Instead I nodded, silent for one disastrous second too long, because how was I supposed to explain that I was stopping notbecause I wanted less of her, but because I had reached the point where wanting her without the truth felt like theft?
Her chin lifted in that way she had when she was trying very hard not to let someone see she was wounded.
And then Hoka’s voice came back to me with infuriating clarity.
If she matters, you do not get to build this alone in your head and call that love.
I had reached the point of no return with Emily.
I could tell her the truth, or I could let her go.
As I looked at her standing there, trying so hard not to reveal the shine gathering in her eyes, I understood something.
I was not going to let her go.
Not a chance.
I stepped back slowly, giving her the distance I could not yet fix.
“Goodnight, Emily.” If I stayed another second I was going to tell her everything, and I needed to be prepared.
She nodded once.
I turned and walked away, each step costing more than it should have.
By the time I reached the stairs, I could still feel her mouth on mine, her hand in mine, the tremor in her voice when she implied that “final” meant the end of us.
I did not yet know how I was going to tell her the truth, only that I would. Walking away was one thing. Letting her go was another. The look she gave me as I left tasted bitter all the way home.
I ignored Olivero’s questioning look when I walked through the front door, sexually frustrated and emotionally bruised.
“I assumed you’d stay the night,” he called after me, unable to stop himself.
I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Childish, perhaps.
Effective nonetheless.
I sat on the edge of the bed and turned my phone over in my hand. I already knew who I wanted to call, whose voice I wanted to hear tell me it would be all right, and knew I would believe it simply because it came from her.
I lay back with a low exhale and looked at the ceiling.
“You’re supposed to be a grown man, Pietro Benetti, and yet all you want to do is call your mother,” I muttered to myself.
I checked the time.
Only nine in Chicago. Late enough that Victoria ought to be in bed, but early enough that I was unlikely to interrupt my parents in one of the more psychologically damaging expressions of long-term marital happiness I had, unfortunately, encountered more than once in my life.
I let the last scrap of pride leave my body and opened the video call.
My mother answered almost immediately.
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
The sight of her smiling face on the screen—wild red curls, green eyes—did what it always did and eased some of the pressure in my chest before I had even said a word. The smile that appeared on my own face in answer was entirely genuine.
I sat up. “Hi, Ma. How are you? How was Vicky’s dance recital?”