Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I place my hand on his arm. “I’m sure he cares about you. He just can’t tell you that anymore. For now, anyway.”
“You don’t have to feel guilty,” Elio says. “Your mom showed you love. Your dad didn’t. Naturally, you’d be more worried about one than the other.”
“Still, it doesn’t exactly make me a good daughter.”
“A man should be worried about being a good father if he wants a good daughter,” Elio snarls.
“You seemed passionate over text, too, about children. About fatherhood.” I keep my gaze firmly planted forward on the road. The city is quiet, but there are a few nighttime wanderers.
“I guess I am,” Elio says. “Maybe it’s the Italian in me.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have children,” I reply, my belly tightening, that strange thought touching me again. It’s my womb, calling to him, begging for a future I didn’t know I wanted until tonight. Well, yesterday, technically.
“My mother feels the same,” he says with a gruff laugh.
It seems like a way of avoiding the subject. “So why don’t you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I work a lot,” he says, “and I’ve got a baby brother. I always figured he’d be the one to continue the family line when he can stop his bar hopping and woman chasing.”
“But you want kids,” I go on.
I feel him look at me. I don’t turn to check if I’m right, but I’m sure I feel it—his gaze burning into me. “You sound pretty certain about that.”
“It’s the way you talk about it,” I say. “The passion in your voice.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve never found the right person.”
I could be the right person, I almost say, but it’s so much easier to be forward and confident via text. I almost take out my phone and shoot him a message, but texting in the same car would be even weirder than texting in the same room. I squeeze down on my knees, thinking of all the things that could be happening to Mom. None of them are good.
“What are you going to tell your parents?” I ask, eager for conversation to distract myself from the torturing thoughts.
“I’m not sure yet,” Elio replies. “The truth would be ideal. They’re good people. They’ll want to help you. The only thing that gives me pause is Russel.”
“Russel?”
“The man you saw at my table. You said he looked shocked when he saw you.”
“I’m not sure if it was shock or surprise. His eyes got really wide. It could’ve just been recognition. It could’ve been a threat, like he was looking at me to say, Be quiet. Or something like that. I don’t know. Or maybe it’s all in my head.”
“In this life, you learn to trust hunches,” Elio says. “Russel and my family are working together. If I tell the truth, there’s a small chance he’ll hear about it. What about singing?”
I swallow, nerves suddenly touching me. “What about it?”
“Well, how good are you?”
I stare stubbornly out the window. I feel him glancing at me every few moments, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’ve never been able to talk about singing with other people, let alone sing for them, except Mom.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“I saw those books in your room.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t get good at singing by reading books.”
“Don’t be so damn humble,” he says fiercely.
“How are you so sure I’m being humble?” I snap, finally turning to him. He glances at me with penetrating eyes, a gaze that cuts right into me. “I could completely suck, and what does this have to do with anything, anyway?”
“It could be a possible alibi. We’ll give you a fake name. I’ll tell my folks I hired you to sing for my dad. He used to love live music.”
I smooth my hands over my belly as if to trap the anxiety. “I don’t know about that,” I say. “I’ve only ever sung in front of my mom.”
“What’s her opinion of your talents?”
“Good, but she’s dosed up half the time. Plus, of course, she’ll say I’m good.”
I flinch when he slams his hand against the steering wheel. He sits up, his body getting harder, seeming to get bigger, as if he’s going to erupt from his clothes. “Stop putting yourself down.”
“Whoa.” I lean away from him, even if my instincts tell me to get closer, place my hand against his arm, squeeze, and feel his strength. Feel his power. Just feel him. “You don’t have to get mad about it.”
“Stop putting yourself down,” he says, then releases a long breath.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“You’re sort of acting like I should,” I mutter. “You seem pretty pissed.”
“It’s just… you don’t need to criticize yourself. If you want to sing, sing. If you’re not where you want to be, you can work to improve.”
We don’t say anything for a while. His explosion has left me confused and also curious. Why does he care if I criticize myself? He’s clearly interested in me physically, which is crazy enough. With how passionate he just got, he may be interested in me emotionally, too.