Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“What if I demand that you tell me more?” I say, full of anger. “This is getting ridiculous. You can’t just pick what pieces of this you share with me.”
“I know it isn’t easy…” He tries to brush the hair from my face, a romantic gesture I desperately want to let happen. But I move back and push his hand away from me.
“Don’t,” I hiss. “You didn’t arrange this elaborate plan for this. Either tell me everything or take me somewhere I can call a cab. I’m sick of this night. I’m sick of knowing half the truth.”
His expression hardens. “Fine,” he says. “But just know—you haven’t betrayed your aunt. We haven’t cheated. I’ve never had a serious relationship, but if I ever do, somehow, I’d never cheat. It’s the lowest, coldest thing a person can do.”
“That’s why I was crying.” I rub my face. “It was like we were in a dream, but then it hit me. We’re not. This is reality. And we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“But we didn’t.”
He’s wrong. I did. I told him I was a virgin when I didn’t have any reason to. By sharing: sharing a private part of myself, I thought I was avoiding breaking the affair news. But then I broke it, anyway.
“Just take me home,” I tell him.
He sighs, moving toward the door. “Fine, Arria.”
I stand at my bedroom window, looking out onto the street. It looks normal. It’s a new house, but the street looks exactly like what I’d expect a middle-upper-class street to look like. There aren’t any cars lurking around, no mobsters waiting to grab me. I try to reason it out in my head. Enzo is dangerous, but I know I made my apology realistic. The only thing that could’ve annoyed him was when Nico stood up to him.
But that wasn’t my fault. If Enzo’s going to go after anyone, it’ll be Nico, won’t it?
I flinch when my phone vibrates on my desk. The buzzing noise has panic surging to the surface. I need to chill. It’s Nico. That’s surprising. After how we left things—icy compared to the heat that came before—I didn’t think I would hear from him again.
Nico: Are you awake?
Me: What’s happening? Has there been a development?
As I wait for his reply, I wonder if he’ll tell me he made up that stuff about Aunt Lucy. He could have said it to calm me down. I’ve been thinking about it all night, along with everything else. They’ve only kissed once—when they had to, at their wedding. So why did they do it? What purpose could there have been to get married? There has to be a connection to his mob life.
Nico: No. Sorry if I worried about you. This is off-topic. I couldn’t sleep when I got home, so I’ve been doing some work. One girl I’m working with pro bono, helping her on a graffiti charge, has expressed an interest in photography. I was wondering if you’d be interested in meeting with her, helping her. You can say no. There’s no pressure.
I sit on my bed, my foot tapping frantically. Does this mean I’ll be seeing more of my uncle? I should realistically do everything I can to avoid it. It doesn’t matter if I want to see him, hold him, kiss him, explore him both physically and emotionally. What I should do is put this behind me. Perhaps this can help with that? We can meet again, keep it surface-level, pretend tonight never happened. Am I kidding myself?
Maybe I can even pretend I don’t know about the mafia stuff. Just go on with my life, taking it a day at a time. How would I answer this question if I was just his niece, if we’d never kissed, if he hadn’t stood up for me and put us both in danger?
Me: I’d be happy to help somebody in need. I think it’s great, uncle. How much of your time and resources do you give to people in the city?
Nico: Thank you, Arriana. My wife has told me that your photography is very good. She’s certain you’re going to be highly successful. She’s not a photography expert, but she has an eye for visuals from her experience in the art world.
I don’t miss the change in what he’s calling me. My full name now—not Arria. And mentioning his wife… it seems we’re playing a game, or maybe agreeing, without coming outright and saying it, to go back to the way things should be.
Me: That’s why I’ve got plans to go traveling. I want to build a portfolio.
Nico: Yes. I remember. One text arrives. Then, immediately, another.
Nico: When?
I stare at the single word. Texts are a funny thing. With no tone, I can put any mood into it I want. It could be an indifferent question, the way somebody speaks when they’re making small talk. It could be an urgent, fierce demand. When? Tell me now… It could be anything in between. It could be nothing. It could be everything. Maybe that’s why I almost prefer texting. I can shape reality the same way I edit a photo. And perhaps that’s what makes it more frustrating, too.