Page 80 of Bianchi

I know Romeo is truly sorry for what’s happened. I know that he’s trying. But is that enough for me to forgive and open my heart back up to him? And risk something like this happening again? I honestly don’t know. It feels like the obvious answer should be no, but it feels like the wrong one.

Doc cuts through my thoughts as he turns from the counter and flicks through the chart in his hands. “Okay, let’s get you up on the table.”

My eyes dart to the clock above the door, double checking the time. He’s late. Closing my eyes, I blow out a breath and shuffle onto the paper sheet covering the table. It doesn’t matter if Romeo’s here or not. In fact, all it does is add another point to the leaving side of the mental chart I’m making.

Pulling on a pair of white gloves, Doc asks, “Please, can you lift your dress so I can examine your thigh?”

Distracted, I do as Doc asks, lifting the hem of my dress to reveal the large cut on my thigh. It’s only when my eyes drop to the ugly mark that I pull out of the haze. It’s going to leave a scar. A constant reminder of what happened to me. But at least it’ll be hidden.

If I leave, I know that over time I might forget Romeo and the feelings he stirred within me, but I’ll always have a reminder marking my skin of the horrible words he uttered that could have ended my life.

Doc places his hand on my thigh, examining the wound, and I jump at his touch. God, focus, Aurora. Romeo isn’t even here, and yet he’s consuming my thoughts. He promised me he’d be here. Have I learned nothing?

My eyes burn, and I tip my head back, blinking rapidly. What a fool. I thought he was trying, in his own way, to make an effort but I was wrong. Even if his actions for the last few days have said otherwise. Each morning, I’ve found him asleep outside my door, he’s walked down to the kitchen with me and eaten breakfast in silence by my side. He even left me some drawing supplies and a cell phone. But none of that means he’s trying to… I guess, win me back.

I don’t know what it means, and that annoys me the most.

Doc’s examination takes no more than fifteen minutes, but the entire time I can’t help but watch the door, praying that Romeo will walk through it.

Finishing up a note on my chart, Doc says, “The cut has healed nicely, Aurora. I think you can ease up on your use of the crutch and slowly start to get back to your normal activities. I’ll see you in two days to remove the stitches and then you should be good to go.”

Go. Two little letters, but together, the word feels so final.

Swiping a finger under my eye, I ask, “When will I be able to travel?”

Doc gives me a soft smile, pulling off his gloves and moving back to the counter. “Whenever you like, you can even have another doctor remove the stitches if you’re planning to leave before the end of the week. I’ve heard Sicily is nice this time of year.”

I smooth down the hem of my dress. “No,” I hesitate. “I’m going to New Zealand.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. Not because I’m worried Doc will tell anyone, but because I don’t know that I really want to leave. I’ve only ever known the States. What waits for me in New Zealand aside from some beautiful scenery? Absolutely nothing.

Doc stiffens. “I must have misunderstood.”

Misunderstood what? I want to question him further, but I know he won’t tell me whatever it is that he knows. Nobody ever does in this godforsaken place. And just like that, my anger is back. I climb down from the table. “Is that all?” I ask, my tone sharp and accusatory.

“Yes, thank you. Enjoy your trip.”

I could be traveling into the pits of hell and it would be more preferential to this place and the secrecy that comes with it. Storming out of the room without my crutch, I head in the direction of the kitchen. Alma promised me a homemade cookie after my appointment and I intend to cash in on it. It could be the last one for a while, after all.

When I enter the kitchen, I head straight for the island, swiping up the warm, gooey chocolate chip goodness and stuffing half of it into my mouth. How can a cookie make everything that little bit better? My frustration eases out as I chew on the deliciousness. Alma walks in from the laundry room, chuckling at my moans of delight.

“Don’t eat them all.”

Snatching up another one, I hold it close to my chest. “I can’t promise that. They’re delicious.”

I watch as she moves around the kitchen, preparing lunch. She places a glass of milk in front of me and I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her into my side as I mumble a grateful ‘thank you’. If every day was like this, no darkness infecting the light, I’d stay. There’s a homeliness that I’ve found in Alma, Maria… and Haven. Staring up at the ceiling, I blink back the tears that well in my eyes. Since when have I been such an emotional mess? Maybe I need to find a therapist when I get out of here.

The peacefulness of the kitchen is shattered when one of Massimo’s men barrels into the room, a panicked urgency filling his voice as he rushes, “Alma, we need towels. Doc needs towels.”

My eyes flare, watching Alma as she springs into action, grabbing up the clean towels she’d placed on the kitchen table. She hurries from the room and I follow after her, a desperation to know what’s going on fueling me.

We enter the entryway of the house and Alma hurries through to the room I left moments ago. I come to a stop in the middle of the space, my focus landing on the convoy of cars visible through the window on the side of the door. They race down the driveway and I watch, mesmerized by the speed they are traveling. The gravel has barely settled before the front door slams open and four men carry a bleeding and unconscious man through the space. His blood leaves a trail on the marble floor as they rush past me.

Suddenly there’s a hive of activity surrounding me as the entrance fills with men, all in different stages of disarray. I look around the room, desperately searching for him. Where is he? One by one, the men leave and I’m left standing alone, my breath coming in short sharp pants. Resting my hand on my collar, I double over, trying to catch my breath.

Why is he not here?

Rocking my body back and forth, I try and fail to drag in enough oxygen. My body trembles, and a sob is ripped from my lips as the unbearable weight of the worst possible thing being true settles on my chest. Why didn’t I just forgive him? Tears stream down my cheeks, dropping onto the floor and mingling with smeared blood tarnishing the once pristine flooring.

---