after Daniel and I make-up, it finally happens.

"Rosalyn," Natalia begins over the phone, and from her voice I know, I know what she's going to say. My smile splits my face nearly in half.

"He finally asked you, didn't he?"

"Yes." I can hear the overwhelming emotion in her voice. I don't think I've ever witnessed her so happy before. "I know you talked to him, Rosalyn." Her voice sobers. "Thank you. I just..."

I think she might be crying, and she brings tears to my eyes too. "I am so happy for you, Natalia. When's the big day?"

She laughs, and the lightness behind each word makes me smile. "We haven't decided yet. Probably this spring or summer."

It's nearly January. Rain, rain, and more rain here in Vancouver. "That sounds wonderful, Natalia."

She sniffles. "I am so happy, Rosalyn. I know it hasn't been an easy couple of years, and the last two months have been hell, but..."

"You deserve it, Nat. You two are perfect together." I blink back the wetness. "My idiot brother finally came to his senses."

Her laughter is pure and I can hear the joy in every breath. She loves him and he loves her. Happily ever after.

There's an undeniable tug on my heart. Love love love love love... The thought of it plays over and over in my head. Caleb, Nero. It hurts, damn it. But a warm glow fills me when I think of my brother and Natalia and what they have together. Sometimes it works out in the end.

Our silence grows heavy, her voice sobers. She knows I want to know but am not willing to ask. "He's doing well, Ros."

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. "Yeah?"

"Yes. He's mostly recovered. He's working. He's good."

I want to know more, I want to ask her more. But that's not really fair. He's doing what's good for him and I'm doing what's good for me. When—if—that means us being together, I have no clue. But the thought of him makes me curious and it hurts but it's warm, too.

"I'm glad he's doing well."

I think I hear her hesitate, like she wants to say more. Maybe convince me to talk to him, or ask me how I'm feeling about him, or something like that. But she doesn't, and I'm grateful.

I'm still having a hard time sorting out everything I'm feeling, everything I'm feeling towards him. It's messy and painful and I still want him but I don't know if I should.

•§•

during the wedding planning process, Daniel and I sit down for lunch. We laugh and talk and banter like old times, and it's easy to forget, in moments like these, all the shit that I've put behind me, that I'm working on putting behind me.

"So, as the resident artist and graphic designer, I am taking charge of your RSVPs, okay?"

Daniel's eyes sparkle. "I don't know if we can afford you, Ros."

I give him a dirty look. "I wasn't going to charge you anything at first, but now my price has tripled."

"I'm pretty sure zero times three is still zero."

I can't even pretend to be upset by his stupid, faultless logic. "My price is that you better invite me to the cake-tasting, Danny."

He laughs, running a hand through that tousled dirty-blonde hair. "Okay, done. Any other demands?"

I wrinkle my nose at him, and our eyes meet and I am so damn happy for him, and we're still laughing when the waiter places our food in front of us.

Near the end of the meal, his expression shifts a little. I can tell he's remembered something, and he's not sure if he wants to tell me.

I know that it's probably mafia-related.

"Spit it out, Daniel. What is it?"

He gives me a small smile. "Did you read The Sun this morning?"

I shake my head, confused. "No. Why?" If it's about the mafia or Nero or anything like that, I'd expect him to look more pissed and less... okay.

He hesitates. "They did an article about... Santino," he eventually confesses, focusing on twirling a forkful of his pasta.

Hearing about Nero makes my mind light up, bright and cautious, like it always does. A mixture of curiosity, dread, and hope churns in my gut. "Oh?"

We've been getting along, but talking about Nero hasn't been part of the deal.

"It was about the work he's apparently been doing with Next Step Canada."

The name sounds familiar, and it takes me a second to process. "Isn't that a big NGO?"

"Yeah, we do some work with them at the firm. They provide support to people leaving the criminal justice system." I'm trying to read Daniel's expression, to see his thoughts and feelings but he doesn't look angry, just guarded. "You can read it for the full story. It was just talking about how he's helping develop programming specific to helping those exiting organized crime."

And that's when I realize that there's also an edge of... grudging acceptance behind his voice. And confusion. Like he's trying to reconcile the bastard from the mafia who ruined my life with the guy I fell in love with, who's working with an internationally-acclaimed non-profit.

My heart flutters in my chest. Nero. I have the same dilemma.

"Have you guys spoken at all?" he asks casually, not meeting my eyes. I watch him closely, trying to judge how he's feeling, what he's thinking.

"No." My throat is dry, thinking about it. "We haven't seen each other in over 4 months." My voice is quiet because otherwise I know he'll hear the inexplicable sadness behind it.

We haven't really talked about it. I know Daniel's probably curious, about how Nero and I left things.

But I've done a decent job picking myself up, moving on and fixing my life. And apparently, so has Nero.

Daniel looks at me softly, those hazel eyes just like mine. "Natalia says I have to be civil, because she's inviting him to the wedding," he grumbles. A small, begrudging smile.

My breath leaves me momentarily as I think of seeing him there, with my family and Nat's family, together in a room on what's supposed to be one of the happiest moments of our lives. Shit. Talk about therapy. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, ones that have nothing to do with fear or anxiety. Christ.

Daniel studies me carefully. "Is that going to be okay? Because I get it if you're not comfortable with the idea. We can talk to Natalia and work something out."

"No, no. He's some of the last family she has left. She should have him there." I know that they've grown closer over the last few months, and I'm legitimately happy for them. "He'll behave himself." And I can't help the small smile that pulls up the edges of my lips, the memory of him, tall and lithe and dark and strong and handsome, filling the edges of my mind.

