Page 232 of Bitter Poetry
Inside, a fire is raging.
I send a message to Christian. His reply makes me smile.
She’s not on birth control. I’ve been keeping track of the days since her last period. And while I don’t know her exact cycle, I’m betting on the next few days being her most fertile.
CARMELA
Yesterday I got a straightno.
Today he ignores me.
He’s not going to let me go.
I always thought Christian was the unhinged one, that Dante was conventional—at least within the bounds of being a made man. He’s not. Dante bears dark, possessive traits. Beneath each layer is another one… I wonder where they might stop, just how dark and deep they go?
He told me once he would never let me go, and I’m starting to sense what that means.
Worse, my pleading with him for space may have inadvertently ramped up the stakes.
So stupid, Carmela.
My husband is gone. Dead.
I don’t feel sad about it; I feel relieved.
In some ways, I’m free, but it also feels like I’ve stepped out of one cage and into another.
I’m not saying I won’t come back to them, which is probably what he’s thinking. That’s not it at all. I love them—both of them. The moment they touch me, I burn for them.
But I’m also scared, as well as going fucking crazy between guilt and need, and I feel like I’m losing sight of who I am.
Is trust and love enough to make this work, in a world full of judgment?
The terrible cloud has finally lifted but I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for one of them to tell me this is just too hard—that I’m too hard.
Every day I tell my reflection in the mirror that I’m worthy of happiness. But, the truth is, I don’t believe the words yet. I’m in pieces, and no matter how I try, the different parts of me don’t fit together the same anymore.
They tell me they love me.
They show me they love me.
It’s exhilarating.
And terrifying.
I didn’t trust them when I should have, but now I do. I understand that I can’t live without them. But I also need to know that they trust me.
Trust me enough to let me go and let me come back.
He showers in the guest bedroom, leaving the en suite to me. I take a shower before putting on my sleep shorts and T-shirt.
I’m fooling myself. I know he’s going to peel them off me the moment he returns to the room, but I’ll enjoy that too. It’s almost like a game where I delude myself that I might just go to sleep.
Would I want to?
No. I want his hands on me.
Both his and his brother’s hands, because the best nights are the ones when Christian comes home too.
