Holding the letter and the torn journal entry in his hand, he stared into the barren fireplace. He needed to burn it. This was a secret that could never come out. As much as he tried to prepare her for the inevitable, Frankie was still searching for a happy, normal family. If this got out, it would crush her.
“What are you doing?” Frankie’s sleepy voice called to him. “What’s in your hand? Why are you lighting a fire now?”
He turned around to find Frankie looking at him, rubbing her eyes and tilting her head. Quickly he stuffed the letter and journal entry back into the book and shoved the book in the middle of the pile.
“Nothing,” Anteros said, sliding into bed. “Go back to sleep.” He pulled her close and she fell right back asleep, breaths heavy against his arm. He looked to the stack of books, where one was like a beating heart.
Fourteen
Books were everywhere. It was different than the penthouse where there they were all organized, contained in the library. Here, books were piled high in stacks. On the kitchen counter. Overflowing in the bathroom. You couldn’t walk anywhere without seeing a stack. Some might say it was cluttered, but to me it was heaven.
I’d woken up early enough that Anteros was asleep. I’d first gotten up to go to the bathroom, but got so lightheaded, I had to sit down. Luckily there was a pile of books next to me, so it wasn’t so bad. I sifted through them, searching for something interesting, as it looked like I was going to be there for a while. I was already pushing it before running around all hours of the night, and now with a bullet wound and nearly drowning…I shouldn’t have had sex with Anteros the night before.
I shouldn’t have had sex all those times.
“What are you doing?” I turned at Anteros’s voice. He was so quiet I hadn’t heard him get up. He stood next to the bed in silk sleep pants and nothing else. It reminded me of the penthouse. With his arms folded he seemed angry; his jaw ticked, the muscles in his biceps flexing furiously.
“Trying to find something to read.” I held up the book for emphasis. Most of them were in Italian. Some were in a few other languages, like French and Spanish, and I wanted to say Russian? I couldn’t tell. My American was showing.
“How many languages do you speak?” I asked, setting one down.
“Enough.” I furrowed my brow at the laconic response. He definitely wasn’t happy.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” I responded with a smile. My arm ached something fierce, but he was right in that it was just a flesh wound. I was lucky. If my body hadn’t already been broken, I would probably be up and walking.
“Get off the floor,” he ordered, and I smiled wanly. I would have loved to get off the floor, but the truth was, I couldn’t yet. I was exhausted. It was hard to breathe. If I tried to stand, my knees would buckle. My vision would black out.
And he would see it all.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Once I find the right book.” I should have told him what was going on. I stared at the cold fireplace and knew I should tell the truth. It was stuck in my throat like barbed wire and it was making me bleed.
I was so afraid. Afraid he would love me less. Afraid he would leave me. Afraid I would be stuck in the darkness he’d unearthed within me, alone again, forever.
Fucking coward.
I hung my head just as he came up behind me, lowering himself to his knees, kissing my neck. It felt so good, and my body was responding, but I just couldn’t.
“I’m—” I’m too fucking tired to have sex. The further I push myself, the harder it is to crawl back. “I’m not in the mood,” I lied. He froze, hands on my shoulders.
“None of these books are
in English,” he said, standing and taking the small stack away. “The ones you want are downstairs.” When he left I wanted to sob for him to come back and take care of me. Instead I stared into the dark, empty fireplace.
It was hours before I got up. Anteros never came back, but I heard him downstairs. All I had to do was call for him and I was sure he would come, but then he would ask questions. And I would have to answer them.
When I got downstairs, the stack of books he’d taken was next to him and he was reading one; it looked like the Russian book. He didn’t say anything when I came down, so I sat quietly on the rug in front of the fireplace. I had a bit more energy from sitting all day, but I was still tired. I watched him read.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked. He set the book down and slowly came over to me, sitting on his heels until we were almost eye to eye.
“I was wondering the same of you.”
“Not at all,” I said quickly. A silence engulfed us. He was so close, his heady scent invading my brain. I wanted to tell him how much I’d missed him, even for the few hours. Instead I said, “So…” and trailed off, rubbing my arm.
A slow, wry smile twisted his cheek and he pressed his palm into my chest, pushing me back into the soft fur rug. He pulled off the shirt I’d slept in and I wondered why I even bothered wearing clothes.
He traced pictures on my naked back for hours. It wasn’t demanding. It was just us, on the ground, by the fire. We had little conversations about nothing, and I wondered if that was what “normal” couples did. We talked about our favorite foods—his frittole, mine tomato soup.