Page 80 of Savage Lover

“Lung cancer.”

“Oh,” Nero says. There’s real anger and sympathy in his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

He seems to be searching for what to say or what to do. I can tell he feels uncomfortable and helpless, and that makes him even angrier.

Usually, that would make me feel awkward too, and one of us would say something stupid that would offend the other person. But right now, nothing can offend me. I feel like I’m seeing things in a completely different way. I understand Nero, and I understand myself.

“Do you want to go for a walk or something?” Nero says, desperately.

“Yeah,” I say. “I would.”

We walk along the lakeshore, away from the bonfire. We’re walking right along the waterline on the wet sand. I’ve taken off my sandals and Nero left his shoes behind, so the cold water laps against our bare feet. For me, this feels utterly incredible. Nero doesn’t seem to mind it, either.

For once in my life, I’m talking openly and freely without holding anything back. I’m telling Nero absolutely everything. About my dad and my brother, the fact that I’m flat fucking broke and I have no idea how I’m going to pay for Vic’s school or my dad’s treatment.

I even tell him about my mom. How I miss her so badly. And then I hate myself for missing her, because I know I shouldn’t care when she obviously doesn’t give a fuck about me. And how I feel guilty for having that hole in my heart, when my dad has always tried to make our family complete, with or without her.

We’ve walked far enough from the fire and the city lights that it’s almost completely dark. I can’t really see Nero’s face anymore. That removes the last shred of reserve. I feel safe telling him anything.

We sit down on the sand and I rest my back against his body to keep warm.

“If I lose my dad, I won’t have anything,” I tell Nero. “He’s the only person who ever tried to take care of me. I’ll have to help Vic all on my own. And I’m not that great of a sister. I don’t even have my own life figured out, how the fuck can I tell Vic what he should do?”

Nero is quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think I’ve said too much.

Then, finally, he says, “My mom got sick when I was little. My father thought it was a flu. She was up in their bedroom. He told us all to leave her alone and let her rest. I didn’t listen, though. I wanted to show her a pocketknife my uncle gave me. So I snuck in there.”

I can feel his heart beating hard, against my back. I’m silent, picturing Nero as a boy, already too handsome in a way that would be unusual and almost frightening in a child.

“I went up to her room. She was lying in bed. Very pale, not breathing normally. I felt . . . afraid. I thought I should leave. But she saw me and motioned for me to come over to her. She had . . . very pretty hands. She was a concert pianist.”

He swallows hard, his throat making a clicking sound.

“I lay down on the pillow by hers. She tried to brush my hair with her fingers. Which she did all the time. But this time, she couldn’t seem to move her hand right, and her fingers got tangled. I pushed her hand away, because I was scared. Her hand was clammy, and her breath smelled like metal.”

His arms are tightening around me, squeezing me too hard. I don’t say anything to interrupt him.

“I kept thinking I should go get my father. But I knew I’d be in trouble for waking her up, when she was supposed to be sleeping. Then all of a sudden, she started choking. Not out loud, though. Silently. I was right there, so I could see her face. Her mouth was open, without any sound coming out. Her body was jerking. I kept thinking I had to yell for my father, I had to get up and run down and grab him. But I was frozen in place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even shut my eyes. I was just staring into her face while the blood vessels burst in her eyes. I didn’t understand what was happening, that she was suffocating. She looked possessed, with the whites of her eyes all bloody. It was horrible. And then she died, and I still didn’t move. I couldn’t move or speak at all, or make the tiniest sound. I just watched and let it happen. I let my mother die.”

I turn around to face Nero, to see his face as best I can.

In the darkness, I can only see the gray gleam of his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks.

I have to feel my way to kiss him. I kiss him softly, tasting the salt on his lips.

“That wasn’t your fault,” I say.

I kiss him again. And then I repeat, “That wasn’t your fault, Nero.”

I’m hoping that after all the things I told him tonight, with total honesty, he’ll know I’m telling the truth right now.

For a moment he seems frozen, unable to respond to me.

Then he kisses me back, deeply and intensely.

All my senses are heightened to a fever pitch. I can feel his lashes tickling my cheek, his tongue tangled up with mine, his fingers thrust in my hair.

I’m cold, because the heat of the day is finally leeching away. I pull Nero’s shirt up over his head so I can run my hands over his warm flesh. I kiss his neck, I run my tongue down his throat, all the way down his chest.

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