Page 23 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

SANTINO

THE PAST

“ I hope you realize how fucking stupid that was.”

I stare at my torn knuckles, agreeing with Tomás in silence.

“Seriously? You have nothing to say?”

Nope. What’s there to say? Tomás was with me. He saw me punch Owen Conti in broad daylight, on a park bench no less, seemingly unprompted. There’s no denying that.

So I’m leaving it there. Nothing good will come from me repeating to Tomás the vile things Owen was saying to his friends about his sister, and he certainly doesn’t need to know why I felt the need to defend her.

All I know is that I don’t care who it is. You talk badly about Lorena, in any way, shape, or form, you’re going to get what’s coming to you.

My fists.

My undying hatred.

A permanent spot on my shit list.

Which Owen Conti is now on…with a broken nose. Very much worth the fucked-up state of my knuckles.

“Cool. Silent treatment.” Tomás scans the kitchen cabinets at his mom’s apartment, looking for the first-aid kit.

“I told you I’m fine, I’ve been applying pressure to it.” Blood soaks through the towel I borrowed from the bar a block over, on our way to Tomás and Lorena’s place.

“That’s not going to cut it. I know the guy’s an asshole, but what did I miss that possessed you to do that?”

The grandfather clock mounted on the kitchen wall chimes, drawing my attention to it. “Where’s your sister?” I ask, slightly worried. It’s almost dusk and she is rarely out at this time.

Preoccupied with his search for the first-aid kit that now has taken Tomás to the bathroom down the hall past the kitchen, he shouts back, “no clue, man. She’s been wandering off a lot lately.”

That’s strange. Both that Lorena has been wandering off, as Tomás puts it, and that he’s so nonchalant about it.

He returns with the first-aid kit and offers to clean up my hand, but I insist I can do it myself.

This isn’t the first and likely won’t be the last time I’ll get myself into a situation that’s anger — or jealousy — induced.

I’m used to dealing with the aftermath of my behavior. Bloody knuckles, and open wounds alike.

Tomás takes a seat at the kitchen table next to me. “She’s probably out for a walk or something. She’s been more distant lately, with it being, you know, that time of year again.”

He doesn’t elaborate more than that. He doesn’t need to. I connect the dots, realizing that it’s just about to be the one-year anniversary of their father passing. I know how difficult it’s been for all of them.

I don’t pry anymore. Not wanting to bring up the topic of their father and get Tomás upset.

Though I find that Tomás usually takes comfort in talking about their father’s life and reminiscing.

Lorena, however, is not like that. She barely talks about their dad at all.

An approach to grief that I understand, because it’s how I am.

Sometimes not addressing it, acting like the loss didn’t happen, helps.

And sometimes it’s the only way to be able to fake it and get through the day.

The front door to the apartment squeaks open, and seconds later Lorena walks into the kitchen, seemingly thrown off guard that Tomás and I are both sitting at the kitchen table staring at her.

Clutching onto the notebook in her hands, she shifts onto her tiptoes, swaying back and forth. Though there’s no amount of fidgeting she can do that will distract from how sad she looks. It looks like she was crying.

She must catch onto me noticing as her gaze adverts to my now wrapped knuckles.

“Everything okay?” Lorena asks.

“It is now,” I say with an unintentionally cocky grin.

“Right.” She giggles, unconvinced.

“Where did you go off to?” Tomás asks Lorena.

“The Botanical Garden.”

“Again?”

“Yes,” she huffs. “I like it there.” There’s no missing the contradiction in her tone.

I’m surprised she went there. She has vocalized many times how much she hates flowers since their father passed. Saying that all the floral arrangements near her father’s casket created her disdain for them.

Tomás looks at the notebook wrapped tight in her arms. “Is that for the exercise the grief counselor suggested?”

All Lorena is able to do in response is nod. Tomás doesn’t push the topic anymore and drops it.

Needing to make sure she’s okay, I decide to break the silence that has fallen over us. “Did it help?” I ask her, figuring she will opt not to answer my question, but I want to give her the option to be able to talk about it if she so chooses, just in case.

She strides over to the kitchen table and places the notebook on top of it, opening it.

“It did,” she says, pointing at a small sketch on an otherwise blank page.

“I think. The grief counselor suggested I write my feelings, but for some reason, I decided to draw them. I don’t even draw. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I stare at the drawing. It’s a singular hibiscus flower sketched in a pilon. For someone who doesn’t draw, it’s pretty damn good.

Lorena goes to tear it from the notebook, and my hand flies over hers.

“What?” Lorena asks, staring at my hand.

I feel Tomás’ stare on me. Clearing my throat, trying to play it cool. “Nothing. I like it.”

“Thanks.” She slips her hand away from beneath mine. “You can have it if you want. I’m not going to keep it.”

“Sure, I’d love that,” I say, beaming. Not bothering to diminish the excitement filling me as she carefully tears the page out, handing it to me.

I stare at the drawing. Already taking great pride in the fact that I’m the new owner of something that she created from her sadness and made into art. Because that’s what it is. A piece of art. A piece of herself. That now I get to own.

I start to rack my brain with what I’m going to do with it.

It’s small, no more than three by three in size, but maybe I can find a picture frame to display it in.

I’m tempted to get it tattooed, but thinking of how I’d explain that to her, or Tomás for that matter, should either of them ever see it, could be awkward.

Lorena brings her hand to mine, rubbing the bandage covering my knuckles.

My stomach twists, and my palm becomes clammy from the contact.

I’m fucking relieved as I turn my head to see that Tomás isn’t in the kitchen.

I didn’t notice him leave. I was locked in a bubble, a damn chokehold, like I usually am when Lorena is around. “What color should it be?” she asks.

I’m so lost in how unexpectedly intimate it feels with her brushing her fingertips on the bandage, it takes me a minute to register that she’s referring to the hibiscus flower she drew.

“Fuchsia,” I say without hesitation. Suddenly, a vision of her wearing a fuchsia bikini last summer fuses into my mind.

It was after we all went to the county fair in Rhinebeck.

We stopped at a local pool to swim and get some reprieve from the heat, and I’ve had the image of her naturally sun-kissed skin in that color ingrained in my head ever since.

She looks good in every color, but there is something about that shade of pink that complements her beauty in ways I will never feel worthy of witnessing.

“Nice choice. I can color it in for you if you want,” she offers, about to take the page from me.

I pull back slightly. “No, it’s okay. It’s perfect as is.”

“Alright then. Can’t wait to see where you display it.” She winks playfully.

“Any suggestions?”

She rolls her eyes, waving her hand at me. “Oh please, Tino, you don’t need to keep it or display it for that matter. It was just a silly little scribble from a stupid grief exercise I failed at.”

I click my tongue. “You didn’t fail. You took your pain, and you created something from it.”

She considers what I said for a moment. “Well, whatever you decide to do with it, just know that silly little scribble made me cry a whole bunch, but it also made me feel at peace for the first time in who knows how long. At least that flower won’t die.

And who knows, depending what you decide to do with it, it may live on and become immortal,” she jokes, trying to deflect how she’s really feeling.

Sad.

Full of grief.

Just like me.

I smile at her. Feeling choked up. I haven’t felt peace in so long, and I don’t think she realizes how much peace she just gave me; by not only giving me something her heart led her to create, but by sharing a piece of herself with me.

“I’m glad it helped,” I say out loud instead of saying how I truly feel…honored.