Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
The apartment is small, with only the basics that came with it and little else. I’ve been in Menton, France for the past month, but I haven’t done much in the way of making this feel like home. I’m not sure if it’s because I know I’ll have to move again at some point, or if it’s simply because I’m too terminally exhausted to care about much of anything right now.
I chose this area because I visited here once with the Vitales during our European summers. It’s a quiet commune with pastel buildings and cobbled streets lined with citrus trees. That year, we attended the lemon festival, and Angelo and I snuck off into the groves to kiss under the stars. It felt magical then, and I always wanted to come back here, but now that I have, it just feels like another place.
Because he isn’t here.
My chest splits open with the same ache that always follows thoughts of him. That loss is still too raw, and I’m afraid it always will be.
I’ve made some semblance of a life here—if existing is a life. Every day, I force myself to get out of bed. I wake up, choke down some food, and go to my job at a local boutique where I style wealthy retirees and tourists. Then I wander the streets and watch the artists paint watercolors in the square, or lovers sipping espressos at the cafes. Occasionally, when I’m feeling especially masochistic, I sit on a stone ledge overlooking the Mediterranean and remember my honeymoon with Angelo.
It feels like another lifetime ago.
I miss him more than I can put into words, and every day, I grieve the future we never got to have. Sometimes, between consciousness and sleep, I wake up and wonder if it was all a dream. But it isn’t. My life as I knew it is gone, and at some point, I’ll have to come to terms with that. But it won’t be today.
I step out of my flats and walk through the apartment, opening the shuttered window and the doors to the Juliet balcony. The sheer curtains blow in the gentle breeze, carrying with it the scent of citrus and salt.
On the street below, a luxury car with blacked-out windows rolls by, and a shiver moves down my spine. I’m not sure there will ever come a day when I don’t feel like someone’s watching me. In retrospect, the French Riviera wasn’t the best place I could have chosen to live out the rest of my sad existence. Angelo’s contacts stretch far and wide in these parts of Europe, and though I’m careful to keep to myself, there’s always the possibility of crossing paths with someone who knows him.
Regardless, I don’t have it in me to keep running right now. So I go about my nightly routine, checking the entirety of the unit before I shower and change into my nightgown. I should eat an actual meal, but I settle for some cheese and fruit from the fridge instead. Reading has been a good distraction when I’m alone, but tonight, I can’t seem to focus. So I put my book down and close up the apartment, settling into bed for an early night.
Unlike before, sleep comes easily to me now. Because at least when I’m asleep, I can still see him in my dreams.
Something stirs the tendrils of hair around my face, pulling me back to consciousness. When I open my eyes, the room is dark, but I can feel the whisper of a light breeze on my skin. A chill settles over me as I sit up and notice light pouring in from the open window.
I’m certain I shut it, but maybe I didn’t?
With that unsettling question lingering in the air, my gaze moves around the shadowed spaces of the room, searching for monsters. When I see the large silhouette sitting in my club chair, my breath catches.
My first instinct is to curl my knees up to my chest, as if that will somehow protect me from reality.
A long stretch of silence passes as the figure stares in my direction, disguised by darkness. I don’t have to ask who he is.
I can feel his presence.
“Have you come to give me a divorce?” The words fracture, spilling every emotion I’ve tried to suppress for the past month.
We both know there’s no such thing as divorce in the Cosa Nostra. But the only two alternatives are too grim for me to accept.
He moves then, and I hold my breath as each of his steps echo off the floor. When he reaches the bed, he yanks me up and pulls me to my feet in front of him, my eyes level with his chest.
He grips my face roughly with one warm, strong hand while his other presses my fingers over his heart.