Page 47 of Bittersweet

Punch.

Dare.

Punch.

He?

On the last throw, I collapse. Energy leaves my body, and I hunch over on the floor. My breath comes heavy through my nose. My chest feels like a balloon with not enough air, struggling to stayinflated.

Slowly, I peel the gloves off my hands. I slump over my legs, my palms flat against the cool rubber matting. When did I get so angry? When did all that sadness over Elio turn into somethingelse?

A warm hand lands on my shoulder, and I look up. Marc stands there, water bottle in hand, a kind expression in his eyes. “Here,” he says, holding it out forme.

Grateful, I nod, taking the bottle and bringing it to my lips. I can’t speak, not yet. Not when I’m unsure if words or sobs will be first to comeout.

He squats beside me, looking me in the eye. “You’re getting better. Stronger.” He nods. “And I know that whatever it was that just made you so mad out there, you’re better off for letting itgo.”

And as he walks away, I can’t help but wonder if he’sright.

* * *

Ishouldn’t do it.

There’s no way that buying this book is a good idea, yet once again, I find myself lingering in front of the store window, staring atThe Brothers Karamazov. The building’s awning protects me from the rain pouring down onto the street behind me, and I step closer to the shop front, partly to avoid the overflow, but partly because it’s stillthere.

No one’s bought it yet. Of course they haven’t. It’s Elio’s book, and the idea of someone else enjoying it seems foreign tome.

I’ve known the truth about his family for just shy of three weeks. That initial pain, that sting I felt when I realized he’d led me on, it’s disappeared. In its place is just a dull sort of hurt, like a bruise that’s been poked too often but is starting to fade.Maybe from all the times I imagined his face atboxing.

“The books don’tbite.”

I glance over to the short curly-haired woman leaning in thedoorframe.

“You’re welcome to come inside and take a look.” She gestures to the store behind her. “I won’t follow you around and force you to purchase a heap of books you don’t want orneed.”

I manage a smile and glance at my chunky wristwatch. I guess I could have a quick look before I head back home and finish work for theday.

Thirty minutes later, I’m in heaven and have no intention of leaving. This place is . . . it’s everything. There are so many different titles on display, some older, some newer, some autographed, some first editions—I even find a stunning illustrated version ofSleeping Beauty, and I hug it close to my chest.Mine.

But it’s the book in the window, the one that screamed Elio to me when I first walked past, that keeps pulling me back. I slide it out of the display, turning it over in my hands. The leather is worn butter-soft, and the gold embossing on the spine has faded to a dull glow, the last embers of a fire burning out. As I close my eyes, run one finger over the cover, I picture Elio doing thesame.

He holds it reverently, as if it’s the most precious item in the world. Those long, graceful fingers slide over the cover, flicking the book open. He looks across at me with those liquid chocolate eyes, his voice low and deep as he thanksme—

And then I walkaway.

That familiar anger still licks at the base of my mind, but the flames don’t burn as bright. He flirted inappropriately, but he didn’t cross any lines. It takes two to tango, and I all but threw myself at him. He probably figured I knew he was a family man the moment I metCoco.

And even though I know I’ll never go back to those daily café visits, and even though I know the magic I found inside Bittersweet has well and truly gone, I find myself hugging the book close to my chest and walking it to thecounter.

Elio would loveit.

And while I may finally be making progress when it comes to falling out of love with him, that doesn’t mean I can’t do this one nicething.

19

Romy

Ican’t sleep.

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