Page 11 of Third Degree

After everything today with my papa, being forced here, the whole shitty life I have been dealt, and the way I sounded like the biggest brat, there was absolutely nothing that would stop it coming.

“No one in my life seems to think that I am old enough to make my own fucking decisions. I am like a caged fucking animal, and everyone tiptoes around me.” I threw my hands into the air in exasperation, but Elio just stood there, watching me intently. “I am eighteen years old and have every right to make the decision to be walking at night if I so want to. I also have the ability to decide to have a conversation with a fucking stranger.”

He stared at me, not saying anything, but I swear I saw his lip twitch.

“So, if you would like to continue your walk with your dog, you are more than welcome to, but unless you can respect me like the fucking adult that I am, then I will need you to walk elsewhere.” I huffed and, in true Italian style, threw my hands over my head in a gesture that signaled I was done and annoyed with this.

The man stood there. Silently. For far too many seconds.

Finally, he began to clap slowly.

“Are you clapping?” I was astounded. Never before had someone clapped at one of my tantrums.

“Bravo.” He nodded in agreement with me. “You are correct. You are a woman. And one who can stand her ground, too. I respect that.”

This answer seemed to appease my frustration and without another word, we both walked in step with each other. That was it. Not another word about the meltdown I just had in front of him. Nothing else about how I had just exposed my very broken emotional state in front of him.

No, we just stood there and silently walked down the path. Finally, I heard him cough and turned toward him.

He said, “I worked at a nightclub.” Worked? Interesting. “Do you like it out here?” he asked.

“I mean, aside from the weather, no. I miss my home.” I quickly added, “No offense.”

He laughed. “None taken.”

“I apologize for my earlier outburst. It’s just that I’m constantly surrounded by men who believe women should play second fiddle to them,” I vented, my frustration spilling out unchecked. The bubble started boiling inside my chest again.

I focused on the dog ambling ahead of us hoping I could calm myself down before I spilled over completely.

I’d embarrassed myself, so I didn’t want to add anything else to my life’s collection of shitty moments. “Why is it that your kind always seems to think women need to be told how to dress and where to go?” I muttered.

He paused in his stride, his gaze penetrating deep into my being as if he were carving out the innermost recesses of my soul. It felt both unnerving and strangely exhilarating, like he could truly understand the depth of my frustration.

“You’re quite perceptive.” He nodded, resuming his walk as I hurried to catch up. “But I don’t believe all men share that mindset about women.”

“I think that’s what you’re supposed to say,” I interjected hastily, skeptical of his response.

“No, not at all. I genuinely believe that not all men view women as possessions,” he countered. “In fact, my late wife shared similar sentiments. She often felt her thoughts and feelings were overshadowed by the men in her life. I’d like to think she found solace in our relationship.” His smile fell as he glanced briefly at the waves before locking his eyes with mine.

My heart sank at the mention of his late wife, and I instinctively reached out to offer a comforting touch, placing a hand on the back of his arm.

I don’t know why I did it. I felt like he needed the one thing I craved when I was in my sad state.

But touching him for the first time felt like I was coming home on a long day. Not the home that I grew up, but the type of comfort that felt… just right.

However, he quickly pulled away, distancing himself physically. “It happened a couple of years ago.” He shook his head before locking eyes with me again.

We stood facing each other, our chests rising and falling in the cool, salty air, a charged silence enveloping us.

I murmured, “She was lucky to have been with someone who valued her as a person then.” My smile turned into one that was empathetic.

He reached his hand out and brushed a strand of my hair back behind my ear. The air seemed still as the heat from his hand grazed against my cheek. I had always had a knack for being understanding of others’ feelings. When I was younger, I told my mother that I thought I was a psychic because I swore I could read other people’s emotions. I obviously didn’t believe I was a psychic, but I was very perceptive.

In this instance, I knew that Elio had only shared a glimpse of his feelings, but that was it. If I dug deeper into how he felt, he would shut down immediately.

“Shall we?” He reached out his arm. I hesitantly linked mine in his. This man was an enigma and yet so inviting and warm. I changed the conversation quickly because it was getting too heavy, and we still had a little over a quarter of a mile left to go.

“What do you like to do for fun?” I asked.

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