Rosalyn says she sucks. Agree, or disagree? Oh, and who trusts Natalia? Anyone?

***

can't sleep. I know it's the guilt, the uncertainty, that keeps me awake.

There's a nagging possibility of something better, the hopelessly idealized notion that me of all people will be able to put an end to this. Will be able to do something about it all.

And at 1 in the morning, wide awake, I stare at the ceiling and curse at the world and then go completely crazy. I know I'm crazy, because what sane person would do what I'm about to do?

Standing up, I wash my face and brush my teeth. I make sure I'm fully clothed. I close my eyes and take a deep breath and then I open my door and walk out into the corridor.

Do you ever get that feeling, like you can't move a single muscle, take a single breath? Like your mind is cotton candy, and your stomach churns and your breaths slow (and quicken somehow, simultaneously), and your heart races, and you have no idea why?

In the hallway, my feet plastered to the ground, my entire being protesting because I should be asleep and I'm wide awake, I start shivering. I start shivering because there is only so much one person can take, because I think I have reached my limit and now I am about to do something I'm mostly hazy about, and I've tried to convince myself out of it, but there is no other way to deal with this. This mess that everything, everyone, has become.

Yeah, I'm sleep deprived and hormonal and I am most definitely not thinking straight, but this has to end.

Tomorrow (today?) Caleb and Daniel and my dad are gonna do something terrible because they think they have no other choice.

And if I think, even the smallest, tiniest bit, that I could give them one, there isn't a doubt in my mind about what I should do. Even if I think my entire soul will be condemned forever.

Dramatic, yes. But I don't care anymore.

I knock and my arm feels like jelly. My gut still tosses, but I force my chin up and my chest out and I stand tall.

And when he opens the door, I know that the universe is messed up because it's 1 am in the middle of the week and he is awake, not rubbing sleep from his eyes or battling fatigue. He's wide, wide awake. Probably not planning on sleeping anytime soon.

And of course, he is very surprised to see me. I'm pretty surprised myself, actually.

And he sees it. He sees it on my face and in the curve of my hip and and the arc of my back and his features melt into understanding. A tired—so, so tired—kind of resignation. Like he knows. But how can he possibly?

And then I just give it to him.

He doesn't even see it coming. My face turns red and I push him and hit him and pound at his chest. I curse and spit and we are in his apartment and he closes the door and just stands there and takes it, and I kick and punch and scratch and wail and scream and huff and cry. There are tears. I am hysterical.

And he just takes it.

And then, after who knows how many minutes of me railing my bitter, exhausted, violent, petty angst at him, I collapse against his chest, sobbing, and he holds me.

There will be bruises and redness and scrapes and scratches and most likely, his ears will ring for a long while, but he holds me anyways, and lets me let it all out, like he understands, somehow, that this was inevitable.

That he would drive me to the point of utter insanity, and would have to deal with the consequences.

And wow, I am a fucking mess.

And not the cute, adorable, charming kind of mess, either. It's the kind filled with tears and snot and sobs and a whole lot of emotional ugliness, but God, he takes it all. And he doesn't say a single thing.

And when I'm done, when the moans turn to whimpers which fade to a strangled silence, he lets me clutch his tear-soaked t-shirt and push my raw face against his solid chest, and he doesn't utter a word. Not a curse, a question, a defense. No justification or condemnation. Just silence.

And after I am done pressing myself against him, I peel myself away and rub my face across my sleeve and sniffle a little. I take a step away and choke out a small, sad laugh, unable to look at him. Because already I'm sobering, and I just made a fool of myself. And it's comical, so I chuckle, just a tiny bit.

My weepy, splotchy, red face melts into a grimace, and I wipe the tears from my eyes and I muster up the courage to look at him, to see what I've done.

And my God.

He's gorgeous.

His hair is messy and his lips are parted and his expression is priceless. Dazed. Tired. Astonished.

I think of the horrible things I just spat at him, the words that can never be taken back. I didn't even know I had it in me, to be that mean. To say those kinds of things.

