I thought it would be my weapon and that I'd show up to his church in front of his whole world wearing something obscene, and for once it would behimstanding still and off-balance.
But like with everything else, Nico took the thing I built to humiliate him and made it his.
And the part that I still can’t get over is just howgoodhe made me feel as he whispered how he’ll hurt people for me. Guilt and shame unfurl in my heart every time I replay those words.
So that I can identify every man who dares to look at you. And know exactly who to bury after.
That’s the truth, isn’t it? Iwanthim to hurt people and bury people who dare to look at me. I want that as much as I wanted the dress when I started making the outrageous requests in the first place.
Because for what feels like the first time in my life, I had the chance tochoose, and some starved little part of me wanted to cry and scream at howgoodthat choice feels.
And I hate that I want more.
What does that say about me?
I pull my knees up tighter.
Nico’s footsteps stop outside my door. There's a long enough pause that I start to think he might turn around and leave.
Then the lock turns, and Nico steps inside.
He's changed into a plain black shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms. The blood is long gone from his knuckles, but the skin is still angry and red where they connected with Frank's face. In his hand is a tray of baked ziti.
My stomach grumbles when I see it, but it twists into a knot when I look at his knuckles.
"You didn't eat," he says. "So I figured I'd bring you something."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," he says without the usual bite in his voice, which is somehow worse.
He crosses the room slowly, sets the ziti by my nightstand, before he retreats to a chair by the cold fireplace–far enough away that I don't have to brace for him. Then, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at me.
“Anastasio told me your mother used to make this for you,” he says. “So I thought I’d take the chance to cook one too.”
“You know how to cook?” I ask quietly. “Didn’t expect that from you.”
“My mother taught me when I was a child.”
There’s an unmistakable sadness in his voice. It sounds so damn familiar that I just sit there staring at him for a long time, not sure how to respond other than to pick up the spoon and scoop up a mouthful.
The tomato is cooked down dark. The edge of the cheese is baked past golden into a burnt brown. The basil is laid out unevenly.
Everything about it looks heavy and homely.
Even though it’s not hers, it reminds me of her humming off-key at the stove, of the welts on her arms and neck that she'd cover with the wrong shade of concealer, and of her soft voice telling me toset the table, baby, go on.
And just like that the guilt comes up so fast and so hard I almost choke.
I’m sitting in a room with fifteen-foot ceilings while mom is god knows where. The only thing I have telling me that she’s still alive is Frank’s words. I flew across an ocean to save her, and two days later, I’m no closer to her than I was at seventeen with a duffel bag and a broken promise.
The food turns to ash in my mouth, and I want to spit it out along with my guilt.
But I force myself to swallow it anyways.
It feels like the least I can do, but it doesn’t make the betrayal taste any less bitter in my mouth.
“What else did your mom teach you?”