Super smell has been a weird addition to my abilities in the aftermath of the surgery.
I couldn’t run anymore, not without my legs feeling like jelly, and my strength has depleted to the point where I need to find a gym to work out at while I’m here to rebuild some strength, but I gained the ability to sniff the grossest stuff all while I maintained the ability to see things no one else does.
I’m still a Watcher.
I know it, even if I never told anyone.
I’d never share that again, not even with Savio. He’d think I’m insane.
I’m not.
Truly.
I want to pull back the second her perfume floats over me, but I’m not rude, so I tense as I smile, trying not to heave at the abundantly musky scent, and murmur, “Ciao.”
She grins at me. “I loved Thunderstorm.”
I’m getting used to that for a greeting—it was my biggest release to date, and unfortunately for me, the release of the movie pretty much synced up with my being taken into the hospital. “Thanks,” I tell her.
She ignores my wooden tone. “Are you going to be writing while you’re here?” Her gaze drifts over my head, which is no longer showing any signs of surgery. The hair has grown out, and though I can’t wear it in a shoulder-length bob anymore, it’s a decent pixie cut that hides everything. Well, mostly everything if I sweep the strands over it and use gel to keep it down.
I’d been famous before, but now that I’ve had brain surgery, I’ve apparently caught the interest of the world.
Before, my books were what interested folk. Now? People are curious about me.
Call me horrible, but I get the feeling they’re just waiting to see me crumble.
I don’t think they’re trying to be spiteful, but their avaricious curiosity comes across that way.
“Yeah, I’ll be writing while I’m here.” London’s Burning, my current WIP, hasn’t had a single word added to it in months.
So, writing? Sure. I’ll be trying to.
It’s something else I’ve lost along the way, but I’m trying to get it back. Only, no gym will help me regain my writing skills.
I’m having to face the fact that I might have tapped out my abilities with the loss of the cyst, which prompts me to question its presence in my brain.
The doctors said it needed to be cut out.
But that cyst was as much a part of me as my green eyes... they’d even told me it had been in my head for over two decades, gradually getting bigger and bigger until it started affecting me around the age of seventeen.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’d come across ‘the boy I failed’ at that age either.
When Anna looks like she wants to discuss my treatment on the doorstep of my building, I take advantage of a huddle of tourists who brush past me, and shove myself at her. She makes a huffing sound, which has me hiding a smile, as she quickly pushes the door open at her back.
It’s massive.
Over sixteen feet tall, all wood, and with gold finishing, it’s seriously impressive. And the hall? All lined with black and white checkered marble floors.
It’s also freezing, but I kind of like that. Outside, it’s a little sweaty, and that’s down to all the people hovering around too, so the crisp, interior air feels good.
I refuse to admit that the bag on my back is making me tired, and that I seriously need to take a nap.
Maybe because of the jet lag—although I slept like a log on the plane—but I don’t think so.
I might be lying to the rest of the world, but to myself? There’s no point.
Weakness is pervasive, and I don’t want it to affect my confidence. I need to stay strong, because if I don’t, I’ll just end up back in the hospital.
What I’d gone through, according to my doctors, and the depth of development of the cyst? I should still be in a bed with an IV attached to my arm.
But I’m not.
I’m here.
I have plans, and I’m not about to waste a second on being sick.
So, even though I’m exhausted, I follow Anna as she walks up a set of stairs. Naturally, there’s no elevator, and I’m grateful she’s busy talking, not necessarily needing an answer from me as we climb two floors.
When she opens the door, a large green one that’s double my height, I smile when I walk in after her.
It’s light, airy, and the windows are open, letting in a breeze from the street outside. The scent from out there floats in on the wind—oregano and pizza, humanity and traffic. An odd combination to be sure, but fragrant nonetheless.
Give it to me a thousand times over whatever the hell she’s wearing.
I ignore everything else to stride to the windows, and as I do, peering over the ornate Juliet balcony, I see the crest of the Vatican on one side, and the angels that guard the perimeter of Castel De Sant’Angelo on the other.
It’s hard to believe I’m here, hard, but good.
I need this.
I feel free for the first time in too long. No one is watching over me, monitoring me, or checking to see if I’m okay.
Mom has raised me to be independent, and the truth is, being fussed over for so long?
Nightmare.
When I peer up at the sky, I smile again because it’s just starting to turn pink. A beautiful rosy color that seems sharper to me than ever.
Maybe it is.
I’m still coming to terms with the new me, and I know I’m experiencing things differently compared to how I did before. Maybe a sharper color palette is as new a skill as the ability to break down the different tones to her perfume?
Anna clears her throat, spoiling my moment, but I turn around and see she’s placed her briefcase on the table in the corner.
A quick glance around gives me a clue that I’ll be happy here. There’s a large cream sofa padded with cushions, and a long, walnut table that’s gleaming thanks to some good polish, where she’s plopped a notepad. The sofa looks out onto the windows, but in between the French doors, where a painting would probably have gone before, there’s a TV.
I like the idea of being able to look out onto Rome if I decide to watch some Netflix.
Behind the sofa, there’s a set of bookcases that are loaded down with books, as well as some little vases and ornaments that are kind of kitsch but sweet with it.
I like how clean it is, how airy, and that there’s a ton of space for me to move around in.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to join a gym. I could just do some workouts here. Which, to be honest, would be perfect. I’m dealing with fame at the worse time—even here in Italy they recognize me—so working out in a gym where people could give me the side-eye as they wait on me to drop a free weight?
Not fun.
There are six doors that lead off the living room, and I’m dying to have a peek around, but Anna evidently wants me over by the table, so I dump my rucksack on the sofa and head over to her.
If I falter in my step, I push past it.
I won’t show weakness in front of anyone.
A shaky breath escapes me as I take a seat, though, and I stare at her in question.
“We have a tourist tax you’ll need to pay,” she explains, as she passes me a contract. I sign, give her some cash to cover the tax, and she carries on explaining about the local amenities even though she has to sense I’m ready to drop.