Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
My heart quickens. I push myself from my chair and stand, not even sure why I’m doing it. My mouth goes dry and I try to lick my lips. A strange desperation floods through me.
“Why didn’t you tell me that already?” I whisper, not sure if I want to reach for him or run as fast as I can.
“Because it would’ve only scared you. Like I am now.” His hands relax, and he takes a deep breath. “It’s better for you this way. There’s no happy ending for me.”
“Why do you get to say what’s good for me and what isn’t?” It’s now or never. I have to say it. I have to tell him how I feel.
The words are there, but they won’t come out. I’m too afraid of what it’ll do.
I’m terrified of the hole it’ll break in me if he doesn’t feel the same way.
“Because I’m the fucking Don,” he says, and his tone is firm and laced with darkness. “That’s my job.”
He walks back to the door. I feel small and stupid. Just tell him you miss him! Just say it!
“Are you coming to bed tonight?” I ask, meek and small and pathetic.
“I’m not sure.” He doesn’t look back. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m doing everything I can to make sure your family is safe.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks.”
He nods, shoulders tense, and then disappears back inside. The door slides shut behind him.
I slump back into my seat. I stare up at the black sky. Only a few bare stars twinkle, and I feel as empty as the space between them.
I’m a coward.
Just a worthless coward.
I couldn’t even tell my own husband that I miss him.
This is what always happens. Even back then, people only cared about me because my last name was Willing-Morris. When that didn’t mean anything important anymore, my friends began to fade away until I was left with nothing. My parents abandoned me to their addictions. My classmates ignored me when I wasn’t worth anything to them anymore.
And now my husband.
The wine suddenly tastes bitter.
Chapter 25
Lucy
Three months after the funeral, a moving van parks out front of the mansion. I follow the stream of men moving through the lower wings until I reach the former Don’s rooms. Boxes are stacked in the hallway, and the movers are carrying them back to the truck one at a time.
I drift deeper inside and stand in the main room. I remember his father sitting in a big easy chair watching old black-and-white Westerns. I remember the way he mumbled and tried to change his shoes. It must’ve been terrible watching his father fall apart like that, knowing it would never get better.
There’s a noise from the bedroom. I look inside and find Adriano cursing to himself as he rifles through the closet. There are still piles of stuff all over the place: old sweaters, folded jeans, boxes of photographs, power cables, and other electronic junk.
“Do you want some help?” I ask, my stomach doing a strange, nervous twist.
He pauses and glances back. He’s wearing the outfit I chose for him. Simple black slacks and a flattering cream sweater. God, he’s so handsome, it’s obscene.
“The fucking movers are already here,” he says, as if I hadn’t walked past them. “I thought I’d have this all finished by today, but—” He looks at the objects still lying in clusters.
“Those guys are busy doing the main room.” I pull over a box and start sorting through the stuff. “What are you keeping? Where are they taking everything?”
“There’s a storage locker. Everything’s going there, and I’ll sort it all out later.”
“Okay, that’s easy then. Should I get rid of the obvious trash?”
He hesitates. Then he nods. “I trust you.”
For a moment, we stand there looking at each other. Our last conversation plays through my head. The stress was breaking him then, and I’m not sure it’s much better now.
But he needs my help. I can set aside my feelings for a little while. Packing is the least I can do.
I get to work. Everything that isn’t worth keeping for later gets tossed in a black garbage bag, while the rest is carefully packed into boxes. Breakables are covered in paper and bubble wrap.
I throw myself into my task. After a half hour, I catch him standing nearby and staring at me with this odd look on his face, like he’s not sure if I’m really there. I smile at him and raise my eyebrows. “Take a picture,” I tell him. “That’ll last longer.”
He laughs. It’s not even funny, but he leans back against the barren bed and holds onto his stomach. I grin at him and wonder if he’s finally gone insane.
“You okay?” I ask when he finally gets it together.
“Yeah, I’m good.” He kneels down next to me. The piles of stuff are mostly gone, but he has the closet emptied out. All that mess is next. “You don’t need to help, you know. I haven’t exactly given you any reason to.”