Page 30 of Broken

I’ll forgive him in time for not recognizing what I am to him. That he recognizedsomethingmeans more than he can even imagine right now.

A few laughs have escaped him since the kid went into the booth, and I can see the boy’s father grumbling under his breath every time he hears Savio’s amusement.

But when he shuffles back out, his father’s shoulders slump like he’s tired and in desperate need of a good nap, and then to wake up and for this day to be over.

I heard what the kid did—messed with his teacher’s chair. Seems tough to bring him to confession for something like that. Hell, I did much worse over the years and my folks were always a safe space. Sanctuary.

Guilt unsettles my stomach.

Knowing I just abandoned them to go on, what they’d consider, to be a wild goose chase breaks all the trust that’s grown between us over the years of my childhood and adulthood.

They wouldn’t understand.

Nobody would.

Diana barely does and she forgives me a lot for my crazy because I was the only one who saw what her father was doing to her when the whole world thought he farted gold dust.

That’s why I have to do this.

As I sit there, listening to the sacrosanct confessions that spill from people’s lips, I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but technically, I’m not.

I’m listening tohim. Not to them. They don’t interest me.

Not until something shifts in Savio’s voice.

It goes from soft and almost caring to hard. Cold. The chill is enough to make me shiver.

It has me tuning into the confession, but it’s difficult to hear because the guy is speaking so softly that I have to strain my ears. Maybe it’ll give me a headache later, but it’ll be worth it. I crave knowledge where Savio is concerned—I want to know what makes him tick.

“I didn’t mean to.”

That’s like a running theme in confession, I think.

We never mean to do something, yet somehow, it happens. Sins occur, and souls get tarnished.

And now, this guy’s crying.

That’s when it registers that the bastard who terrified his wife is the man confessing.

“What happened, Paolo?” Savio bites out.

“S-She wore such a short skirt.”

Inside, I just die.

I know where this is going, and my heart pounds like I’ve been running a race.

At the moment, I can’t run anywhere, though. Never mind take part in a race. My body grows tense as I enter ‘flight or fight’ mode.

I’ve heard this story from the other side of the fence so many times that I recognize what I’m about to hear, and it sickens me before he even continues with his confession.

“Short skirts are not a crime,” Savio growls, and those words just fill up my metaphorical cup.

“If she dresses like a slut, what else am I supposed to think of her? She shouldn’t tempt me.”

A tense silence seems to charge the air, one strong enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge.

“You dare use that word in my confessional?”

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