"And maybe I'll try to behave myself, too," he says with a laborious sigh.

I try to glare at him but end up laughing instead. "You have no choice."

"I guess not."

But now I'm thinking about him, about July, when I'll see him again. The possibilities are running through my head. Stop it, Rosalyn.

Being honest with myself, being honest with myself...

I'm curious and worried and a little excited. But it's over 4 months away. A lot can change in 4 months.

•§•

one therapy session a week. Five months after the attack. I lug a canvas wrapped in newsprint with me to Dr. M's office.

"It's a gift," I explain, and as she takes the large rectangular frame in her hands, she gives me one of those rare smiles. "To say thank you. I think I've come pretty far, and I know it's mostly thanks to you."

She shakes her head. "You did the hard work, Rosalyn. I don't usually say this, but I am very impressed by your progress. You should be extremely proud of yourself."

We sit down and she rests the painting on the table between us. "So, is this a newer work?"

She knows about how I've been using my art to carry me through the emotions and stress, and she's been supporting me completely along the way.

"Yes. I really hope you like it."

"May I open it?"

"Of course."

She uses those thin, elegant, slightly wrinkled fingers to tear apart the newsprint, holding the painting upwards in front of her.

The expression on her face, the pure amazement, makes me feel like a million dollars. For a moment, it's like she's forgotten about her usual mask of professionalism and tact and neutrality. She takes in the darkness, the hint of color, the texture and mood and I can see the gears turning in her head, watch her eyes float across the canvas.

When her gaze eventually returns to me, the look on her face is enough for my heart to start singing in my chest. "Rosalyn," she begins, the edges of her lips tilted up in sheer admiration, "This is remarkable. It's stunning. I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of seeing something so... powerful. I can feel the raw emotion in it." The tone behind her slight English accent is full of understanding. She's genuinely impressed. Wow.

She rests the canvas back down on the table in front of me, and there are tears in my eyes. "Really?"

"You are exceptionally talented, Rosalyn. I think you've actually rendered me speechless." A small laugh. "Thank you, for such a wonderful gift."

And then we slowly transition into talking about my week, what's happening, where my mind's at. I confess, honestly, to the fact I've been suddenly thinking more about Nero, ever since I read that article that Daniel told me about.

"What emotions accompany your thoughts of him? What memories come to you first?"

Oh boy. "A lot of conflicting things." I take some time to gather my thoughts, to figure out how to put it into words. "Reading about the great things he's doing... it makes me really happy that he's well. He's moving on and putting the rest of it behind him. It's... pretty miraculous. I don't think people are usually so lucky when they try to leave the mafia."

"No, I don't imagine it usually works out so nicely."

Whatever that means. But I'm reading into it, because a part of me imagines, stupidly, that the stars have aligned, that the universe is giving me a sign. "It makes me wonder if..."

She waits, patiently, for me to finish what she knows is an important thought. "If I'm ready to reach out to him. If we're ready to try again."

Oh shit. That came from literally nowhere. Try again. The thought makes me nervous and worried and my heart aches, just thinking about it.

"What would stop you?"

Of course she always has to ask the hardest questions. "I..." What the hell is stopping you? "I don't know how it will feel, seeing him again. I'm honestly scared about the things I'm going to remember. I'm scared about how much it might hurt."

She nods, not betraying even a subtle hint of what she's thinking. "Anything else?"

I bite my lip, and my heart has decided to beat faster in my chest. My voice is quiet and almost bashful when I confess, "I'm not sure how I feel about sex."

"Do you think that reaching out to him means, necessarily, sex?"

I blush. Things that I haven't thought about in a long, long time suddenly bombard me. I remember, vividly, our irresponsible, reckless week of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex. In his bed, on my couch, on his kitchen counter, his fingers and his mouth and of course, his very impressive... fuck.

I swallow away the dryness in my throat, hoping she didn't just catch a glimpse of the almost pornographic product of my imagination. "Um. Our relationship was very... physical."

She raises an eyebrow. I imagine that she's fighting back a knowing smile. "Are your memories and feelings towards sex mostly related to your relationship with Nero? Or are you experiencing negativity towards it as a result of the assault?"

The nightmares have become much, much less frequent. But the scars Marco left behind, not on my body but in my mind, are a lot deeper than I sometimes care to admit.

Those dreams where I can feel him and smell him and hear him and see him... They repulse me. I recall the cruel, senseless, vile obscenities he whispered into my ear. The demeaning names he called me while he groped mercilessly at my skin. Repulsive, unimaginably horrific things he said he was going to do to me, the filthiest, dirtiest, most abusive, violent acts of sexual violation that you will never be able to imagine. That I hope you will never, ever have to know about.

My throat constricts and my mind darkens and I'm sick to my stomach, just thinking about it.

"I'm worried that he ruined that part of me," I whisper, blinking back the sting behind my eyes. "That he took something from me and..." I can't finish my sentence. Unkind parts of my brain are calling me frigid and broken. I choke on my own dry voice when I speak. "I don't want to show that to Nero because he'll blame himself and I want to want him like I used to but..."

Fucking hell. I thought I was doing so much better, but it feels like I'm back to square one.

"Rosalyn." Her voice is soft. She's usually careful not to show concern or pity but it would be impossible, for her not to feel bad for me. She pushes me a box of Kleenex and I blow a mess of snot and tears into a handful of tissues. "It will take time, my dear. But I know you'll get through it."

I'll get through it. I'll get through it, I'll get through it, I will get through it, I will.

***

A/N:

An ambivalent chapter. The road to recovery isn't always easy.

How are you guys doing?

XOXO Ami

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