slowly, I slid my hand across his calloused palm. His warm fingers encased mine, and we walked hand in hand to the hotel as though it were the most natural thing in the world, like we had done it a thousand times before.
Then the bedroom door shut behind me.
The two beds were innocent enough, yet my stomach squirmed all the same. We readied ourselves for sleep, passing by each other awkwardly for turns in the bathroom. When he pulled the curtains closed, the gossamer only dimmed the flickering light outside to a dull throb.
“Good night,” he said as he slid beneath the covers.
“Night.” I rolled over to face the wall, taking steady breaths to calm my racing pulse. Almost instantly, the room filled with Emil’s soft snores.
Knowing Emil was lost in slumberland alleviated some of my tension. As tired as I was, though, I wasn’t sleepy anymore. Carefully, I flipped over on the creaky bed. His face was shadowed, the light from behind turning him into a silhouette. But as my eyes compensated, his relaxed mouth, worry-free brow, and delicately fluttering eyelids became clear.
It’s strange how people asleep look so unlike their everyday selves. Is it as simple as unconsciousness stealing away their cares, joys, and burdens, transforming the person into a blank canvas, the purest version of their physical selves? Or is it more the things that make them them are wiped away? Their signature smile, the perk of attitude, the life behind their waking eyes?
Emil’s mouth and nose twitched like he’d smelled something particularly foul. I stifled a giggle.
I watched his uninhibited reactions, insatiably curious about his dreams. As my own attention grew foggy with an irresistible, drowsy pull, I promised myself to ask him in the morning.
My mind wandered lazily across the wonders of the day and luxurious evening, committing to memory the feel of the Adriatic swishing over my toes, the dry heat of the sun reflecting off polished stone, the pungent scent of ocean in the canals, Emil’s skin brushing against my palm…
His thumb skimming my lips, fingertips along my throat, sharp nails pressing into my hips.
My breathing hitched, my body clenching, ready to spring.
Hot breath fanned across my collarbone, trailing a path down to my chest.
“Please, don’t.”
Heavy hands gripped my arms, holding me down.
I struggled wildly. “Let go!”
“Shh…”
Angry tears ran fiery rivets down my cheeks.
“Mallory.”
My name sounded sweet, making it all the more perverse.
“Get off!” I jerked, trying to lash out.
“Mallory, wake up!”
My wrists were clenched between two strong hands. I opened my eyes to darkness, except for the streaks of moonlight searing across the whimsical wallpaper. I gave another violent tug, and the hands disappeared. I kicked out wildly, using the momentum to fly off the bed and into the bathroom. I flung the door closed, my back bracing against anyone coming in.
“Mallory?” Fear strained his words. “Mallory!”
Panic choked me, even as my dream began to dissipate. I took a few breaths. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
A thump and slide came from the other side. “Lock the door.”
“What?” My voice trembled.
“Do it.”
I twisted on the floor, reaching up to flick on the light to find the old-fashioned bolt. I slid it into place, the solidness of it comforting. “Okay.”
A beat, then, “Are you all right?”
I hugged myself, holding in a sob. “Yeah, it was only a dream. Go back to sleep.”
“Stop saying that.” What I imagined was his head thudded against the door. “You need to tell me what happened to you or this isn’t going to work. It wasn’t just a dream. I know the difference. Since the night I met you, I…” His words faltered, laced with a sorrowful ache.
The throb inside me deepened. This wasn’t fair to him. But if he knew the truth? Would I be something pitiful to him? Would he be as disappointed in me as I was that I hadn’t been brave enough, that I’d simply run away? Or would he think I was blowing things out of proportion, just being dramatic?
On the other hand, I’d chosen to trust him, time and time again. He hadn’t let me down so far. One more time , I prayed. Please .
“Okay.” It was a little word. It sounded as small as I felt.
“I went from Marseille to Mostar,” I began haltingly, “but that hadn’t been the original plan.” I swallowed hard. “Something happened there. Or…someone, I guess.”
Silence waited as I paused, but it wasn’t empty. I could feel his presence through the barrier. Steady, secure.
“The man who ran the apartment I was staying at,” I continued, sucking in a breath, “he offered to take me out and show me around. I thought it would be fun, to see things from a local’s point of view. And it was, for a while.”
My heart hammered in my chest so loudly I could barely hear myself. I rewatched in my mind’s eye as he let himself into the apartment. I felt the too-familiar touch of his arm slinging across my back.
How could I have been so blind?
Disgust twisted in my gut, and I pushed on, anger lacing my voice. “We were at the beach and he—he tried to…”
Tried to what?
The same conflicting thoughts washed back over me again, fresh as the night it had happened.
He’d kissed me. So what?
But then he’d followed me. If he followed me, he wasn’t just going to let it go…let me go.
Right?
I battled against the confusing swirl, skipping over panic to the release.
“I fought him off and made it onto a bus. When I got back to the apartment, I was packing my things, and I heard…”
I shook my head, trying to joggle the memories into the correct order.
