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“He almost got you killed, yet you stick up for him?”
and then right at the hollow behind my ear, he whispered, “Smart girl.”
“I don’t know. Maybe smoking cigarettes with handsome young men.”
“I don’t want you to make it a big deal.” “Won’t.” Depends. “Promise you won’t do anything.” “Promise.” Lie.
“The only acts of violence I’ve committed this week have somehow revolved around you,” he pointed out.
“I swear to God, Elena, if I find out you’ve let some man touch
you, I will deliver his hands to you in a box.”
“Stai bene?”
Hands grasped my face, turning it. “Are you okay?” Nico repeated.
His hands and gaze ran down my body, checking anyway,
“Oscar Perez” followed by “found shot execution style in front of his apartment,”
“SON OF A BITCH!” came from my papà’s office.
I would kiss whoever killed him.
“Here’s an idea,”
“Why don’t you get the fuck out.”
I realized then that I wanted him to want me.
A heavy tug, as if he were my center of gravity.
Everything was going to change. Just before eight a.m. on a Sunday.
Throughout the day, You look nice was a deep, worn-out recording in the back of my mind.
His voice was rough and his gaze was steady when he said, “Maybe I want to.”
“You can’t blame gravity for falling in love.” —Albert Einstein
Fine. We’ll discuss it tomorrow then.
“Why did you kill Oscar Perez?”
“Because you were mine.”
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.” —Oscar Wilde
