Page 158 of Until August
I was so fucking proud of her. There had never been a doubt that she would do what she’d set out to do.
But there was a part of me, okay, a big part, that wished I could have been there to celebrate her achievement. That it could have been something we shared.
But that ship had sailed, and now Nicola and I were just two people who used to love each other but were living separate lives.
“Are the flowers for a special someone?” the salesgirl asked when I failed to answer the first question.
“You could say that.” I wasn’t going out of my way to be difficult, but even that question was hard to answer.
What was Nicola to me now?
“Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” she said with a laugh. “Is it a woman? Or a man?”
“A woman.”
“Lucky girl.”
Not so sure about that. I hadn’t seen Nicola since the night she broke down crying in my truck.
She’d cried so much that she wore herself out and fell asleep on the bench seat on the drive back. I’d carried her into her house, up the stairs to her bedroom, tucked her into bed, and made sure she was okay before I took off.
I couldn’t be in her life right now. It was just too fucking hard.
As much as I wanted to help her through this, I couldn’t. She had to grieve her husband and mourn the loss in her own time and on her own terms.
And as much as I wanted to be the bigger man, I was still in love with her.
So I couldn’t be her crutch or her coping mechanism. I couldn’t be the man she turned to when she needed a distraction from the heavy shit she was dealing with.
After that night, I told Luca I didn’t want to talk about Nicola and told Ari the same thing.
Self-preservation.
But Ari texted to let me know about the Michelin star. And even though I couldn’t be there for Nicola right now, I was still subconsciously waiting for her.
For our someday. For a day in the future when we’d finally get our timing right.
So here I was in a florist shop on Main Street, trying to decide what the appropriate bouquet for the occasion should look like.
Pink? Yellow? Red? Clueless?
“You know what?” I told the salesgirl. “I’m going to skip the flowers. But thanks for your time.”
“Oh. Okay. Well… I’m happy to help if you change your mind.” She flashed me a smile that gave the impression we weren’t talking about flowers anymore.
“Appreciate it. But I’m good.” Before things got even more awkward, I walked out of the shop and strode down the street to my parking space.
Then I stopped short and stared through the window.
Keep walking. Bad idea.
Fuck it.
This felt more like us, so I pushed through the door and made a beeline for the Sicilian pistachios. I grabbed the biggest bag they sold—five pounds—and carried it over to the counter. A kid who looked like he was still in high school rang up my purchase. I swiped my card over the machine and grabbed the bag, heading for the door just as a man walked in, the bell chiming to announce his presence.
It had been years since I last saw him, but Antonio Benedetti hadn’t changed much. A large man with broad shoulders, thick black hair that had more gray in it now, and deep-set brown eyes the same shade as Nicola’s.
What were the chances he’d recognize me? I hoped to make a speedy exit and avoid him, but he stopped short, blocking the door.
