Page 17

****

The clock ticks past 2:00 am.

We came home not long ago. Nonna called Bea’s mother immediately. She explained everything, and Bea stood beside her, twisting the cord of the kitchen phone around her fingers. I heard her mama’s voice through the receiver—worried, soft, offering prayers in between questions. She told Bea to stay here for the night, to look after me.

Bea said yes without even glancing at me. She just nodded and gave my hand a squeeze.

Now, Nonna is in the kitchen, stirring something over the stove. I catch faint whiffs of it through the half-open door—chamomile, fennel, a hint of lemon balm and anise. It’s the herbal tisana she always makes when someone’s sick or can’t stop crying. She calls it tisana della nonna, her mother’s recipe passed down like a blessing.

Bea walks with me into the bathroom, her fingers curled gently around my wrist.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, amore,” she says softly, switching on the light.

I stand by the sink as she unbuttons my dress, careful with every movement. The blood has dried along the hem. The fabric feels stiff in places. My fingers feel clumsy and I don’t know where to look, so I stare at the floor tiles.

“Arms up,” she murmurs gently.

I lift them and she slides the dress off my shoulders. The fabric falls to the floor, and I’m left in my bra and slip, both of which are damp from sweat and tears.

“I’ll get rid of these,” she says quietly, gathering up the clothes and folding them. I nod, eyes still downcast.

She hesitates, then brushes my curls back from my cheek. “You okay if I step out for a minute?”

“I’m alright,” I whisper.

She watches me a second longer, then leaves, closing the door behind her.

I turn toward the mirror, and my breath catches.

I look strange. Different.

My hair is a mess—thick auburn curls clumped together, tangled and frizzy at the ends. My cheeks are blotchy from crying.

I undo my bra slowly, letting it fall from my shoulders. Then I peel off the damp slip and step into the shower.

The water is warm.

It rushes over me, soft and steady, curling steam around my face. My curls grow heavier under the weight of it, strands clinging to my skin. I cup my hands under the stream and splash water over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach.

I look down at my body—round and soft and full in places where other girls are flat.

My breasts are large, but still lifted and firm, the kind Nonna used to say were the kind women prayed for after three children. My waist narrows beneath them, curving in before it swells again at my hips—broad and heavy, with thighs that press close even when I stand straight. I’ve always been shaped like this. It never meant anything to me. It was just how I was made.

But tonight… I see it differently. Not in a bad way—just in a way that makes my cheeks burn.

The water trickles over my breasts, sliding along the curves before dripping from the tips. It feels warm, almost ticklish. My stomach rises and falls with each breath.

I press a hand to my belly. It’s soft there. I’ve always liked that part of me—round but gentle. Like the inside of fresh bread.

I tilt my head back under the stream and let the water soak my curls again. It slips down the strands, collecting at the ends. I close my eyes, letting it wash everything away—sweat, tears, blood, shame.

But the guilt stays.

Forgive me, Lord. I lied. I said he didn’t speak. But he did. You heard it. You were there.

I curl my arms around myself, fingers pressing lightly into my upper arms.

What if people find out? What if they ask again? What if someone tells them what he said?