Page 65 of 10 Days to Surrender

“It’s not that simple,” I whisper.

“No?” Jasmine’s voice softens. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty clear. He loves you. You love him. And those babies deserve to grow up better than we did.”

I’m shaking my head before she even finishes talking. “You’re saying I should love him back, but… How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just forget, Jas.”

“No,” she agrees. “Maybe not. But what’s the next step between here and forgiveness? Maybe try that out for a while.” She kisses me on the forehead, then rises. “Anyway, that’s just my two cents. Do with it what you will.”

I sit there for a while after she’s gone. My gelato has melted into ice cream soup, but the sun is beautiful as it descends behind the hills.

The next step between here and forgiveness—what does that look like? The cellar felt like some kind of middle ground. It wasn’t love; we all know that can never happen again. But it was… something. Feasible, maybe. That part of things has always been easy for us.

If I find a way to separate whatcanbe from whatcan’tbe, then maybe Sasha and I can make something work. At least for the next ten weeks.

Sex isn’t love. Love isn’t sex.

One can exist without the other…

Right?

I stand up. The bag of pills is still in my hand, I realize. I look down at it and sigh. As if I needed another reminder of what Sasha has done to me, I’ve got his babies and the meds I need to keep them alive right here with me.

The bottle label is in Italian, but I don’t need to speak it to know what it reads. Or at least, what it might as well read.

For chronic delusional syndrome. Take twice daily until reality sets in.

I throw back a pair of them and go to get the bicycle.

25

SASHA

The first glass of grappa goes down easy. The second, too. By the third, I’m almost starting to breathe again.

The taverna owner pours more amber poison into my glass without asking. Wise choice on his part. He obviously knows better than to interrupt a wolf chewing off its own leg.

The universe today seems intent on filing my fangs and telling me to have at it, though.Devour yourself. Why not? You’ve spent your whole life training to do exactly that.Between the debacle in the cellar, that cursed baby clothes boutique in Siena, and the sight I saw when I first walked into this little bar, I’ve got plenty of appetite for self-destruction.

I was barely a step inside the door when I felt a presence sweep past me from behind, scarcely knee-high. Looking down, I saw a little girl in a white cotton dress, dirty and grass-stained at the hem from playing outside. She beelined straight for a man in a corner booth who was laughing with his friends.

As soon as the man saw the little girl, he set down his drink and dropped to one knee. She hit his open arms with a delighted squeal as he peppered her with kiss after kiss.

A woman slipped in in the wake of the little girl, laughing just like them, carrying a rosy-cheeked babe in her arms. She went over to kiss her husband and daughter.

It was the light in their eyes that did me in. They were just so fucking happy to see each other. The husband was suntanned and sweaty from a long day’s work and the wife smelled like flour and laundry. I could see their entire life at a glance, in a single whiff.

Simple. Full. Satisfied.

They’re gone now. But across the room, the ghost of that family still lingers—the father’s booming laugh, the toddler’s sticky fingers smearing gelato on the checkered tablecloth, the little girl shyly asking her daddy for a sip of his wine.

The light in their eyes. The light in theirfuckingeyes.

I tip my glass back until the last drop hits my tongue. It tastes like kerosene. “Yob tvoyu mat,” I snarl at the empty chair beside me. The wood creaks like it’s judging.

The owner raises a bushy eyebrow. “Problemi con l’amore?”

I snort.L’amore? No, this is notl’amore.L’amoreis for men who don’t have blood under their fingernails.

I hold my glass out and grunt for him to refill.

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