“No, I saw him through the peephole in the door.” I nodded to myself. Yes, that was right.
Once again, I could feel Bertha pressed between my shoulders as I hurried out of the apartment, and the surge of pain as I jumped the last stretch to the ground.
“I barely made it out before he came in.” I shuddered at the memory of his dark gaze, his silhouette looking at me from above. “I went down the fire escape and I just…only I ran to the airport. I didn’t know what else to do. I could’ve…”
I stuttered to a stop, hanging my head. I took a moment, my mind flying through all the things I could’ve done, but didn’t. Because I was too weak, too scared…too selfish.
“I just left.”
The silence draped like a blanket along the other side of the door.
“Emil?”
“I’m here,” he answered softly .
I bit my lip as the quiet stretched. “Can I open the door now?”
He shuffled to his feet, his shadow hovering beneath the gap in the door as he moved away. I stopped at the sink first, sloshing my face with a slap of cold water. One breath in, one breath out. The fluffy towel swung limply on the drying rack as I pulled back the lock. The door creaked open, revealing him leaning against my bed.
The heels of his hands pressed deep dents into the edge of the mattress, his long legs extended straight out and crossed at the ankles. At first, I thought he was relaxed. But as I stepped from the bathroom, the harsh light threw his body into sharp relief. His muscles were tensed, veins popping along the insides of his arms and the side of his neck. When his eyes finally met mine, they were a flat black.
“Are you okay?” I asked, suddenly wary of him.
He nodded.
I couldn’t quite decipher his attitude. “Are you mad at me?”
“Mad at you?”
I lifted a shoulder. “I am, so I'd understand if you are.”
He didn’t even appear to breathe, he was so still. Then he pushed off the bed, closing the distance between us down to a foot. A shiver ran along my spine, rooting me to the spot. The same deep V I’d seen when he talked me down off the bridge formed once more between his eyebrows. Slowly, he raised his hand. It stretched toward me, stopping just shy of my face, and waited.
“Why would I be mad at you?” he whispered.
I came back to life, my head tilting so his hand grazed against my cheek. I closed my eyes, sighing into his gentle touch. Relief washed through me, warming every icy chink in my armor. My hand covered his, the other lightly clasping his wrist.
“Why are you mad at yourself?” His tone held a note of bitterness.
My eyes drifted open. “Because I didn’t see it coming.” A breath shuddered from me. “And I didn’t fight.”
I could’ve done something. Stayed. Reported it. Fixed it. But instead, I’d run. I’d played along to gain an advantage…and then I’d just fled. I shook my head. Naive coward.
Emil’s other hand came up to cup my face as he took another step forward. “Yes, you did. You did fight.” His forehead pressed to mine. “You were scared. Don’t you dare feel guilty for it.” Tears stung my eyes as the rage coursing through him hit me. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I countered.
His head shook. “No,” he agreed, “but I still wish it hadn’t happened. For that, I am sorry.”
My heart gave a painful squeeze. “Thank you.” Hesitantly, I pulled close, laying my head on his chest, and circled my arms around his lower back. Slowly, he followed suit, one hand stroking my hair down the back of my neck.
“Do you want me to go?”
I stiffened. “What? No.”
“I can sleep in the car. You need to rest.”
He pulled away, but I grabbed his hand.
“You helped me from the moment we met. And it’s all you’ve done since.” I swallowed past the knot in my throat. I didn’t have a right to ask, but I didn’t want to let him go. “Please stay. I can’t promise I won’t dream again or freak out, but know it’s not because of you. In fact, if it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I could’ve slept.”
And in this place, this room? I’d grown accustomed to Mostar with its sounds and smells and spaces, even in just a matter of days. Here, it was all new and strange again, somehow foreboding in the night, despite its beauty.
His jaw locked, but he gave a nod. He padded back to his bed.
My stomach twisted. “Emil?”
“Yes?” He stopped fixing his covers.
“Will you…I mean, you don’t have to, but…will you lie with me? Until I fall asleep?” It was stupid, maybe even selfish, but his touch was a tonic.
He peered at me. “That’s what you want? ”
I nodded mutely.
He rose, and we climbed onto the bed facing each other. I curled tighter, unsure where to look.
He sighed. “Turn over.”
I did as I was told.
“If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say it.”
I concentrated on breathing slowly as he shifted closer, waiting for his arms to close around me, but they didn’t. Instead, his fingers worked across my scalp and through my hair in slow, soothing strokes. Carefully, they drew lower, pressing the tight muscles along my neck and shoulders, urging me to relax.
“Is this okay?”
“Mmm,” I murmured peacefully.
With every prod and press, each stroke and release, my body began to release its tension. My mind went graciously blank, losing myself in the feel of his hands. His lower body spooned around me, warm and secure.
“Can you sleep?”
Some garbled version of yes was as good as he was getting out of me.
“Sleep, Mallory. You’re safe.”
And, mercifully, I did.