282- The Return of My Love

282- The Return of My Love
POV Raica:

It’s a mutual feeling. Sara Whitmore is a pain in the ass.
The elegant, snobbish lady barely spoke to me; however, when she did, she made it clear how much she disagreed with the relationship. Still, it wasn’t worth getting upset over. Nicholas vanished, and since the hospital call, I’ve never heard his voice again. He disappeared like smoke. Only the doctor keeps contact with him in state secrecy, because of the treatment and constant follow-ups.

“It’s been six months.” I avoid touching on the subject. I place the glasses on the counter, grab the wine and hand it to her as she swirls the liquid. “I know you avoid bringing it up, but… I can’t stand your life on hold, waiting for Nicholas’s decision. I know you love him…”

“Isabella… no.”

She falls silent and takes a sip of her drink.

“This night is ours.” I raise my glass. “Our moment…”

It isn’t fair to waste the few minutes we have left on a subject that has become one big question mark. Nick asked for time, and I gave it to him. That’s it… I’ve discovered I love him enough to wait, even if the waiting throbs in my chest.

The sun sets, the moon takes the sky with its glow, we finish one bottle and open another. Two aren’t enough, so we open one more. Drunk, crying, smiling, we recall the crazy mixture that crossed our lives. How the possible and the inevitable built our path, shaped the kind of women we are today.

Fuck.

And to think we’re still at the beginning—we’re twenty-one, with many dreams, a lot of drive, many scars we try to heal every day, aware that new ones will appear, and thus, will hurt us again. What’s certain, like God’s grace, is that I have her, just as she has me.

Around midnight, Dominic comes to pick up his wife. We say a quick goodbye and, even knowing this isn’t a farewell but a see-you-soon, a sad tear escapes when the elevator doors hide the image of my best friend.

Alone, drunk, sad, I stare at the bottles on the counter. Half-stumbling, I toss them in the trash, tidy up the kitchen, take a shower, snuggle my skin into my hot pink flannel pajamas, twist my hair into a bun on top of my head and, instead of the bed, I throw myself onto the couch.

Sleep soon envelopes me, followed by a horrible nightmare about my father and his tyranny. I wake with a start, breathless, sweaty, mouth dry. My eyes open wide, trying to locate myself in the dark living room, feeling strange and displaced.

“Wow, what was that?”

I rise, thirsty for a glass of water, cross the room still dazed, fill a glass and down it in one go. I inhale and exhale several times using the exercise to balance my axis.

From where I stand, the splendid image of the moon reflects through the window. What a beautiful night. I walk over, pull both sides open and let in the night breeze. For a few seconds the soft wind lifts my body; I close my eyes and feel a pleasant inner peace dissipating the bad feeling from the nightmare. I hug myself and remember him. Damn it—no phone call in six months.

He gave up. Yes, he gave up…

I close the window and look for my phone, finding it on the coffee table. I unlock the device. There’s a message from Pietro scheduling a new time for next week’s rehearsal, another from Isabella—this one indecipherable. I smile. She left my apartment very drunk. In my case, 80% of the cachaça haze passed after the nightmare. There are messages from college friends, but nothing requiring my immediate attention.

What?!

A new message arrives. The name flashing on the screen freezes my body.

Love: Have I ever told you how beautiful you look with your hair down, so why do you insist on keeping it tied up?

Him… how?

Anxious, I rush back to the window and open it in anguish. I scan the street below and there he is, leaning against his motorcycle, arms crossed, head bowed over his phone screen.

God, I feel on the verge of a heart attack.

My eyes slide over his masculine frame—dark pants, matching leather jacket, cap shading part of his eyes.

He’s back.

My chest explodes with two feelings: fury and love. I want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. I run to the elevator, not caring what I’m wearing or about the unstable sensation of alcohol in my blood. I simply want to reach Nicholas and… punch his face.

Bastard—six months without a single phone call, a message, any sign to ease my longing. He thinks he’s king of the world? He’ll see.

I reach the ground floor and, walking quickly, cross the mezzanine. The doorman unlocks the first barrier of gates; I descend another flight of steps and there he is on the other side of the fence. His oceanic eyes devour me, my whole body burning with the intense, penetrating contact.

I lose my speech, my breath. I lose the notion of all the elaborate actions I’d planned until facing this face. Damn, how can he be so beautiful?

I set a time limit—one minute. Nicholas has fifty-nine seconds to say the right words. I swear I count each second while our eyes devour each other in the most intimate contact between souls. Yet I want to hear. I deserve to hear, even if it’s words that will make me cry later. But I want to hear.

57.
58.
59.

I step back twice, turn around and climb three steps back up…

“I love you!” The confession sounds trembling, afraid. Tears form in my eyes but don’t fall. I climb another step. “I love you!” I break the damned tears in half; they run down and wet my lips with their salty taste. I climb another step. “I LOVE YOU! FORGIVE ME, FORGIVE ME! I LOVE YOU, MY GIRL!”

I signal to the doorman and he unlocks the latch. The gate opens; I hear each step approaching and when I feel his scent invade my space, I turn to him. His body, one step below, lets our noses align, our breaths clash and our eye contact sink deeply.

“Why did it take so long?” I mumble without controlling my crying. “Why did it take so long?” He cups my face and his thumb tries to soften the sad, happy, real drops. “Why didn’t you call even once?” My fists clench and punch his chest. “Six months, Nicholas. Six fucking months, damn it!” I punch hard—once, twice, several times until I lose strength and let my forehead rest against his. His eyes close; I see a tear slide down his pale skin, then I close mine. Quiet, lips touching, hearts racing.

“It was six months and twenty-eight days. I counted every second, my love,” he whispers and takes my mouth with his. His tongue invades, savoring the softness of my lips. I let my arms wrap around his shoulders. The warm desire fuses our bodies, the vibrant beats of our hearts rocking us. We kiss. We kiss. We kiss. Until there’s no breath left. He stops the kiss but doesn’t move his mouth away. “You are my sun, Raica. The only one who illuminated my dark, chaotic world. I love you, girl, and I am entirely yours.”

I breathe in every word like nourishment capable of eliminating all doubt. Nicholas Whitmore has stepped away from the darkness of his past.

“Whole, complete?”

“Only one thing was missing… you!”