Our Little Secret

I watch him undress, his eyes not once leaving mine, and I understand. I understand, because it’s the same desperation I feel. The need to get enough, to get enough and walk away. Because tomorrow it will be over.

And, even though this has to end, I will always be grateful to Rafael. He has taught me so much. Made me realise that such passion, such love is possible.

I only have to find someone capable and

willing to offer it in return.

It has to be possible.

It has to be...

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I WAKE TO an empty bed and realise that Faye has gone. We were awake until three, so I know she’s not been gone long. It’s seven-thirty now, the latest I’ve slept in a long while, but still it doesn’t feel long enough. The after-effects of the alcohol and the lack of sleep are weighing me down, clouding up my brain and making my body ache.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling fresco, a romantic scene fit for a bedroom, and feel the ache run bone-deep.

It’s not just the alcohol, the lack of sleep. It’s her. I miss her.

And if I’m honest I can’t imagine my life without her in it...yet today she leaves.

Cazzo. I throw back the covers that still smell so sweet of her and thrust up out of bed. I hit the shower and pray it will clear the fog in my head, the ache in my body and make today...easy.

Because it should be easy. The wedding was a success, the guests all depart today and I’ll have my new home to myself. Time to enjoy it while getting back to business as usual.

But I’m still mentally coaching myself an hour later when I’m pacing the hallway and resisting the urge to go to Faye’s room and ask... And ask what, exactly?

Don’t leave?

Stay a little longer?

Let’s have sex a little longer?

Let’s have fun?

Because, let’s face it, I’m not about to offer more. I can’t.

‘Morning, Rafael.’

I spin on the spot and I see my mother coming towards me. Sans make-up and grinning widely.

‘I’m glad I caught you. Can we talk?’

‘Si, Mamma.’

She stalls, her eyes glisten and I realise what I’ve done. I’ve called her Mamma for the first time in too many years to count.

She lifts her hands to my cheeks and her smile softens. ‘Mio amata figliolo.’

My beloved son.

The words resonate through me, out of me. My own eyes spike and, Gesù, I don’t cry. I don’t. But it’s choking up through my chest, stinging the backs of my eyes.

‘Grazie,’ she says. ‘For this week, for this wedding. You have been the most incredible son, the most incredible big brother to Dani and you would have made your father proud...so proud.’

I feel her fingers tremble against my cheeks and I can’t answer her. My voice is trapped in the tightness of my chest.

‘I want you to know that Giovanni and I...’