Page 18 of Loss and Damages
Mother and I walk into the kitchen, andNonnalooks at me like I created a miracle. Everyone scurries and exclaims, fawning over her, and before I can blink twice, we’re sitting at the table with huge plates of pasta and espresso cups in front of us. The spaghetti looks like worms and I move the noodles around my plate. Mother doesn’t do much better, butNonnadoesn’t care. I preen a little underNonna’spraise, but the guilty feeling doesn’t abate.
I’m using Leo’s relationship to find better footing with our mother, and it’s one more thing he’d hate me for if he knew.
A few minutes and forkfuls of pasta later, I leave, shoving the box that has the tea set in it into a forgotten closet. I don’t know if Mother would be impressed by Jemma’s talent or think it useless. Maybe after she meets Jemma I’ll show her the set, and she can decide if Jemma was worthy of Leo’s time.
I suppose that’s one good thing about being me. My mother won’t care whom I marry, and she’ll leave us alone. Leo’s wife would’ve had a tough time of it, Mama constantly meddling in their affairs. No one he chose would have been good enough, and chances are high Jemma would have been punished simply for being herself.
I take a cab and spend the night at Leo’s. Did he ever bring Jemma to his apartment? Am I sleeping in the same bed where they made love?
It doesn’t disturb me the way it should have, and that turns me into a giant, fucking pervert. I stroke myself thinking of her quiet mewing sounds as I slide inside her, how tight and wet she’d be. Does she like her nipples pinched? I pump as I imagine nibbling her lush tits, scraping my teeth against her sensitive skin. Pulling out, turning her onto her stomach, and lifting her ass into the air. Her clit’s huge, waiting for me to rub her to orgasm. Gently, so gently, I push my finger into her puckered muscle needing to feel all of her at once. She’s so soft, everywhere.
She comes, her muscles rippling around my cock, and I fuck her hard and deep as she moans.
Her imaginary whimpers fill Leo’s bedroom, and she cries out as I ram into her one last time, exploding in my fantasy. My cock is rock hard, and I spew all over my hand.
In my dream, I still, my fingertips sinking into her hips, and she says the only thing she could that would hit me like a bucket of cold water.
“I love you, Leo.”
Burning with shame, I shower under a hot spray and try to wash the self-loathing off my skin.
Leo already disliked everything about me. What would he say if he knew I’d just jacked off to the imaginary cries of his girlfriend?
I’m no better than who Leo thought I was.
In fact, I’m worse.
Chapter Eight
Jemma
All day I keep expecting Leo to pull up in front of the gallery, his happy gait coming up the sidewalk to the porch, his eyes glittering with excitement for his next painting. He drew inspiration from everywhere. The long walks we took after I closed the gallery, the flicker of a flame in the firepit, the gentle fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. As an artist, my grandma opened my eyes to many things, and as I grew older, she never let me lose the wonderment of childhood. Leo made me see things I’d forgotten since she died. The way a caterpillar’s body bunched up as it moved, dew beading on a leaf, the delicate flight of a ladybug, the perfect points of a snowflake. I could go on for a million days and never list all the things Leo reveled in.
He loved life as much as he loathed it.
I help customers by rote, accept new sculptures from the woman who lives in town, and rearrange some of Leo’s paintings. I have a few in the back, and I switch out a couple, keeping the walls fresh. It’s busy work, but rearranging jewelry and my china keeps the gallery from feeling monotonous and therepeat customers have something new to find. I’ll need to seek out another artist after Leo’s paintings are gone.
Gloria’s question rubs at me. Should I have told Dominic about his brother’s art? Leo asked me not to reveal his identity, wanting his art to be accepted for what it was and not who he was, but we never talked about what he’d want me to do if he passed away. We never spoke about death or dying and I have no idea what his wishes would have been in this particular instance.
I’m balancing my register and reporting the credit card totals when a car parks in front of the gallery, and I hold in a sigh. A customer is always a good thing, but it will keep me longer and if they buy something, I’ll have to close out all over again. I’ve been looking forward to a glass of wine all day.
Leo’s death drags its claws down my back, and I can’t find any escape. I was thinking of soaking in the tub tonight, maybe in the dark, or lighting a scented candle. I need to find peace because I feel like grief and loneliness are slowly driving me insane.
I haven’t locked the door or flipped the Open sign to Closed and the little bell jingles merrily, the exact opposite of my mood.
Dominic Milano steps through the door and my heart starts to race when his eyes meet mine. He’s gorgeous, and today I’m brave enough to study his face. There are hints of Leo there, in his eyes and jaw, but Dominic’s more built, broader shoulders, sturdier, in a way I can’t describe.
Today he’s dressed casually, slacks, yes, but he’s not wearing a suit jacket and his dress shirt’s not as crisp, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s warmer, and he could have forgone the jacket in favor of the temperature. His hair is fastened away from his face again, and scruff covers his jaw.
How do women find the courage to date him? How would any woman feel his equal?
I swallow, my throat raw. “Mr. Milano.”
He huffs a laugh, and I fight the urge to bristle. What does he want me to call him?
“Miss Ferrell. You’re looking well.”
I’ve been trying, doing my hair and makeup, the shimmery lip gloss that looks cheerful even though I can’t bring myself to smile.
