Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I reached for it with my brows knitted.
“How did you know I like tea?”
To that, I got the smallest of smiles—one that didn’t reach his eyes, where there was sadness pooling. “I figured Matt wasn’t the one drinking it.”
“Right. Of course. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he said, waving toward the seat beside me. “Mind if I sit with you? At least until the food arrives.”
I gave him a nod, then watched as he undid his suit button before joining me.
“Do you want to talk?”
“About what? The debilitating guilt I feel about the last few days of Matthew’s life?” I asked, wincing as soon as the words were out of my mouth. “No, I don’t want to talk.”
“Then we won’t talk,” he said, reaching for the remote instead. “But I will say one thing before we stop talking. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. You made a decision that was right for you. And I think we both know that Matt was… doing fine.”
A part of me ached at those words, despite knowing how true they were. Matthew was nothing if not a roll-with -the-punches kind of guy. Not much got him down. Least of all in any sort of lasting way. He’d probably been pissed and hurt when I’d turned him out. But he’d likely gotten over it before the end of the night.
It didn’t mean he didn’t care. He did. As much as he was capable. He just didn’t feel things as deeply as I did. He didn’t attach to anything or anyone that he hadn’t met before he was five years old.
So losing me, while a blow to his ego, didn’t seem like it was going to throw his entire world off its axis like it did for me.
“Nothing ever got him down for long,” I agreed.
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t care.”
I watched as Nico flipped through the channels, landing on the home improvement channel. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he liked it himself, or if he thought—correctly—that I would.
“No, you’re right. He cared.”
“Just not enough,” Nico said, giving me a sympathetic look.
“No.”
It felt wrong to speak negatively of the dead. But Nico was maybe the only other person in the world who understood Matthew’s strengths and flaws. Because it was always Nico Matthew went to when he got himself into some sort of trouble and needed someone to lend a hand. Or money. I hated to think just how much money this man had given my late husband over the years.
To the Ferraro family, Matthew could do no wrong.
Nico and I could see him for exactly who he was.
Charming, enchanting, contagious in his joy, sycophantic in his praise. But moody, unmotivated, and so focused on himself that he often missed everything and everyone around him.
“It’s okay to mourn the man you wanted him to be… and the man he actually was. There’s no right way to go about this.”
I opened my mouth to respond. Just when there was a buzz from the intercom.
The conversation fell away, replaced again with the tension crackling in the air as Nico brought in the bags of food, arranging it all on the island.
He was just about to come back over to me when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
The look on his face told me it was important.
“It’s okay,” I told him. He looked over, those stormy blue eyes conflicted. “You can go. I’m alright. Truly,” I added when he seemed unconvinced.
“Okay. But listen, Blair, if you need anything, I’m here. Someone to talk about Matt too—without all the judgment. Someone to help you go through his things. Just someone to have a meal with. I’m there. Call me.”
Tears threatened again, and I gave him a nod.
He was gone before I could tell him that I didn’t have his phone number.
CHAPTER THREE
Nico
The noise from the nightclub set my teeth on edge as I climbed the steps toward my youngest brother’s apartment.
Zeno claimed the music helped him focus. Fuck knew how that was possible. But there was a lot about Zeno that made no sense to me but perfect sense to him. He was quirky that way.
“I told you I don’t want another of those edibles. I was hearing fucking color—oh,” Zeno said as he opened the door to find me standing there. “You.”
“You just texted me,” I reminded him.
“Did I? I guess I did. Welp, please enter my humble abode.”
He swung the door open wide, giving me a view of the getup he was wearing. Namely, one of those giant wearable blanket things (hood included) that had a taco print on it. It covered up the map of tattoos that covered his tall, thin frame. Though I was pretty sure I spotted a new one peeking out from the neck.
Zeno claimed that, like the music below, the pain of the tattoo needle helped him think straight. I worried about what he might do when he ran out of skin to ink.