Page 78 of Caruso

“But–” her eyes widen and her mouth drops and Ireach for her hand and surprise her by kissing the back of it.

“You are in shock and grieving for the past. I happen to know a lot about that, so call this therapy.”

“For you?”

“No, princess. I’m beyond help, but you, well, you could use some time out, and the mountain air is good for healing. A few days should be enough time to process what happened today, process the last few weeks and adjust your mindset accordingly.”

“With you.”

“With me.”

“Why?” Her curious smile hits me in a place I wasn’t expecting, and I lean back, unsure if this is really such a good idea.

“Why not with me?”

“Because you hate me.”

“Hate.” I shake my head, my eyes narrowing, causing her to shrink back against her seat.

“I hate a lot of things, princess. I hate how cruel the world is, unforgiving and relentless. I hate untidiness, unrestraint and things out of my control. I also hate events that are out of my control, but I don’t hate you. How could I? I don’t know enough about you to form that opinion.”

“Well–” She smiles, and it takes me by surprise. “I don’t hate you, Tommaso. I am trying to, but well, you kind of fascinate me.”

“I’m good with that.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll ask you again in a few days if you still don’t hate me. It will beinteresting to discover whether your opinion has changed.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Her smile is bright. Too bright. The weariness in her eyes and the slight slump to her shoulders tell me everything I require. Something happened back there that doesn’t take a genius to figure out. He crashed her dreams and then set them on fire, and I wonder if I’m about to do the same.

She falls silent, and I’m okay with that. Silence is my friend, most of the time anyway. It’s a good place to be, allowing your mind to process things in a more controlled way. Quelling any sudden reaction that you will ultimately regret in the end.

A slight sniff draws my attention, and I notice her hand reach to her face as she wipes her eyes, attempting to disguise the fact that she’s crying.

“What are the tears for?”

I’m a little harsh in my delivery, and she sighs.

“For me.”

“You cry for yourself, why?”

“Because I don’t like the person I am, I guess.”

“And you reached that conclusion because?”

“Because of Jason. I thought we were close; it appears I was wrong. He said–” She draws in a shaky breath. “He told me I was just a kid he felt sorry for. I’m guessing that will be inscribed on my tombstone.Here lies a girl everyone felt sorry for and then she died.”

Her attempts at humor don’t fool me, and I keep myvoice firm as I reply, “And so you thought you would join them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” I fix her with a hard glare.

“If, as you say, everyone feels sorry for you, don’t give them the opportunity. Make them reverse their opinion. Pity isn’t an emotion that helps you heal. It’s accepting the circumstances and vowing never to be in the same position again. Using the pain to drive you on until nothing can hurt you in the same way.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

I brush her comment aside.