Page 152 of Rome: The Ballerina

There was silence.

Out.

In.

Saint’s voice drew me in.

“Things have been wild. I haven’t gotten to formally introduce myself. Saint. Saint De Bacco.”

“I’m aware,” Chemistry responded. “As much as I’d love to shake your hand and welcome you to the family, Rome is my greatest concern right now. My only concern.”

Silence.

“Rome is going to be alright,” Saint assured Chem.

Silence.

Just– just leave it alone. I tried getting out, but no words would come from me. Chem was stubborn. And, grouchy. And, his heart was broken. I could hear it in his voice when he spoke.

For the first time in a very long time, he sounded defeated. He lacked the confidence that he wore like a badge of honor. He was in pain. One of the women he loved, admired, cherished, and raised was lying in the hospital bed.

“Yeah?”

I cried inwardly.

Wept.

Like a child.

The brokenness of his spirit was so fresh. So new. I didn’t recognize it. He was searching for answers from a mere stranger, hoping for the strength he seemingly didn’t possess for once.

I’m okay, Teddy. I struggled to make out.I’m going to be okay.

The buzzing of the machines surrounding me was breaking my heart with each passing second.

“She has to be. We’re just getting started in this lifetime. I just got in her mix. She’s waited this long– you think she’s about to let me slip through her fingers? Not a fucking chance.”

Chem’s chuckle healed things within me. Though frightened, he was still Teddy. My Teddy.

“She’s waited for years. Adamant that you weren’t just a figment of her imagination. I always knew you weren’t. I’ve turned her television on forty times in the last two years, hoping she’d leave it on for even a few minutes.”

Silence.

The revelation hit both Saint and I at once.

“You knew?”

Silence.

“Yeah. For twenty-six months. Twenty-six grueling months.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just tell her?”

“Nothing is ever easy when it comes to love. And, we were getting ourselves out of a bit of a jam. Telling her would’ve been pointless. She couldn’t do shit about it.”

“How’d you–”

“She’s described you to a science in her sketchbook. She’s never been an artist. But, somehow she managed to add a new detail to your sketch every time she dreamed of you. It wasn’t until she left it open at my home and I ran across it that I realized I’d seen those leg tattoos before. There was never a face. Never a name.”

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