“No, thank you. Apparently, you passing out erased my anxiety attac—”
He rests his thumb against my lips, and I close my eyes.
“Rest.”
Stripped
Tris
Getting him into his room, via the employee elevator would have been a chore had it not been for Miguel, the driver.
“Two glasses?” I joke as he sits in a chair and attempts to untie his leather dress shoes.
He forces out a quick, “Si.”
I drop down in front of him and begin to untie his shoe as he attempts to move it away from me.
“No.”
“Yes, si, knock it off.” I easily capture his foot and remove one shoe, looking up at him as I tug at his sock.
He narrows his eyes. “No.”
“Do you have troll toes, or are you just one of those guys who hates his feet touched?” I pull his sock off. “Of course, they’re perfect.”
“Translate,” he says breathlessly.
I pull my phone out of my bra where I shoved it, tap the app, and set it on his lap.
“I expected gnarly feet but, of course, they’re perfect.”
The app translates.
“Troll toes?”
The app translates in audio, “Dedos de los, dedos de los, dedos de.”
“Well, there you have it.” I laugh as I try to capture his other foot.
He says something and the audio repeats it. “You should never be on your knees, removing any man’s shoes. He should do it for you.”
I look up at him and can tell by his expression that this truly bothers him. So, I do what we do in this family. Well, they do. I just flip shit and try to make him laugh.
“Dedos de los dedos de los dedos de.”
The app translates, “Fingers of the finger of the fingers of.”
We both smile, and I pull his other shoe off.
“That will totally be the chorus of the next song I write.”
“Your soul … extraordinary.”
“See? Now you’re definitely missing out on my other skills if this gets you saying all those kinds of things.”
“Skills?”
I stand up and nod.
He huffs. “Sexual.”
I roll my eyes, more at myself than him. “This is not sexual.” I take his coat sleeve and pull it off. “This is me being helpful.” The app does its thing as I continue. “You saying things like your soul is extraordinary is basically porn to a broken heart, so maybe you should watch your words, Matteo. I mean, my God, you have women accepting lame-ass proposals through your lawyer. You scold me about being sexual? So, Matteo, what the hell is that all about? Because I’m only seventeen?”
He sighs as he attempts to shrug out of his coat and mumbles something, and the app translates, “Don’t give a damn about seventeen. I know you’re a woman, for fuck’s sake. I will not break your heart.”
“Well: then”—I laugh—“he does have a broody side and is conceited. Throw in cheating asshole, and you’re exactly my type,” I joke as he paws at his shirt.
He huffs when the app translates and says, “No asshole. Conifiado pero realista.” Confident but realistic. He grows more agitated. “I need rest. Bed. Ahora. Then you salir, por favor.”
I help him as he stands and keep him upright as I guide him to the suite’s bedroom.
Once in the bed, he rolls to his left side. “Gracias.” He pauses then mumbles, “Now leave.”
“Sleep well, Matteo.”
I walk out of the bedroom then look back. I don’t feel comfortable leaving him like this—alone with no one to make sure he doesn’t throw up or need help.
He’s rich, like really rich, and he doesn’t have a person to help him when he needs it? I mean, I get wanting to be alone, but if he knows he can’t handle his alcohol, then why would he put himself in such a position?
Two fucking drinks? I almost laugh. Almost, because it’s actually not funny. It’s scary.
I send Momma Joe a text, telling her, He’s passed out, and I’ll be back to our suite when I know he’s okay. Love, T.
Her reply, I’ll be back to the hotel in less than fifteen minutes. Let me know if you need anything. Love you, M.J.
I reply without a thought. I wish Mom and Dad would trust me like you do. Love, T.
Her reply: Bella regazza, I was as much a mess as they are when my four were growing into men. You will be the same, my dear. Keep that in mind in the future. Unfortunately, manuals do not come out of your vagina when you give birth. Love you, M.J.
I reply, No babies in my future. Not now, not ever. Love, T.
Her reply, Never say never, dear one. Love you, M.J.
I made a promise to God, even though His existence is doubtful to me, one seeking absolution.
I heart the text.
I know in my heart that I did what was best, I do, and even Marcello, who is the biggest asshole on the planet, has never thrown it in my face. Sometimes, I wish he would have instead of everything else he has done.
I look in the mirror above the couch, something I try not to do unless I’m in the bathroom, when the glass is fogged over, and I wait to see the change, hear the monsters, feel the rushing anxiety, the sickness in my stomach, and the static.
It doesn’t come and, for some reason, that pisses me off.
Hell, I can’t even count on my monsters to show up when I need them.
“Why the hell do I need them?” I huff at my insanity. “Fuck it. This is a good thing, right?”
I walk around and tidy up the clothes that I removed from him and pace for about five minutes as I try to make sense of what is going on with me. Normally, a message from Marcello would send me into, at very least, a two-day funk. Today, the picture … I should be out for a week. And never have I brought it up in “casual” conversation, ever.
Matteo. It had to be Matteo Arias.
When I hear a muffled noise come from the room, I quickly turn and tiptoe toward the sound. When I see him opening the nightstand drawer and grabbing a bottle of pills, I immediately head toward the fridge to get him a water.
Hurrying back in, he obviously hasn’t a clue that I’m still here.
“I brought you water to—”
He whimpers a sad, “No. No. No.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Matteo. You want to be friends; you need to accept my help.”
He drops the small pill bottle. It certainly doesn’t look like an aspirin bottle; it looks more like a prescription bottle.
I pick up the tiny pills and begin putting them back in.
“Please,” he says, trying to reach the bottle. “One.”
His eyes begin to roll a bit, and my hands shake as I quickly hand him one.
He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, and I place the pill on it. Then he speaks in slurred Spanish, and I feel my anxiety creeping up.
“Not now, yellow fucker.”
I hurry out and grab my phone off the table. Then I rush back in as I reboot the app.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers, cradling his head.
“Tell me what to do, Matteo. Please, let me help you.”
“No, no. Go. Go now.” He curls into a ball on his side.
“No.” I sit down next to him and start doing what Mom would do, what Dad would do, what he did do—I begin rubbing his back in small, soft circles.