Page 136 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“I can think of a few other words,” I say through gritted teeth. “Why are you moving here? Your whole life is in San Francisco!”
“No it’s not. You’re here.”
That leaves me utterly speechless. I must have done something really terrible in a previous life for the universe to treat me so cruelly.
Then he adds sheepishly, “And so is Gio.”
“Gio?”
“Giancarlo. I told you about him.”
It takes a moment to sink in, then I’m astounded. “You’re that serious about this guy? Already?”
“Oh hellooo, pot,” he says drily. “Kettle here. Let’s have lunch and talk about the definition of irony.”
I see he’s developed a biting sense of snark since he decided to come out. Maybe I have Giancarlo to thank for that. Good for him. “What about your parents?”
His voice grows heavy. “They still think I’m trying to get you back.”
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do about that?”
“Nope. Have you thought about what you’re going to do about Matteo?”
“He’s giving me space to make sure he’s not a rebound. There’s nothing to do except make sure he’s not a rebound.”
“He’s not,” says Brad, as if he’s an authority on the subject. “I know you, and I know you have real feelings for him. It might be bad timing, but that’s not the end of the world.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil. I wish you would’ve been this clear-sighted about our wedding.”
“Me too. Sorry again, by the way. If we’re not doing the modeling thing, you’ll have to think of some other way for me to make it up to you.”
I’m overcome by a wave of exhaustion. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and hide under the covers until I’m old. “Just be happy. That’s enough.”
“You want me to be happy?”
He sounds choked up, which makes me even more tired. I can’t deal with anyone else’s emotional breakdowns right now. I’m too busy handling my own. “I’d hate to think we went through all that trauma and neither of us was better for it in the end. So yes. I want you to be happy. You deserve it.”
After a moment of silence, Brad bursts into tears.
“For God’s sake, are you taking hormones or something?”
He sobs. “Don’t shout at me! I’m emotional!”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I flop back into the chair and close my eyes. Maybe it’s all a bad dream. Maybe I’m going to wake up any second and it will all be over. “I have to go now. My straitjacket is calling.”
“Fine.” He sniffles, drawing in a shuddering breath. “But if you need to talk about Matteo, I’m here.”
He hangs up, leaving me wondering if my life will ever make sense again.
For the next week, I bury myself in work. I log in so many hours at the shop, I give up going back to the house overnight and sleep on a cot in the office. Clara keeps me fed. Anxiety keeps me company. Whenever Jenner or Danielle call to get an update on Matteo, I tell them the same thing. “We haven’t talked.”
I’m beginning to think he’s as stubborn as I am.
Then, on the tenth day after our argument, I receive an invitation in the mail. It’s on pure-white linen, engraved with gold-foil script. My name is written in calligraphy on a line below the elegant House of Moretti logo, followed by a date, time, and the address of the Royal Palace of Milan, where the showing of their couture collection will be held.
Clara sees me holding it and asks what it is.
“Kimberella got her invitation to the ball,” I answer, smiling.
