I sit up, and the sheet pools around my waist. “You were about to sneak out, weren’t you?”
What the fuck am I doing? I should be tackling the elephant in the room, namely, the photo, and not dodging the subject.
“No, no. I wasn’t. I didn’t want to wake you up.” She slips on her jeans, then uses her fingers to comb through her hair.
I sigh, then pat the space next to me. “Come here.”
She perches her cute ass on the edge of the bed.
“Am I your rebound girl?” she asks, without warning, causing me to scramble for words.
“God, no. You’re not.” I take a deep breath. “The photo you saw . . . it doesn’t mean anything. I put it in there and completely forgot about it.” I grasp her hands, lacing our fingers. “It’s just a photo, okay?”
Is it, though? If I was over Jessica, would I go running every time she called? Would I be bothered knowing she’s carrying another man’s child and still feeling the overwhelming need to care for her?
Jesus, how messed up is that? I’d never allowed myself to analyze it, but now, confronted by the stupid photo, I realize I have residual feelings.
Grace bites her bottom lip, her eyes on our hands. “You still love her?”
I narrow my eyes, watching her. If she wants the truth, I’ll give it to her. Grace and I are kind of the same. We’re two people whose hearts are broken but still crave something . . . someone. We’re hearts on fire.
So I say, “The same way you love him.”
Her eyes snap up to mine, wide in surprise. After scrutinizing my features, she exhales. She tugs her hands from mine, dropping her head into them, and mutters, “We are hopeless, aren’t we?”
I scoot closer, wrap my arms around her from behind, and pull her back to my front. I kiss her hair and murmur, “Nope. We are hopeful.”
She shifts on the bed until her eyes lock with mine. “Hopeful. I like that.”
We stay quiet for several seconds. From downstairs, the sound of Ivan shouting, “That’s a foul!” seeps through the thin walls, followed by Gage’s booming laughter. They must be playing FIFA on the Xbox.
“Are you heading home for Thanksgiving?” Grace asks, breaking the silence.
I nod, running my fingers through her hair. “I’m not in a hurry, though. I could stick around until your grandparents arrive.”
She shakes her head. “I’m . . . uh, you don’t have to. I’m sure your family is looking forward to having you home.”
“Or you can come with me and drive back to town for dinner?”
A knock on the door interrupts us. Grace exhales as if she’s been holding her breath, then jumps up from the bed as if it’s on fire, and dashes to open it. She cracks the door open and peers out.
“Sorry to barge in on you two lovebirds,” MJ says. “I’m gonna go drop Zula home, then come back.”
Grace’s eyes flick in my direction. “I’ll come with you guys.”
Fuck, no. She can’t leave yet. “Grace . . .”
Her expression softens. She walks back to where I’m seated and pecks my lips, then pulls back her expression shy. “I have to go. Call me later?”
“You bet. Oh, hey. Grab a pizza on your way out.”
She nods and smiles, then walks out of the room, leaving staring at the door.
Leaning back on the headboard, I drag my fingers through my hair, the past few minutes flashing through my head. The reality of what I told Grace slams into my gut.
I need to get my shit straight before I end up losing Grace, too.
Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I pull up the photos I took of us and smile at how cute she looks. On impulse, I click on the Facebook app, then choose the one where we’re both smiling at the camera, from our necks up. I tag her and upload it.
Immediately, doubt plagues me, and I want to delete the post. But a notification has already been sent to Grace, so removing it would be pointless.
What was I thinking? It’s like when someone points out something you weren’t aware of and you try hard to prove them wrong.
Fuck.
Pushing all thoughts to the back of my mind, I focus on Grace’s dazzling smile and the way I feel when she looks at me, especially when I say something that amuses her. It makes me feel like some kind of adorable superhero. I don’t even care how that sounds.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose that.
I finish typing the report for the mission in Uganda and save it, then open a new email and send it to Father Marco Giovanni.
Sitting back in my seat, I close my eyes as exhaustion fills my bones. My body is still recovering. Right now all I want to do is crawl in bed and sleep for days, but I have so much to catch up on before flying back to Portland. Back to Grace.
As the leader of the group, I was supposed to write the report when I returned to Rome weeks ago. Malaria kicked my ass, and I ended up bedridden for almost two weeks.
I’m about to shut down the laptop when a Facebook notification pops up. I click on it, and Grace’s page fills my screen. An image of Grace and him, looking cozy and . . . God. She looks happy. He makes her happy.
The thought thrashes inside my head until tiny dots dance in my vision. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. The pain in my chest spreads all over my body.
It’s all my fault. I should have stayed and worked things out with her. Maybe I pushed her way too far and gave her no choice but to move on.
This is my Purgatory. My Hell. This is what loving Grace from a distance feels like, watching another man look at her like she’s his everything.
She was mine, my everything.
She still is.
And from the peaceful look on his face, she’s probably his, too.
Sometimes we have to sacrifice something we love because we know we’re not in a good place, no matter how painful. Or that’s what I’ve convinced myself.
I believe God puts people in our lives for different purposes. Some people stay for a while before leaving for good and some stay.
Grace came into my life when I needed her the most. At the age of ten, I didn’t know the kind of impact she’d have on me. She came into my life and never left.
Everything is clear now. It took me a while to get there. I have God on my side. Now all I need is Grace. At this point, I’d take her however she’ll have me. What I feel for her . . . it’s the kind of love that tilts my world off its axis.
I trace my finger on the screen, down the side of her cheek, pausing at her bottom lip just as the door suddenly creaks open. I jerk my hand away and sit up straight, wincing as pain ricochets through my body from lack of use after being laid up in bed the past few weeks.
“Buongiorno, Solomon,” a cheery voice greets, right before a five-foot-three elderly woman with black hair streaked with white bustles into the room.
She smiles at me, her kind eyes finding mine as she sets the basket with fresh vegetables on the table near the door, then proceeds to unwrap the scarf from around her neck and hang it on the back of the chair.
“Buongiorno, Signora Rossi.” I force a smile, but her eyes scrutinize me as she walks closer, wearing a playful scowl on her face.
“Benedetta, not Signora Rossi. I tell you this many times,” she says in thick Italian-accented English. She pats my cheek, the gesture pulling memories of my grandmother, before she passed away, into my head.