Page 58 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Bernadi doesn’t respond and I don’t feel any judgement coming from him, so I feel safe to continue.
“I couldn’t ask her for it. Not after everything she went through.”
When the car slows and the wind dies down, I can hear Bernadi’s breathing, It soothes me, so I hold onto each breath I hear.
“So, why do you have it now?” Bernadi asks, quietly.
“Trilby gave it to me this morning. I guess she feels she doesn’t need all those things anymore. Not now she has Cristiano and a full life ahead of her to look forward to. And she knew how much this box means to me. It’s what inspired me to dance in the first place.”
He turns his head briefly. “You were inspired by a box?”
I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when I realize he has no idea what’s inside it, so I lift the lidand wind up the handle at the back. Music fills the car and I watch as the little ballerina spins on her pedestal, the diamonds flickering in the sunlight.
“Ah. Makes sense now.”
I let the ballerina dance until she winds down then I close the lid. “What about you? Do you have anything sentimental from when you were growing up?”
The light smile falls from his face and his jaw clenches. After several seconds of silence I turn to look ahead. I don’t know why but whenever I find myself in an awkward situation I have to make a joke. It’s a character flaw, I know.
“You probably don’t remember. I mean, it was likelydecadesago.”
To my dismay, he doesn’t even quirk a grin.
Silence fills the car and my skin starts to itch with discomfort. I hate long silences. Normally, I try to fill them with sarcastic nonsense but this one feels unfillable.
I try again. “Or, anything sentimental from the modern era?”
He grinds his teeth and pulls the car off the freeway. We’re not far from my home but I don’t want to end the conversation here. It feels unfinished and as though the second he leaves he won’t want to speak to me ever again.
I remind myself that wouldn’t be a bad thing, because I hate him, right?
“I don’t believe in sentimental value,” he says, finally.
I open my mouth to challenge his claim but see his clenched jaw and snap my lips shut. Why would someone not believe in sentimental value? Perhaps if they’d never been the recipient of something worthy of being sentimental? The idea that Bernadi might not have experienced that makes me feel sad to my bones, and that shocks me. I’ve always been an empath but I’ve never felt sadness for someone else so deep in my core.
Something ill-advised but tenacious makes me probe him further.
“Didn’t your parents ever give you anything meaningful?”
Heswingsthe car round a corner. “I don’t have parents.” I can see our driveway looming ahead, getting closer as Bernadi puts his foot to the floor.
Disbelief unhinges my jaw. “Then, who raised you?”
The tires of my car screech against the sidewalk and Bernadi pulls up hard and cuts the engine. When his gaze pans to me, he looks tired.
“If I answer that, can we consider this conversation closed?”
I hesitate, then I nod.
We both get out of the car and shut the doors, staring at each other over the top of my convertible. Then he tosses me the keys and replies, “I raised myself.”
The retort is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Then no wonder you’re such an asshole.”
A devastating smile picks up the corners of his eyes.
“Get your butt in the house, Castellano.” He takes a few steps backward, in the direction of the main street.
“And where are you going?” I ask. “You know, your car is still parked on the freeway.”
