Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“No. Rico hates me because he’s Rico. He was torturing me long before the kidnapping.”
“What do you mean? What did he do?”
I shake my head. “We’re not playing that game.”
“What game?”
“The one where we compare traumas to see whose childhood was worse.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” I cut her off again. “And it doesn’t matter. Pain isn’t a competition.”
She falls silent, considering this. “Okay,” she says finally. “Then let’s play a different game.”
“I’m not in the mood for games.”
“Too bad. This one’s called ‘One Good Thing.’” She shifts to face me fully. “You tell me one good memory from your childhood. Just one. And I’ll tell you one of mine.”
I stare at her, trying to determine her angle. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of ghosts, Giovanni. I’m tired of letting the past determine who I am now. Just... give me one good thing. Please.”
The please catches me off guard. I search my memory, pushing past the darkness to find something worth sharing.
“I already told you one good thing. I told you about the wisteria. My grandparents were mafia, obviously. But things were different back then. And I know it’s stupid to say this, but there was more honor. I don’t know, I’m probably just romanticizing it.”
“Well, just tell me one more. Good things don’t hurt.”
“You’re wrong. Good things hurt the most. It’s just a reminder of what you can lose.”
She sighs again. “For fuck’s sake. I guess I should go first. I hadn’t realized you’re such a nihilist.”
I smile. Then speak, taking my turn. “My mother used to read to me. Every night, no matter how late she got home. Even if I was already asleep, she’d wake me up just to read one chapter.”
“What did she read?”
“Everything. Classics, mostly. But my favorite was The Little Prince.”
“That’s a sad book for a kid.”
“Is it? I always thought it was hopeful.”
“It’s quite philosophical for a child. And the lessons are big ones. ‘You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed,’” she quotes softly.
“You’ve read it.”
“My dad was an English professor, remember? I’ve read everything.”
I nod, waiting for her to fulfill her end of the bargain.
“My turn?” she asks, and I nod again. “Okay. One good thing.” She thinks for a moment. “When I was ten, my parents took me to New York. We saw three Broadway shows in three days. Phantom, Les Mis, and Chicago. I cried during all of them. Not because they were sad, but because they were so beautiful. I’d never heard music like that before.”
“Did you want to be an actress?”
“God, no. I wanted to be a critic. Ten years old and already planning scathing reviews of imaginary performances.”
I almost smile at that. “Sounds about right.” Desperate to know, I ask, “Do you like me?”
Emmaleen looks at me like I’ve just asked if she’d like to jump off a bridge. Then she holds up her index finger. “One. You made me stand for four hours in shoes that weren’t mine, had heels high enough to qualify as torture devices, and didn’t fit.”
I say nothing.
She raises a second finger.
“Two. You put me inside a game without telling me I was playing.”
Her third finger joins the others.
“Three. You created a very detailed set of rules for this game in the form of notebooks to manipulate me with money.”
Fourth finger.
“Four. You made me undress in front of you.”
Thumb.
“Five. You used me to make your cousin jealous.”
She switches to her other hand, extending her index finger again.
“Six. You searched my background without my permission.”
Middle finger.
“Seven. You created a punishment system specifically designed to keep me off-balance.”
Ring finger.
“Eight. You’re a criminal.”
Pinky.
“Nine. You’re probably lying about half the things you’ve told me.”
Thumb again.
“Ten. You’re asking me if I like you when we both know you don’t actually care about the answer.”
She drops her hands, finished with the accounting. I let the silence stretch between us, cataloging the accuracy of each accusation. Except for the part about making Rico jealous, she’s not wrong about any of it.
“I wasn’t trying to make Rico jealous. I was telling him to stay the fuck away from you. But anyway. Do you like me?” I ask again.
Her face flushes. “Did you not hear what I just said?”
“I heard every word. Answer the question.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Because I want to know.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You know everything. You probably have a file on me thicker than my arm. You’ve seen me naked. You’ve been inside me. And while you did correct me about Rico, you didn’t correct the part where I said you didn’t care about my answer. So what else could you possibly need to know?”
“Whether you like me. And I didn’t correct you because… well…”
“Because you don’t care, Giovanni.”
“Yeah, but… there are… nuances to that.”
She laughs. Then sighs. Then runs a hand through her still-damp hair. “I don’t know you well enough to like you.”