Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I clear my throat. “If you want, I can run through some vocabulary with you. Medical Italian, even. Once upon a time, I used to watch a lot of foreign films, and picked up some of the language. It might be useful.”
Mary Kate perks up, blue eyes shining. “You’d do that?”
I nod, then force a smile. “Sure. I’ll even quiz you.”
She bites her lip, and the flush returns to her cheeks. “You’re on.”
I let myself watch her for a moment longer, cataloguing every detail: the curve of her jaw, the faint spray of freckles on her cheekbones, the way her lips part when she’s thinking. I’m not a good man, not in this moment, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Instead, I imagine Mary Kate in Italy—lost in a crowd, hair tangled, eyes wide. I wonder who she’ll meet, who she’ll become. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again if she goes. A pang hits my heart, and my chest aches at the thought of never seeing her again.
But for now, she’s here. In my house, in my chair, in the golden afternoon light.
I close the distance, reach for the guidebook, and our fingers brush. Her hand is small, bones delicate, but her grip is sure. For a heartbeat, neither of us lets go.
I feel the first real smile crack my face in weeks.
She doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.
Mary Kate holds the book open between us, her finger tracing the outline of an ancient city map, lips moving as she sounds out the names under her breath. I listen to the tremble of her voice—light, almost musical—and think about all the languages I never learned, all the places I never went.
She’s talking about the Vatican City now, something about ivy on the stone walls and how she wants to get lost there someday, maybe after graduation, maybe never. Her hair catches in the light and I catch myself staring, cataloguing the way it falls against her cheek, the small shadow it makes along her jawline.
My mind fractures along a thin seam, and suddenly the present slides away.
It’s two years ago, Christmas. The house full of people—colleagues, Jeannine’s second-cousin’s new boyfriend, a crowd of medical students I barely remember inviting. Outside, rain lashes the stained-glass windows in the entryway, hammering the glass so hard it sounds like the world is breaking open. Inside, everything is candlelight and the sharp tang of citrus peel; red wine spills on linen, someone laughs too loud, the whole place hums with the false intimacy of a holiday gathering.
I find Mary Kate in the side hallway, a thin ribbon of corridor off the main staircase. She’s standing under a sconce shaped like a torch, the gold leaf chipped at the edges. She’s in a black velvet dress, ankle socks, her arms wrapped around herself like armor. She’s staring at her phone, but not typing, just letting the blue light soak her face. Her cheeks are raw from the wind, eyes rimmed in red; she looks even younger, half-child, half-woman, and my chest aches with the sight of her.
I step into the hall, the floorboards giving just enough to warn her, and she looks up. Her mouth moves first—a little smile, crooked, cautious.
“You hiding too?” she says, voice quiet.
I nod, leaning against the wall a few feet away. “Those people in there are animals,” I say, and she laughs, a puff of breath that makes her hair flutter. I can smell the candle wax and her perfume, sensual and sugary, something that would nauseate me on anyone else. On her, it’s—God help me.
She glances at my glass, then down at her own hands, which are empty. “Can I have a sip?” she asks, and before I can say yes or no, she’s already reaching, taking the wine from my hand. Her fingers brush mine, and they’re cold, so cold I can feel the chill through my skin. She sips, makes a face, and hands the glass back.
“It’s gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s French,” I say.
She looks at me, eyes huge and bright in the dark. “You like French things?”
I don’t know how to answer that. My mind is humming, a static charge building in the hollow of my chest, and I know I should leave, go back to the party, to Jeannine, to whatever the performance requires. But I don’t. I stay, watching Mary Kate as she chews the inside of her cheek, as she glances up at me, then down, then up again, as if waiting for something.
I set the wine on a side table, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath hitches, the barest sound. I should stop. I don’t.
Her mouth opens, as if to say something, but no sound comes out. I move closer, see the way her hands tremble at her sides, the way her shoulders draw up tight. I touch her cheek, the skin warm and impossibly soft, and she leans into it, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.