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Chapter fifty-seven

Samara

W e’ve been lying on our individual sides of the pillow divide for what feels like hours but has probably only been thirty minutes. I’m unconvinced that Luca is asleep either if the way he’s tossing and turning is any indication.

My mind is reeling and refuses to turn off.

“Samara,” Luca whispers into the dark room.

“Yes?” I ask, almost relieved by the break in the silence.

“You can’t sleep?” He sounds a little concerned.

I huff out a laugh. “Clearly, you can’t either.”

“Fair. I can’t stop thinking about Gia. I know she’s fine. Cici’s sent me hundreds of photos of her, and Dante even stopped over to check on them with Arielle, but it’s almost impossible not to worry,” he confesses.

Warmth spreads through my chest. “I imagine that’s normal, Luca,” I tell him, rolling over on my side to face him in the dark. “She’s your first child, and not only that, but this is the first time you’ve left her for more than a night or two, and you aren’t just down the road anymore. You’re in a whole other country.” I feel my face soften, and an overwhelming sense of pride for how far he’s come in the few short months that I’ve known him fills me. “But you have the best family, and they’ll drop everything to be there if something happened.” If I were in his position, I have no doubt my family would do the same. Hell, even Luca’s family would probably do the same for me. Because, to their core, they are good people. It’s going to be impossible to try and distance myself from them.

I hear him blow out a long sigh and feel the bed shift as he turns over to face me. The blackout curtains are working so well that I can barely make him out, but I feel his gaze on me.

“What you’re saying is probably true and definitely the more rational version of my own thoughts,” he agrees but releases an exhausted sigh that I feel deep in my bones. “Unfortunately, anxiety doesn’t seem to be very rational.”

“No, no, it doesn’t,” I agree, resisting the urge to reach out and take his hand.

“Why are you having trouble sleeping?” he asks me.

I take a moment to consider this and decide just how much of my thoughts I care to divulge to him. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. I see my family in small doses a couple of times a month, but now that includes my cousins and aunts, uncles, and everyone’s kids. It just has me thinking about things I don’t really want to, and sometimes, the things my family says make me feel like shit.” The admission has a boulder settling in my stomach. I feel terrible for admitting that to someone. I feel horrendous for even feeling that way, but it’s true. “I know they don’t mean anything by it, or they have this false belief that they’re helping me in some way, but I can only take so much before I can’t stop going down the path my mind is taking me on.” That was vague but still more than I was planning to share.

It’s Luca who reaches out like I had wanted to but wouldn’t allow myself to. His pinky grazes the back of my arm before he rests his hand on my wrist, rubbing soothing circles along the thin skin. “I can’t know how you’re feeling or what kinds of things bother you most, but I can sort of relate. I’ve obviously got a massive family, and even though no one has ever intentionally made me feel shitty about myself, sometimes, one of my siblings or even my mom will make a joke about how many women I’ve slept with, and I know that if I’d ever shown any kind of discomfort, it would stop. But I haven’t because until recently, they weren’t wrong. I played into the playboy stereotype the media has labeled me with. The jokes still hurt though.” His admission makes my prior guilt surrounding his sexual prowess hammer even deeper into my heart and mind.

“It’s awful when we know they mean nothing by it because I think that almost makes it harder to deal with. For me, at least, it feels like I have no right to get upset with them.”

“Same here, and then I just feel even guiltier because my family has given me everything. They’ve supported me relentlessly, no matter what a little shit I’d been growing up, or even as an adult,” he admits with a tired sigh.

I can hear just how much of a burden he’s felt. “Do you ever feel like your parents treat your siblings differently than you because you’re single?”

He chuckles. “I’m not single, Samara. I’m your boyfriend,” he jokes. He goes silent for a moment, and I don’t respond, hoping he’ll take my question seriously. “Honestly though? Never. They’ve treated every one of us equally my entire life.”

We say nothing for a short stretch of time, but then he breaks the silence. “Are you asking because you feel like your parents treat you and Vea differently?”

My voice gets stuck in my throat, but after a pause, I decide to answer. “They didn’t use to, or at least it wasn’t that noticeable. Now that she has a husband and kids, they’ve made me feel like I’m doing something wrong with my life, even though I’ve literally put every ounce of myself into making them proud. They didn’t have it easy when they moved to the States, and I just want to make their sacrifices worth the struggle, but it doesn’t seem like I can truly make them proud unless I’m married or pregnant. Preferably both.”

“I can’t say for certain, but I’d really like to believe that isn’t true. You’re fucking incredible, Samara.” Butterflies swarm around inside me, and heat creeps up my neck. “There’s not a chance they aren’t extraordinarily proud of everything you’ve accomplished. I think they love you an immeasurable amount, but I also think that maybe they haven’t loved you the way you needed to be loved.” He squeezes my wrist before resuming those soothing circles, and the spot where his hand is feels tingly and heated. “Some people only know one way of showing it, and maybe that’s worked for your sister, but it hasn’t for you, and that’s okay to recognize. If you think it’ll serve you to speak up about it and try to teach them how to love you the way you need, then do that. And if not, I strongly believe that someday, you’ll find someone who loves you exactly the way you need and deserve.” He sounds so sure of himself, but I can’t seem to say anything to him just yet because he somehow summed up every thought I’ve always lived with and made it feel almost… normal?

“Is that what you want?” he asks, his voice quiet. Except I have no idea what he’s referring to.

“Is ‘what’ what I want?” I ask, confusion lacing my words.

“A spouse… kids…” he answers.

“I…” I can’t answer that without baring my soul to this man. I thought that would be something I’d fear, but I feel safe and comfortable with Luca.

“It’s okay, princess,” he whispers. “You don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

His words only act to spur me on. I don’t share this side of myself with almost anyone, and something tells me that the last person on the planet who would judge me for this is Luca.

“It’s okay. It just took me off guard,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not used to talking about what I want. I do a lot of family planning with my clients, but the questions aren’t steered in my direction.” I take a deep breath before answering. “I want it all. I want a daughter I can raise to love herself the way no one ever taught me to. I want to show her that Black women are worthy of love and that we can have absolutely everything that everyone else can, just like my parents always drilled into me and Vea. I want a son who can learn to love and be loved the way I hope my husband will someday. I want a husband who adores me and a freaking cat too. Everything short of a picket fence.”

Luca’s arms wrap around me; his crisp scent and intense body heat envelop me as he tugs me to his chest over the pillow divide. “Someday, Samara,” he says, and I swear I feel him kiss the top of my head. My cheeks heat, and my throat feels like it’s closing, hot tears welling behind my eyes. “Someday, you’ll find someone worthy of your love who knows exactly how to love you the way you deserve, and the kids will follow,” he assures me.

“Someday,” I agree, but the word feels foreign in my mouth. Like I’m holding onto hope for something I’ve stopped allowing myself to truly wish for. But it’s easier than telling him the truth. That I’ll never be able to carry my own children and that I’m not even sure how I need to be loved. How could someone else?

“Goodnight, Luca,” I tell him, rolling to face away from him. I think I’ve taken all that I can of this conversation, and my lids feel so heavy.

“Goodnight, princess.”