Rosa takes a step closer to his bedroom door but doesn’t make any move to open it. It’s almost as if she knows that inside all that exists is pain and misery. I bridge the gap between us until I’m standing at her side.
“And what exactly did my mother tell you about him?”
“For one, she said he wasn’t nearly as adventurous as the rest of you. She said he preferred books to climbing trees and riding bikes.”
I let out a sullen sigh.
“Aye, that he did. You would have liked him. He had a kind heart like Ma, too—like you do.”
She turns her head my way, sadness coloring those gorgeous eyes that have seen their own share of suffering.
“But Patrick was too sensitive to survive the kind of life we lead. Too frail. He felt other people’s pain like he was the one who had been wounded.”
“An empath,” she whispers the word like it’s a curse, and in our world, it is. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
I nod, my shoulders instantly slumping.
“Did I… I mean, did we… I mean,” she struggles to say. “Did my family have anything to do with his death?
“Oh, petal,” I whisper lovingly, cradling her cheek with my palm. “Best leave ghosts where they belong and can’t do you any harm, aye? Life is for the living. It shouldn’t be wasted on the dead. They are at peace now. Can we say the same?”
Her eyes lower from mine, suddenly unable to look me in the eye.
“Shay… about what you said earlier… back in the nursery…”
I shake my head to silence her protest.
“I meant every word, petal. You don’t need a baby to love. I can love you.” Because as unexpected as it is, I think I already do. “You just have to let me. It’s your choice.”
“Tiernan could kill you if he knew you were talking to me like this,” she warns, and I hear the flicker of fear in her voice.
“Let him try.”
Just let the fucker try.
Chapter 17
Colin
“I was starting to think I scared you away,” Rosa muses, trying to garner a reaction from me as we walk through the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
I’ve had it on my list of places I wanted to take her to, but after our obligatory conjugal visits these last few weeks, I haven’t been in the right frame of mind to take her anywhere. Thankfully, our noon encounters in apartment 9B back at The Avalon also ensure that most of Rosa’s energy is fully depleted, forcing her to stay indoors for the rest of the day, leaving Darren and his crew to watch over her.
“Well, Colin? Did I scare you off?” she asks again just as we stop in front of one particular painting depicting a full moon on a snowy winter’s day.
“Nothing scares me,” I lie, pretending to be focused on the artist’s handiwork instead of looking at the woman standing by my side.
“Is that true?” she questions curiously, craning her head back to stare at the scar marks on my face. “You’re not afraid of anything?”
“Aye,” I lie again, shrugging her attention off me and walking to another painting further down the corridor.
Rosa quickens her steps to keep up with my wide strides, her high heels click-clacking loudly on the floor.
“You’re lying to me. If we’re going to be friends, we shouldn’t lie to each other, Col.”
Damnú.
How can I tell this woman that the only thing that puts fear into my heart is her and how she makes me feel? That since she let me in, both into her heart and into her body, I’ve been consumed with thoughts of only her? That there isn’t a minute in my day where her sweet face doesn’t cross my mind, and that the ache of not being by her side at all times physically pains me?
“Colin?” she insists, carefully placing her hand on my forearm, scorching me with her innocent touch.
“What are you scared of?” I ask, flipping the script on her.
She pulls her hand away and lowers her eyes from me to stare at the painting in front of us. This one is of an old windmill up on a hill, red poppies all around it.
“Everything. Everything scares me here,” she explains, followed by a desolate sigh.
“Only here? Not back home in Mexico?”
She nods.
“How come?”
“I knew my place back home. My father made sure of that. Here I feel like I’m floating adrift in a vast unknown ocean, never knowing where to swim to for safety. Or even to whom.”
Swim to me, sweet rose, swim to me.
The words burn on the tip of my tongue, but instead of confessing such forbidden and foolish thoughts, I find myself answering her previous question instead.