Page 70 of Bittersweet

Romy

Elio slowsthe vehicle and turns off on a small unmarked road before town. I wonder where we’re going, but I don’t ask because I’m pretty sure it’s to his place. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, he’ll find a reason to drive me home, and I don’t want that. I don’t know where we go from here, but all the feelings I’ve harbored for him in the past are still present, and they’re still just as overwhelming as they everwere.

He pulls up to a small, slate gray house. The porch light is on. There are flowers in the garden beds, and discarded toys litter the lawn. I smooth my hands over my dress, but I don’t look at him. I’m afraid he’ll see the desperation in my eyes and take me home. Worse still, I’m afraid he won’t, and we’ll wind up doing something stupid that we can’t come back from. “Where arewe?”

“Home.”

I close my eyes and attempt to tamp down the thrill that runs through me at hearing that word coming from his lips. “Why did you bring mehere?”

“Because you haven’t eaten, and I haven’t eaten, and I’m not ready to take you back to yourapartment.”

“Elio . . .”

“Are youhungry?”

As if on cue, my stomach growls. I consider telling him I’m not, but what’s the point in lying? Miscommunication hasn’t done either of us any good so far. “I couldeat.”

He grins and unbuckles his belt, opening the car door and climbing out while I sit perfectly still in my seat and try to remember how to breathe. Elio opens Coco’s door and lifts her from her car seat, carrying her toward the house. Eventually, I vacate the vehicle and hurry behind him up the porchstairs.

Once inside, Elio whispers that I should make myself at home while he takes Coco up tobed.

I glance around the foyer and move farther into his home. His furniture is an odd mix of rustic woods and vintage hipster, and there are books absolutely everywhere. It’s like a library for the dastardly hip, yet I still see him in every furnishing, every painting on the wall and every knickknack on the TVstand.

I stroll around the room and peruse the shelves, picking up a copy ofThe Brothers Karamazov.My heart trips all over itself.He took it home. He keeps the copy I bought him here in his house. I flick through the yellowed, dog-eared pages and then bring the book to my nose, smelling ink and paper, and all the reasons Elio prefers books over aKindle.

This is how he finds me, in his living room with my nose inhaling the book like a pothead smellscannabis.

“I was just . . .um. . .”

“SmellingDostoyevsky?”

“I was seeing if you were right. If you really can’t improve onperfection.”

“And what did youdecide?”

“That you’re prettysmart.”

Elio’s smile is smug as he takes the book from my hands. He leans against the bookshelf, penning me in. “Romy?”

“Yes,” I say with conviction, because I would do anything heasked.

“Yes?” he asks with a quizzicalexpression.

“Whatever it is,yes.”

“What if I said I want to show you mybig. . .”

My breathcatches.

Elio licks his lips, and he grins. “Kitchen.”

I frown and whack him on the arm as his deep, throaty laughter fills the room around us. He pulls me close and hugs me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head as his laughter shakes his body. “Come on. Clearly you’re too hangry to see how hilarious Iam.”

I roll my eyes and reluctantly follow him into thekitchen.

He’s right; it is big. Huge, in fact. It’s rustic, with exposed beams and acid-polished concrete floors. There’s a large dining table made from what looks like reclaimed barn beams, with long bench seats on either side just beyond the kitchen island, and more counter space than I’ve ever seen. The lighting is low and dim. It’s the kind of kitchen you could make love in, and I’m not entirely sure he didn’t bring me in here for just that when I glance back and find him watchingme.

I inhale sharply. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. It isbig.”

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