Page 100 of Heartfelt Pain
Sunday night’s sobs wrecked me.
When I hurt my wrist, the tears snapped from the physical pain.
Right now, the hot tears have a cleansing quality I can’t understand.
I’m on my ass. My friends love me but they can’t stand me right now. I’ve got a growing business that I can’t decide if it’s time to scale up. And Roma is currently on my couch.
I find him reading a romance book, the novels now stacked neatly by the couch instead of all over the floor.
“This is fucking filthy,” he says under his breath. “Are you ready for dinner?”
My face is hot and blotchy from the shower, but I nod. He makes me a grilled cheese sandwich and I eat ice cream for dessert.
It’s not even a question again about whether or not he’s staying over. He rinses off in the shower, getting rid of the city’s grime before his body slides under the sheets. My back is to him as I try to sleep on the side I prefer.
I pull the sheets close, cocooned comfortably. Roma’s hand softly strokes my back. A caress that doesn’t demand anything further.
It occurs to me that in the past two days, we’ve been more domestic than we ever were. We’re not young kids fresh out of college. We’re old homebodies who prefer comfort to the chaos of the world.
“What is it?” I ask a little while later. I turn my head slightly, not wanting to move my arm.
There’s a crack of space between us like he’s afraid my limb will fall off if he gets too close.
Yesterday, he watched me cry when I struggled with the lid belonging to the pill bottle. I sniffled and stood there when he finally took it from my hands and opened it in two seconds flat. Then I gobbled the pill up and realized just how easy it is to become an addict.
“I can feel you thinking,” I tell him in the dark. He’s on his back and the sheets move as he stretches out. “What is it?”
He rolls over so he’s facing me, though the sliver of space remains. Lightly, his hand runs down my spine again. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. The bed is going to break with the weight of whatever you’re worrying about over there.”
“We can talk about it later.”
“We cannot.”
I’ve spent the last five years directly telling mafia men to piss off if they annoy me. If something is bothering him, we’re having it out right here, right now.
“My mom talked to you about the car shop?”
He hasn’t brought up my lunch with his mother. I’m guessing when he saw me crying over the pain pills he came to the conclusion the time wasn’t right.
But the conversation with Yelena replayed in my mind over and over again until my sprained wrist took over my life.
“Are you going to do it?” I ask.
The sheets rustle. “I want to yeah.”
“Owning a business is hard.”
“Yeah.”
Something in his voice makes me ask, “What’s wrong.”
“My dad thinks it’s a stupid idea.”
Your dad’s stupid,I think to myself.
“But I want to do it,” he says and I hear the determination.