My stormy hazel eyes meet the deep, bottomless darkness of his, and we just look at each other in the only way that truly matters, completely honest. Everything passes between us, and layers start to peel away.

He is not a criminal and I am not a victim of any kind. He is not a monster and I am not a martyr.

He is just a boy and I am just a girl. Two tired people in the middle of the night, resigned to the fact that there are so, so many walls between us.

But at the same time, two simple layers of clothing, two weak inhibitions, two tired hearts. A single crime. No, that's a lie. Too many crimes.

They are the reason for the walls and the barricades and the fury. They are the reason why even if he wants me and I want him in the simplest way, it can never, should never happen. Will never, I think.

But, staring into those eyes, feeling those layers of secrets and lies, of protection and armor and hurt just fall away, I do wonder.

What would happen if I let him tug me against him and wrap his arms around me and kiss me, soft and hard and sweet, and then carry me to his bed and strip us both of those last few layers and press himself into me, and sigh my name? If I let him. If I did it all back.

But this can never, should never happen. Will never, I think.

And I know that he knows it too.

I swallow and I breathe, and collect my scattered mind in the way you collect a deck of cards strewn across the floor. You flip them over and turn the corners clumsily between your fingers, clutching the hearts and diamonds, clubs and spades, against your palms. You fumble until all the edges line up, they all face the same way, they sit, neatly stacked, in a box on the table.

I watch him and he watches me, and a clock ticks and the world sleeps.

And wow, I hurt. Everywhere. Every piece of me, soft, hard, rough, smooth, whole or broken. It all just hurts. Life is not supposed to feel this way.

He isn't angry. He's not upset. And right now, neither am I. I am just tired.

"Nero." It is a small, hoarse, useless sound. He looks at me with those eyes.

"Rosalyn." It's a confession, an apology, a promise. A truth.

I press my eyes shut, feeling the rawness in my throat and the sting of tears. "Please, Nero."

Maybe he will know what I'm begging for, because I swear I don't.

I keep my eyes shut even as I feel his hands on my waist, tugging me softly against him, gently, quietly. I rest my face against him and his chin sits on top of my head, my hands a whisper against his shirt. He plants a small kiss on my hair and I breathe in his smell and we are past something unnameable, something insurmountable. Whatever it is, we have passed it.

"I can't, dolcezza." Of course, this much I know. "They wouldn't let me even if I tried."

"I know."

And I know, that this is bigger than him and bigger than me and bigger than both of us together.

When I came in here, angry beyond sanity, I thought it was him but now I know it is not. It is not him, it is not me.

It is not Caleb who lurks in the shadows of my scarred mind or Dad or Daniel or Natalia. It is not Mario or Antonio or any of us.

It is the mafia, it is the world. The universe, the stars. It is bigger than simply the tug in my chest or the saltiness behind my eyes or the comfort of his arms. It is impossible, at least in this moment.

Tomorrow, I know, this will all be his fault again. But not tonight.

Tonight, we are just a boy and a girl. I want something from him that he cannot possibly give me without lifting mountains, raising the dead. And we both want something from each other, something visceral and intense that at this moment really seems like an innocent, gentle, harmless necessity, one that we will both simply have to live without.

I know, if it ever happened, it would not be sex. It would not be anything crass or vulgar or remotely wrong. It would be the parting of the sea and the shifting of the moon, stars falling from the sky, the sun imploding into itself. Impossibility. Something the world is not in the least bit ready for.

And so we don't do anything or say anything else. I just detach myself from him and look into those haunting eyes once more, and we tell each other everything we will ever need to, in a single gaze.

And then I wipe away another tear and turn my back to him and open the door and leave, and when I sleep it is like I am dead, except I still hurt.

***

A/N:

Re-reading this chapter a year later. It is still one of my favorites!

Please me know what you're thinking with a vote or comment. ❤️❤️

XOXO Ami

Thanks for reading! Please consider voting if you're enjoying BTW. Votes help books do well in the Wattpad stats. ❤️