Page 23 of Cara
You’re losing your mind.
Spinning off of the bar stool, I drift onto the dance floor. Defiance spurs me to move, to push off the cautious words I tell myself in order to remain safe. Mixing with the crowd of bodies, I let the darkness take me, surrendering to the deafening music. I move until my pulse matches the beat of the bass, enjoying how loud it is. It’s loud enough for me not to be able to think.
A body presses against mine while a hand smoothly glides over my hip. My eyes are still closed, remembering.
My honeymoon. Greece. Xavier held me like this. His lips danced across my shoulder towards my ear. I felt his wanting, the tension he excuded when he wanted me more than his next breath. To feel what I felt then, I smile. I turn, expecting to see my husband.
The man holding me isn’t him.
I stumble backward, my stomach flipping as I slam into other dancers.
“Qué pasa?
I shake my head, tearing my hand free from his grasp when he urges me closer. My feet carry me across the dance floor to the bar. Shoving money next to the untouched drink, I sprint for the door, only able to breathe once I’m outside.
“Estás bien? Are you okay?”
My chest tightens, ignoring the bouncer’s questions.
Just get home.
Running cuts the time to reach the café in half. Enzo isn’t sweeping his terrace anymore. As the sunrise bathes the brick building in warmth, I work on each insufferablelock of my door, hyperventilating while it shuts behind me. I press myself to the hardwood.
You were reckless.
Insane.
Stupid.
But you felt nothing. For once.
Grabbing my wallet, I begin to count its contents: a gun permit I acquired in Madrid from an unlicensed store near my apartment. Euros. Dollars. Flipping the wallet over, I shake it until loose change pours onto the ground.
A flat corner of thick paper emerges from a compartment I never thought to check. My hands freeze as I grasp the edge, captivated by the glossy finish.
It can’t be…
My heart lodges in my throat as I pull on the photograph, revealing a startling glimpse into my former life. It was taken with the Polaroid camera he gifted me on our first day in the apartment.
My husband was the photographer of this snapshot, one I never knew he’d taken. I was fast asleep on his chest, my arms wound tight around the intimidating width of him, my unclothed back facing the camera. His smile was disappearing into my wild mane when this picture was taken, his hand supporting the back of my head.
If love needed proof, this photo would be just that.
The stressed lines his face usually carried were eased here, revealing his youth, leaving him with a boyish contentment. His body was twice the size of mine—all muscle, tattoos, and scars.
It was rare for him to tell me how much he adored me. He didn’t need to. His actions always spoke for him. His devotion. His desperation to keep me safe.
I always knew, without a shadow of a doubt, he loved me.
This photograph captures a moment in time thatshowsmehe did. That’s why he put it in here. To remind me… possibly when I needed it most.
I wince, my vision blurring when I turn the Polaroid over and find his hurried handwriting.
It doesn’t matter how long it’s been,
amore mio,
My heart still beats for you
