Page 110 of My Infatuation with Isabella

“Bella, my biggest blessing is also my biggest hindrance. I have been blessed with so many people who are overly accommodating. My parents, Peter, Scott, Francesca – all of them understand that I don’t like talking about certain things, and they accept that without question. Fran knows what she knows because of my parents and because she was there when a lot of this stuff happened. I didn’t open up to her about anything. What I’ve told you in therapy and what I told you about Dana on date four...I’ve never spoken to anyone about that stuff. Even when I was in therapy as a teenager, I let my mom do most of the talking. None of this is easy for me, but I’ve had to change and compromise to meet you halfway.” He stops, looking at me pensively for a moment. “At this juncture, I’m going to ask for a kiss. I haven’t seen you in three weeks and I didn’t even get to kiss you today. Is that okay?”

I hate him. I hate him so much! I hate that adorable grin on his face. I hate that he already knows I’m going to cave. “You get the cheek.”

His grin widens as he leans forward to plant a kiss on my cheek. When he pulls away, he reaches over to grab his jeans from the floor and takes out a folded piece of paper from the back pocket. “So, these are all your issues that we need to address tonight.”

“Shit, you got a whole list written down.”

“Yep. You see, you annihilated me in the first round with a few muay thai spinning kicks, so I had to make sure I came prepared for this fight.” He unfolds the paper. “Okay, so first on the list was Fran and we’ve dealt with that.” He looks up from the piece of paper. “Wehavedealt with that, right?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Next up is...labels. Why haven’t I ever referred to you as a girlfriend?” He looks up at me again. “Uh...because you’re not a girlfriend. I’ve had girlfriends and you’re not that. You’re...you’re my air pocket, my queen, my anchor, my fucking everything. I don’t know how much more you want to be to me. And look, going forward, we can decide what to call you because labels aresoimportant...but it’s not going to begirlfriend. Can we lay that one to rest?”

I don’t know if it’s his aggravation or his sarcasm that makes me melt a little inside, but I pull my lips in to stop a smile and give him a disinterested eye-roll. “Fine. You can call me your everything. I’ll settle for that. Whatever.”

He grins. “You’re entering smitten territory right about now.”

“Not by choice. De Lorenzo, that piece of paper is proving to be more powerful than a semi-automatic assault rifleanda bazooka. You’re not allowed to bring notes to a fight anymore.”

He gives a small shrug of arrogance. “I think that earns me a kiss on the lips.”

“Okay...but no tongue.”

His big hand clasps my face to pull me closer. “A little bit of tongue.”

It’s a bald-faced lie. His thumb tugs my chin down and his tongue slips between my lips. He kisses me slow and deep, so deep I can feel how much he’s yearned for me during these last few weeks.

After a long while, he finally pulls away and looks at the paper again. “Next one. Am I moving? No. Dana is taking back her power, so I don’t think she’d want to move either regardless of what happens with Alan’s parole. But if my family decides to move, I’ll buy the restaurant as a franchisee, and I’ll keep doing what I do, but I’mnotmoving. I overheard that you got a promotion today?”

I’m startled by the sudden change in topic. “Uh...yes, I did.”

“Congratulations. That’s the reason I won’t move. Your career is here, so here is where I’m going to build a home with you. White picket fence and everything.”

Ugh!Wichu?Bubbles of swoon. “You’re such a sap.”

“I know.”

“So...” I begin apprehensively, “...are you going to tell me who Alan is?”

“That, um, that’s actually next on the list.” He looks down at the paper, but I think that’s more because he wants to avoid eye contact. “Who is...” He takes a breath to steady the shakiness in his voice. “Who is Alan...and why does his parole matter to me so much?”

And that’s it. That’s all he says. For five whole minutes, he does nothing except stare at the piece of paper in front of him. That coldness I saw earlier returns and his eyes are distant and unfocused. I’ve only ever seen him like that once before. The day I walked into his bedroom unannounced and he almost punched me in the face. I don’t push. I just wait until he’s ready.

“Alan...Alan is the guy who ran me over outside the grocery store. It was so busy that we had to park right next to the exit. My mom had so many bags...and I got out...I just got out for a second to go help her. I got out of the car...and he and another guy got in...and they drove off.” Again, he goes silent. He’s shaking and his breaths are so uneven I can feel his panic. “I-I ran...I cut through the parking lot to stop them before they passed the other exit further down the street. I jumped in front of the car, hoping he’d stop, but he just...ran me over.”

For the life of me, I don’t understand his logic, but given his mood, I’m a little hesitant to voice my opinion. “Why...why did you do that? It’s just a car. He could’ve killed you. You risked your life for a car when?”

“No! Not the car. Bella, my...my sister was still in the backseat.”

My breath catches. Actually, I think I stop breathing altogether. I go cold inside. I see the horror of that day reflected in his eyes; I feel it in the way his fingers bite into the flesh of my thighs. Now his little habits are beginning to make sense. Why he locks the car doors until he reaches the driver’s side. His overprotectiveness over his sister. Why he gets so edgy to leave her alone. His unchecked anger and aggression.

“We were listening to the radio, so we told my mom to leave the keys in the ignition. It just made it so easy for them. I never...I never should’ve left her alone.”

From our conversations in therapy, I know how much he blames himself. I didn’t understand why, but now I can see that he shouldn’t take that guilt upon himself. “Dylan, what happened wasn’t your fault.”

It’s like he doesn’t hear me because he’s so lost in the panic and anxiety he felt that day. “I can still hear her screaming for me. She was calling me to save her...and I couldn’t. Those screams haunt me ‘til today.” He clears his throat in an attempt to get rid of the tightness in his voice. “When my mom reported it to the police, they, uh, they told her that these two guys were opportunistic, targeting unsuspecting people at different stores and malls, especially women. They’d wait for the car to be unlocked, jump in while the person packed their groceries in the trunk, then snatch the keys when the driver tried to get in. Apparently, they weren’t violent, they didn’t use excessive force and none of their victims – except me – were ever hurt, so we thought...we thought Dana would turn up unharmed.” His body stiffens. His skin drains of all color. And there’s dead silence again. “Sorry...I need a minute.” He shifts away from me, gets off the bed, and walks out.

I hear the front door open and close. I don’t know where he goes in his socks and boxers. I don’t know what he does, but he only comes back half an hour later. His eyes are bloodshot, his breathing is highly elevated, and he doesn’t look at me when he sits down again. He resumes our previous position and pulls my legs around him again, but still refuses to meet my eyes as he does this. Whatever he’s feeling, he tries to shut it off. He continues almost robotically, but his emotions are too close to the surface, and he’s struggling to keep them hidden.

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