Page 559 of Not Over You

Her face is thin. She’s thin, almost fragile. But she has the softest features I’ve ever seen on a female. Her nose. Her mouth. Her hair is long and wavy, chestnut, like the color of my bedroom set, but the natural light highlights the red in it. Her lips are pink. She’s wearing a black and white striped shirt tucked into a pair of loose-fitting jeans, with dirty tennis shoes on her feet.

Her eyes are closed, shutting her thoughts out but letting the world in while she paints a Michelangelo with her voice.

She’s letting me in without knowing it.

Which is dangerous.

I’m many things. A thief will be the least of them.

I realize my eyes are narrowed against the light, against her, because she’s reflecting it. My breath is coming easier, the pain from before forgotten, but my heart is beating too fast.

I’m anticipating her next move. Because there are things I need to complete this picture. The color of her eyes. The look in them when she turns and looks at me.

“We’re lost and found in this moment…”

Ma fumbled the keys, something she never does, when she hit that note. Tears stream down ma’s face, something rarely seen, and she’s as caught in this moment as I am. The two behind me are breathing heavy. I feel it on my neck.

Maybe it’s her voice. Maybe it’s not.

A push and pull I’ve never felt before keeps my feet in place. My mind is trying to figure out what the next few seconds are going to determine, when the song ends and she eventually meets my eyes.

“For the rest of our lives…”

“Shit,” Ghetti breathes out as the song fades.

The silence in the room seems too loud. The walls are begging for her voice again.

Her eyes open and she turns to find ma crying. She makes a face that doesn’t match the beauty of her voice. She’s expecting the worse. “That bad, huh?”

Ma sniffs and laughs, but it’s quiet, as she pulls her in for a hug. The girl gasps but relaxes after a second.

“I don’t even have the words to explain how beautiful your voice is,” she whispers, backing up, fixing the girls hair. She tucks a strand behind her ear, like a mom would do. I don’t miss how the girl melts into the embrace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugs and turns her body away. She’s not facing me yet. She feels me, though, because she blinks and turns to meet my eyes.

Cinnamon.

Her eyes.

The color of cinnamon as the sun sets.

Her mouth falls open. She’s shocked that I’m—we’re—watching. But she’s not looking at them. She’s looking at me. Directly meeting my eyes. A second later, she pops up from the bench, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It isn’t loose.

“Lucila,” ma says, standing. She doesn’t even blink at the clotted blood on my face, which explains all I don’t have to. “This is my son. Brio. His friends, Russell and Sebastiano. This is Lucila. She’s taking music lessons from me.” Ma makes a disbelieving noise, like she can’t believe the girl even needs them. I can tell she’s young, though there’s a maturity about her that I recognize right away.

Ghetti sidesteps me. “You can call me Ghetti.”

Lucila nods, her eyes flicking from him back to me. Sebastiano waves at her and she timidly waves back.

Our eyes meet again.

My dark ones dominate her bright ones, but she doesn’t look away.

“Lilo,” I say.

She nods. “Why not Brio?”

Her forwardness makes me narrow my eyes, hiding the shock. She’s direct. Not as timid as her body led me to believe.

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