Page 45 of Skin Deep

Chapter15

Harrison

The shirt was cool as it slid against my overheated skin. I’d been in the sun so much the last few days that it felt like it had gotten under my skin, and anything but the heat of it felt chilled against my flesh. I almost felt feverish.

It took me only a few minutes to get ready. Gigi was in the bathroom, still putting on makeup. She didn’t wear all that much, only enough to enhance what she already had.

Everything.

There was so much about her that took me by surprise.

She was wild, reckless even, which matched with her personality, but I found that she had a verve for life that was catching. She found the excitement in everything, and she demanded to touch it, like she was going to die tomorrow. Other times, she was as soft as the petals of the sunflowers she seemed to love.

A couple of days ago, she’d taken me to a farm on the outskirts of Sardinia for dinner. She’d worn a dress with sunflowers on them, another one of those silk handkerchiefs in her hair, and, surprising me, had helped the older couple cook dinner.

When I’d asked her if they were going to be doing food for the party, she made a disbelieving noise and told me, “They do not deserve such food. This is for people who appreciate the finer things in life—not money or fame.”

The next morning, she took me hiking in the mountains, daring to get so close to the edges of some places that I’d pulled her back. She threw her head back and laughed, then told me to remember the agreement we had.

Fun.

Fuck me, I’d never had so much fun in my life, by her standards. We went diving off rocks into the crystal water, breaking the barrier between hell and heaven. Searched the island for nuraghi—Bronze Age stone ruins that are shaped like beehives. They were bizarre, and I could’ve sworn her face changed when she’d touched a few. Especially Su Nuraxi in Barumini. She told me it dated back to 1500 B.C.

When I’d asked her about her reaction, she’d said, “There are some things that are beyond our understanding. They have their own energy, even if they have no heartbeat. Perhaps its creator gave over a piece of himself or herself at the time of creation. It is almost like a man who sculpts the woman he loves. If he gives the sculpture some of the love she gave to him, she will forever be immortalized by his hands.”

The depth of her remark had caught me off guard. I’d caught her off guard when I swept her off her feet, throwing her over my shoulder and hauling her back to the car. I’d driven home, going as fast as she usually did. I laughed as she howled, throwing her arms up, the wind whipping against her.

She had a collection of cars that would make any car aficionado drool. The convertible Ferrari 212 Touring Barchetta, 1951–1953, took turns like a finely built racehorse around the winding roads as the sun had set on another day.

A grin cracked the stone set of my face when her smile came to mind. It was so disarming that it was fucking scary, how vulnerable it made me.

It was devastating how imperfect it was compared to her perfection.

It was tragic, the thought of never seeing it again in person.

All these thoughts brought me to the bed, where I sat down, watching through the door as she got ready in the bathroom.

My hands reached for something other than her to hold on to. It’d been a struggle ever since the scene at the beach not to consume her body like she’d been consuming my thoughts. But I knew it wasn’t fair to her for me to act on impulse, ignoring logic.

We were night and day. Fun and responsibility. Centuries apart in terms of where we were in life. She wanted fun. Needed it maybe. I needed something else. I needed the truth.

My feelings for Mari had never felt wrong, but something had shifted, like tectonic plates under my feet, making my foundation feel unsteady.

Because if nothing came of this arrangement—where did that leave me in my life? Where did that leave my plans? My future? Every checkmark I’d depended on adding to my list?

Grabbing my wallet from the bedside table, I opened it and slid out the folded piece of paper. It was already starting to crease, like the list I used to keep in its place. This time, though, a bunch of Italian words I couldn’t understand were scrawled across the page in what I assumed was the old man’s handwriting.

The words made no sense, but his question came back to me.

“If you only had a week to live, what would you do with it?”

I still wasn’t sure of the answer, but I was positive of one thing: the woman in the bathroom lived her life that way, like tomorrow would never come. I admired that about her, and maybe in another life, under different circumstances, I would have wanted some of thatyou only live oncementality for myself.

It was like absorbing every ounce of oxygen before the lungs ran out.

For as far back as I could remember, though, my choices were made in response to my responsibilities. Being the oldest of six kids, I was two extra hands my parents had to help them out. I slid my feet into that role and would always take care of my family—the people I loved.

There was no time for me to die this week, or anytime soon.

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