Coming Home (Morelli Family 6)

“Well, I don’t like this,” Rafe states, unmoved by Vince’s fury. “You’re both incredibly drunk and you need to calm the fuck down.”

Since Vince is both drunk and enraged, he dips forward, getting in Rafe’s face. “Why do you fucking care?”

Rafe smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. “Go ahead, Vince; piss me off and see what happens.”

Vince snarls but spins around, like he’s so full of anger he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I fucking hate this family,” he mutters. Then, suddenly realizing he has a rage receptacle, he spins back around and grabs my wrist, hauling me toward the staircase.

“I don’t want to go with you,” I mutter, trying to pull free from Vince’s grasp.

“Remember how I told you I didn’t give a fuck? I give even fewer fucks now,” he informs me, hauling me toward the stairs. “All I fucking wanted was something nice with you, and you can’t let us have it.”

“No, you want to take me upstairs and force yourself on me again,” I say, pulling back so hard I’d fall on my ass if he let go. “You’re not Mateo, Vince; you can’t fucking pull it off.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mia.”

Rafe’s hand is on my shoulder for some reason. As soon as I turn to look, his hand’s moving to my arm, and then he’s at my wrist, prying Vince’s fingers off me.

“Nope. This is over. This is done,” Rafe states.

“This is not your fucking—”

Rafe pulls back and punches Vince right in the jaw. I jump back a step, startled, then Rafe takes me by the forearm and yanks me out of the way.

“I don’t want to hit you again, Vince,” he says, holding up a hand to preemptively keep him back. “But I will.”

Vince rubs his jaw, shaking his head. “When is this ever going to end, Mia? When are you ever going to stop being like this?”

“I’m not,” I state. “I’m never going to stop. We don’t work. Nothing can make us work. I tried telling you that.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Rafe states.

“No one asked you,” Vince mutters.

“Maybe not, but I’m involved now, and this is fucking ridiculous. This girl doesn’t love you, Vince. She’s in love with someone else. Just leave her alone.”

Vince looks so sad now. His rage has dissipated, and he looks so sad, and even though I wanted to set him on fire two minutes ago, my impulse to make him feel better kicks in.

Because I’m drunk, I go over and give him a sideways hug. “I’m sorry I can’t love you, Vince. I really am. I know how much you want me to, and I’m sorry I can’t, but I can’t.”

“I wish I’d never met you.”

I nod, even as tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know why I’m crying, but this feels like a last fight, and I just told him I wish he was dead. I don’t wish he was dead. We just can’t be around each other, because we turn each other psycho.

“I’m so sorry, Vince.”

“I just wanted…”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to. I nod. “I know. I’m sorry I can’t give it to you.”

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

My face crumbles at that, and I hold him tighter. His arm moves around me and we’re hugging now, tears leaking out of my eyes and down my face. I feel so sad for him, but there’s nothing I can do. Nothing I’m willing to do. I wish I could split myself in half and leave one of me here with him, to love him, to hold him at night, to give him everything he wants from me. But I’m completely incapable of giving it to him myself.

I don’t want him to feel like this anymore, either.

I wish we could be a part of each other’s lives, but every time we are, it all goes to hell. I don’t know what it is about us that makes us so incapable of coexisting, of peace, of love, but I wish he could feel the way I feel. I wish he could stop yearning for me, the way I stopped yearning for him so long ago.

“We have to stop torturing each other,” I finally whisper. “We have to stop. I want you to be happy, and I make you miserable.

“I don’t understand why you can’t love me.”

“I do love you,” I tell him. “Just not the way you want me to. Maybe I did once, but I never will again. Please stop making me break your heart. I hate myself for doing it. I can’t do this anymore.”

He runs a hand down my arm until he gets to my hand. His larger hand curls around mine and he gives it a squeeze. “I just wanted you to be happy with me.”

“I know,” I say, softly. I don’t have to tell him I’m not. That’s glaringly apparent. It would just be cruel at this point.