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)
“Not like what?” She’s defensive now.
We stare at each other—our two very different worlds suddenly colliding, just like our unnervingly divergent green eyes.
“Time to go,” I say, getting up and taking her hand so I can bring her with me.
She says nothing as we leave the privacy of the grotto.
Once outside of its protective curtain, it’s painfully clear that the party has devolved into pure debauchery. Bodies writhe on every surface, the air thick with smoke and the scent of weed and sex.
Rico has found his fun for the night and has a blonde woman bent over the couch, fucking her from behind as he slaps her thigh.
I lead Emmaleen out of the pool without a word and we walk in silence back toward the pool house, through the wisteria tunnel where purple blooms hang heavy in the evening air.
Another verse in the poem hits me with startling clarity. The cadence of words rises from some buried place—not just remembered, but felt.
“Our tree of life is strong and full
Of leafage verdant, beautiful
With blossoms in their prime
For love, like fair wisteria flowers
Brings, with full hands, to us and ours
A second blossom-time.”
Emmaleen stops abruptly, her body tensing as she tilts her face up to mine. In the filtered moonlight through the wisteria blossoms, I’m caught off guard by the flash of anger behind those desert green eyes. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice tight with something that sounds dangerously close to betrayal.
“What do you mean?” I keep my tone measured, though something uncomfortable shifts in my chest.
She shakes her head, a strand of damp hair clinging to her flushed cheek. “I don’t want to hear your poems, Giovanni. It’s a game, remember? It’s just a fucking game.”
Before I can respond, she rips her hand out of mine and turns away, her bare feet silent on the crushed stone path as she strides toward the pool house.
For the first time in years, I find myself without a calculated response, standing motionless beneath the canopy of purple blooms, an unfamiliar sensation spreading through me that feels suspiciously like regret.
I watch her back retreat down the path, angry at the distance opening between us. She’s storming away like I’ve wronged her somehow—for what? Reciting poetry?
Not a single person in my life would believe Giovanni Bavga quotes poetry to women. Yet here I am, standing like an idiot under wisteria blossoms with fragments of verse still caught in my throat.
I follow at a measured pace. No need to chase. The door to the pool house is locked with a code. She has nowhere to go.
She is predictably waiting when I reach her. Arms wrapped tightly around herself. Shivering, though the night air still carries the day’s heat. Her eyes avoid mine as I approach, fixing somewhere over my left shoulder.
I press the code into the keypad and push the door open with more force than necessary. I wave her through without a word.
She walks past me, leaving a trail of pool water on the concrete floor. The bathroom door closes with a decisive click, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock engaging.
A moment later, the shower starts.
I strip out of my wet swim trunks, leaving them in a heap on the floor, then pull on a pair of gray sweats and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The shower continues running.
What the hell is her problem? I was reciting my grandmother’s favorite poem, not proposing marriage.
My mind circles back to her words. That’s what you would feel if you knew me. Pity.
What exactly am I missing?
I glance at the bathroom door. She’ll be in there a while.
Fuck, what do I care if she comes out and finds me checking her background? I don’t need her permission. I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pull up my background check app. The same one I use on everyone who enters my orbit. Typically before they even arrive.
One day. That’s how long she’s been in my life. One fucking day. And… I don’t know. Something is happening here and…
Never mind.
Never mind. The memory of me rewinding footage from this morning. Emmaleen trying to explain to my car that she’s… what?
Look, Car. I understand that you’re better than me and I don’t deserve to drive you, but this was an assignment. I need to succeed. So if you could just...
What was she going to say? If the car could just… help her out a little?
Why? What kind of chaos is she living through right now?
I enter what I know: Emmaleen Rourke. Not much to go on, but it should be enough. There are plenty of Rourkes in the system, but only one Emmaleen.
I enter my password and wait while the database compiles her information. The shower continues running in the background as I scroll through the results.