Page 89 of The Italian Reckoning
Unwashed. Constantly teary and shaking. Jumping at every sound. I don’t feel human, never mind like someone capable of affection from someone like Rocky.
But he stays. He stays right by my side when the tears stop and I rip myself away from him when the touch becomes too much. He stays when the cops arrive because someone two floors down thought I was being murdered. He stays even when I scream at him to leave.
And when he closes the door and takes up residence in the living room and Iris curls onto his lap for the very first time, I’m glad.
Rocky becomes my rock. Every time I sleep, I have nightmares of Bobby cutting into me or holding the plastic over my face while I suffocate. Rocky draws me out of them all much more gently than the first time. He coaxes me into the shower and ensures the water isn’t scalding hot, he cooks for me and keeps Iris fed and cared for. He helps me tend to my injuries and keeps on top of my medication. He stands back and lets me work out my rage on the evidence wall and what was once a detailed, intricately woven web of Bobby’s every move becomes a shredded mess on the floor that he cleans up after I weep in the middle of it all.
He takes the brunt of my sudden uptick of anger at the tiniest thing, sits on the other side of the door and talks me throughthings on the TV when I lock myself in the bathroom to cry, orders my favorite takeout and streams my favorite movies every time I work up the courage to crawl out of my bed.
And he doesn’t complain. Not once.
Even at the height of my anxiety when arguing over a spoon in the wrong place is the only way I can express anything, he takes it all calmly. He doesn’t judge me. He stands there and just listens and then he holds me after when the grief becomes too much and I cry so hard I can’t breathe. And he never takes offense at how quickly my desire for comfort can switch to an aching desire to never be touched ever again.
It gets better, slowly.
The weeks pass and the nightmares grow less and less. I’m able to wake myself out of some of them, though Rocky is still there to help me with whatever I need. I start cooking again and after a month or so, I’m able to have Iris on my lap without much distress. Rocky helps me look for new apartments since everything about this place serves as a reminder. I want away from the building, away from the entire area where my apartment, Bobby’s apartment, and that damn coffee shop exist.
The saddest thing about moving is no longer seeing the old couple dance on their balcony across the street, but my new place is in a quieter part of the city closer to Rocky’s estate. It’s smaller than my old apartment, but it still has roof access that Iris works out how to sneak out onto within two days of our moving in. I get new furniture, a whole new closet, a whole new everything to put as much distance between me and what happened as possible.
And Rocky stays.
I don’t understand why.
But I don’t ask.
One night when we’re on the roof staring across a city that simultaneously looks the same and different, Rocky hands me aglass of wine and tells me I look peaceful. The urge to argue rises like vomit but after a moment of thought, I realize he’s right. I don’t know if it’s the new apartment or Rocky’s dedication to being by my side, but his comment makes me realize things are feeling better.
I feel better.
The first few nights in my new apartment are terrifying and Rocky sleeps on the floor next to my bed to coax me through every unfamiliar sound and noise that jolts me out of my sleep.
By the fourth night, I’m sleeping a few hours at a time and Rocky remains on the floor for another whole week until I let him in the bed. He refuses to leave my side and I can’t keep him on the floor like a dog.
With pillows between us to keep me comfortable, having Rocky in the bed is the first time I sleep through the entire night since the attack. It happens the next night, and the night after. It becomes our routine and soon, the pillows aren’t needed.
Two months after Bobby tried to kill me, Rocky has to leave to attend a meeting with his father. He invites me along, but I’m not ready to see that many people who know what happened to me. Part of the reason I fled Montana was to avoid the look people get when they see me, a morbid mix of sympathy and curiosity. Rocky’s absence leaves a gaping hole in my chest and I pace my apartment awkwardly until an itch forms in my chest. An itch to dosomething. I have no idea what.
I end up going to the roof and meeting my neighbor, an elderly man who sneaks up to the roof to smoke away from his wife. He’s pleasant and explains his vice as a little secret because he knows when he sneaks up here to smoke, his wife is able to play the music he doesn’t enjoy. When he leaves, I notice that he didn’t take a single puff of his cigarette. He simply let it burn out to nothing.
How sweet.
Rocky returns and relief has me initiating a hug for the first time. A real hug free from tears and panic, although when we part, Rocky looks a little misty-eyed. He explains that things are tense at home since Bobby because there’s a surge of interest in Matteo stepping down so that Rocky can take over. I let him talk out his feelings on the matter, eager to listen since he’s been a steadfast pillar of support for me. He talks out his complicated feelings about his father, the trauma of his childhood, and even having his arm broken. There’s no love lost there, but he doesn’t feel ready to lead the entire family.
Not yet.
Fear grows that he’s refusing because of me, but Rocky quickly makes it clear that his position in the family is a lot more relaxed than taking the title of Don. It’s a lot of responsibility and he recognizes that his father still has a lot to give. He just hopes they can work together.
Rocky still stays by my side and the days get easier. We take walks around the block to explore my new neighborhood and even find a cute little cafe run by a smiling family. I’m not sure I’m ready for coffee again, though. We walk through the park, and Rocky explains in great, excited detail about the creation of his new bike. It breaks my heart a little that his old one was destroyed, but Rocky brushes off all my apologies. He may have loved that bike, but he’ll love the new one even more.
Then, Halloween rolls around. The streets below are flooded with kids and their parents in costumes trick or treating, or teens and adults heading off to party. I stay inside with the TV playing horror movies I’m only half watching. Iris lounges spread out on the chair across the room that she’s claimed as her own throne. There’s something therapeutic about slasher movies. Maybe it’s the comfort in knowing the killer gets caught, or the strength of the final girl. Either way, it’s enjoyable until the movieHalloweenpops up onto the screen and Rocky immediately hits pause.
“What are you doing?” I peer at him from under my blanket, relaxed but confused.
“It’sHalloween,” he says from the other end of the couch with the remote dangling from his hand. “The killer never fucking dies in these movies. I wasn’t sure if…”
Oh. Good point.
“Yeah, no thanks.”
