She’d been the only thing connected to Dante that I couldn’t let go of as an adult. She was too essential to me.
And she was gone.
I staggered where I stood, and Dante, predictably, wretchedly, was there to catch me.
I tried to shove him away, but he wouldn’t let me, pulling me to him, my face to his warm, familiar chest, where I gasped in and out, in and out, trying to fight back hated tears.
Breaking down in front of my worst enemy was not something I would ever give in to easily. It went against every ingredient that made up the sum of who I was.
Which just goes to show how weakened I felt at that moment, because I found myself clutching at his shirt, digging my cheekbone hard into the firm, plump pad of his pectoral.
Melting against him, I let myself cry.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“A quick temper will make a fool of you soon enough.”
~Bruce Lee
“Let it out, Scarlett,” he uttered, a deep rumble that came wetly out of his throat as he tried to hold back his own tears. “I know it hurts. Believe me, I know.”
Gram was in her eighties, so this should not have come as such a shock.
Of course I knew she wasn’t immortal, but something about her, her spirit I supposed, had always seemed, always felt so indestructible to me.
“I know it hurts,” Dante murmured into the top of my shaking head. “Believe me, I know,” he repeated.
I went from shaking to seizing up, body going stiff as a board.
God, I was an inconsiderate bitch. Of course it hurt. And not just me.
I hated Dante like aspiring actresses hate cupcakes, but Gram was Dante’s grandmother and not my own, and here I was forcing him to comfort me.
“I’m s-s-s-so s-s-s-sorry, D-d-d-dante,” I stammered out.
My eyes shut in horror, eyes burning as the hot lids made contact with each other. I felt my skin flushing. I didn’t have to look to know I was red with shame. Worse than crying even, my dreaded stutter from childhood had emerged.
A little noise escaped from his throat, a little pained, distressed mewl that I knew was a direct reaction to the re-emergence of my despised stutter.
Great, now he was feeling sorry for me, which was the thing I hated the most.
I tried to pull myself together, shifting away slightly to look up at him.
My eyes darted quickly away at what I saw. I couldn’t take his unguarded expression.
Could not handle what it did to the traitorous organ that was trying to pound its way out of my chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” My voice came out small and faint, but far steadier than I felt.
“You think it was easy to tell you? You think I wanted to? You were determined to distract me, and I was just as determined to let you. I didn’t think I’d pass out like that when we were . . . finished.”
“You were drunk.”
“Well, yes. My drunk brain didn’t realize it was doing drunk things, but as you well know, sober or senseless, I wasn’t about to turn that down.”
My only excuse was that his unguarded expression had taken down some of my own defenses, but at his words, I felt myself blush. It was inexcusable, even under the circumstances.
I pushed away from him, and he let me, going back to perch on the edge of my bed, facing me. I could feel his eyes on my face. Mine stayed on his shoes.
“Was she by herself when she had the stroke?” I asked him, voice trembling, body trembling. I couldn’t bear the thought of that, of her dying alone.
“Yes. Staff found her after she’d already passed.”
I took deep breaths, still fighting the good fight against hated tears. “When is the funeral?”
“Day after tomorrow. I already booked your flight home.” If I could have found the composure or the breath, I’d have pointed out that that dreaded little town was not my home, but I couldn’t find either.
“I took care of everything, actually,” he continued. “I’ll email you the info. Sit down, Scarlett, before you fall down.
I tried again to look at him, glancing up briefly, eyes again darting quickly away at what I saw.
That face. Those eyes that saw everything I wanted to hide. No, I still couldn’t take it. Not at all. Not even close.
A fierce whisper escaped him, one that carried across the room and hit me straight in the gut, “Come here.”
Every clenched part of me seemed to break at once, and I didn’t even feel myself move, didn’t even will it, but one moment I was standing several feet away from him, and the next I was in his arms, sobbing like the broken child that Gram had always tried so hard to fix.
I cried for what felt like hours, until my soul felt scraped raw, and he was there with me, arms around me, face in my hair, legs tangled with mine.
We had melded ourselves so close together in our mourning that it felt like there was only one of us.
After a time, a whisper came out of him, one that ached, and I ached with it, “I couldn’t believe it at first either. Didn’t want to. Still don’t.”
I opened my mouth to say something, what I wasn’t even sure, but the sound of the doorbell ringing again distracted me.
“You expecting anybody?” Dante murmured into my hair.
I sighed. “No. I’m sure it’s for Demi. She’s a social creature. Makes friends everywhere. Has people over constantly.” As I spoke, I realized I was babbling into his chest, and I straightened. Having a weak moment was one thing. Lingering at it was another.