Page 96 of Choosing Hope

Pulling on my most comfortable joggers, I wander downstairs, being careful not to wake the others.

As I round the corner leading into the kitchen, the dim glow of the under-unit LED lights greets me.

Carlo must be awake.

I hesitate, unsure if I’m ready to be alone with him. What I’ve done to Sophie is bad; no, it’s unforgivable. But the way I’ve treated Carlo, when he’s done nothing but support me since we were kids, is so much worse.

The hollow feeling of failure in my gut deepens.

While my mind is churning, I hover in the sitting room, unable to see into the kitchen.

“Are you coming in here or going back to bed?” he sighs.

It galls me that Carlo’s calling me out on my shit, in my own fucking home.

“I came down for privacy,” I snap, and instantly regret my sharp words.

As I enter the room, to see him slumped on the bar stool, our outfits twinning, I notice his dark golden skin exposed. It lures my disobedient eyes. I’ve never spoken of my sentiments toward Carlo to my friends. Afraid to admit my attraction, but I’m fairly certain it isn’t usual for a heterosexual man to respond to his best friend the way I do when I look at mine.

He rises, striding over to the fridge to pick up the milk carton before pouring a small quantity into the pan that’s already on the stove. He drops a cinnamon stick into the simmering liquid, just the way Nonna used to do when we couldn’t sleep in Naples.

The familiarity of his gesture helps to calm some of my previous anger, and I slump onto the stool beside his.

My eyes follow him moving around my kitchen. Carlo’s at home here, just as I always wanted him to be. This place is his second home. Whenever he isn’t working, he’s here with us.

I lean forward, flopping the top half of my body onto the counter, resting heavily on my elbows.

“Tell me what to do, Carlo.”

Unhurried, he waits for the milk to reach the perfect temperature before pouring it into a wide-brimmed mug and placing it before me.

“Compagno, the first thing you need to do is accept who you are, and embrace it.”

He stands over me, his hand resting flat on the counter inches from my arm.

“I don’t even like myself. This isn’t just about my sexuality; it’s about everything. I’ll never be good enough.”

He frowns. “For whom? Your wife? Your daughter? Me? Or your father?”

My stomach clenches at the utterance of my dad’s name. Needing to take a moment, I drop my focus down to my steaming drink and trail my finger over the warm porcelain.

Without glancing up, I sense him watching my slow movement. Neither of us speaks for several minutes.

“Did Kalie give you what you need?” he asks, breaking the hum of silence.

I shake my head.

“Tell me what you’re looking for, Spencer?”

Carlo’s voice has dropped an octave, and the intensity of his question coupled with the tone he’s adopted sends goosebumps over my skin.

I don’t move my head; it’s still tilted down. The angle gives me a chance to admire the definition of his abs. His sweatpants are hovering on his hips. It wouldn’t take much to dislodge them, to reveal the end of that happy trail that leads down to his dick. A movement underneath the fabric tells me he knows I’m admiring him, and his hardness stimulates a twitch in my sweatpants.

“To be with you without feeling guilty,” I say, my voice thick with a combination of exhaustion and lust.

His hand creeps toward me an inch but he still doesn’t make contact.

“After everything we’ve discussed. Why do you still have guilt?” he asks, speaking slowly and carefully. “Sophie couldn’t have made it clearer that she doesn’t have a problem with us.”