Page 37 of Ruins
“The characters,” I say, tracing the book’s worn spine as I gather my thoughts. “They’re flawed. Messy. Real. Tolstoy makes you feel them—their desires, their regrets. It’s tragic and beautiful all at once.”
Santo studies me for a moment, his expression stoic. “I appreciate the complexities,” he says at last. “But to me, it’s a story about passion—and how it destroys.”
His words linger in the air, heavier than I expect, and I realize I’m holding my breath. It feels as though we’re no longer talking about the story, but something deeper. Something closer. His reply startles me—it’s unexpected, disarming.
“And you?” he asks abruptly, interrupting my thoughts. “What is it about Tolstoy that brings you back to this book?”
The question hangs between us, charged with something I can’t quite name. I glance down at the book in my hands, searching for the right words.
“The honesty,” I answer truthfully after a moment. “Tolstoy doesn’t shy away from showing us the brutal truth of human nature. The flaws, the pain, the moments of redemption—even when they’re fleeting.”
His gaze sharpens, as if he’s dissecting my response, peeling it back layer by layer.
“Brutal truths,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not everyone can face those.”
I look up, catching the faintest flicker of something raw in his expression, and I know, without him saying another word, that we’re no longer talking about Tolstoy at all.
I place the book back on the shelf, desperate to shift the energy in the room, and turn toward the painting hanging on the wall. “Is this an original Monet?”
His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face.
“You know art.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, just a simple statement, his voice steady and sure.
I flush under his gaze, my fingers fidgeting at my sides. “I… I like to paint from time to time,” I admit softly.
“Do you?” His voice is steady, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze. He rises from his chair, moving toward me with an unhurried grace that makes the space between us shrink too fast. His presence is everywhere—suffocating, magnetic, inescapable.
“I do,” I whisper, but my voice is thinner than I intend. He’s too close now, his heat wrapping around me, unraveling my thoughts before I can catch them.
Santo doesn’t say anything at first. His gaze lingers on my face, then trails deliberately down to my now clasped hands.
“I would love to see your work,” he says, his voice quiet but certain, like it’s already decided.
The honesty in his words surprises me, catching me off guard, and I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.
“Sure,” I manage, the word trembling with a mixture of nerves and something warmer, softer.
The air between us shifts, the heavy tension giving way to something quieter, more familiar. And yet, his presence still weighs on me, impossible to ignore, impossible to escape.
He lifts his hand, almost unconsciously, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is feather-light, but it sends tremors through me.
The height difference apparent even with my heels, makes me feel insecure. I step out of his orbit and toward his desk spreading my hands across the top.
“My father got rid of it,” I say, the words tumbling out—anything to fill the silence between us, anything to shake off the lingering heat of his touch.
I feel Santo behind me, “The desk?”
“Yes, I’m surprised he let it go,” I turn around and Santo is still in my space, his eyes roam over my face, slow and deliberate, as if he’s memorizing every detail.
I resist the urge to shift under his gaze. The weight of it making me feel exposed, unsure if he sees too much. Then his eyes lock back onto mine, steady, pinning me in place.
“I didn’t see a use for it, I prefer the glass desk over wooden,” he states calmly. Although all the tension in the room is choking me, he seems unfazed.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “When I was little, my father used to tell me a story—that the desk was carved from a tree where a princess and a prince etched their initials into the bark. Their love became part of the wood, immortalized forever.”
I stammer the last bit and chuckle nervously wishing I knew when to shut up.
My cheeks burn, his eyes are on me quiet and assessing, but my mouth won’t stop, “I carved my initials under the desk while I was hiding one day as a child. I don’t think he ever knew about it.”
