We all have demons. He happens to be mine.
“Why would you think I’d leave you, Minnie?” His voice wraps around me in a tight embrace, and the nickname wedges itself inside my heart. I’m sure I would tell him anything that he asks at this moment.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I laugh dryly to myself. “Everyone leaves me.”
“Not me,” he says. I fix my attention to our intertwined hands. “Never me.”
I don’t want to tell him all the other reasons I thought he’d leave. If he’s the type of person to discard me for another woman or something as trivial as age, then I should be glad he left. No one deserves that sort of treatment.
Do I tell him that, deep down, I know he’d never leave me—now, at least? Part of the reason he was in prison was because of me. Then every second since he’s gotten out has been dedicated to me. From my favorite snacks in the cupboards, to the soaps, and my Mickey Mouse doll that appeared on the bed after my shower. Hell, even doing up a whole house just for us.
“I should be grateful for becoming stronger since you left,” I start, because he needs to hear it too. “But am I supposed to be happy that I lost a part of myself to become that way?”
He squeezes my hand. “I disagree.” Frowning, I look up at him. “You didn’t lose yourself. You found the part of you that was built to survive. The part you thought you lost is still there; it’s learning and waiting for you to let her out again.”
The voice that usually screams at me to fight is silent when he pulls me onto his lap and wipes away a fallen tear. When did he become such a therapist, anyway?
“I’ve grieved so much; for my mother, the father I never had. I kept thinking it wasn’t right, that they should be here by my side, keeping my heart full. But life gives, and it takes.” My bleeding heart hates the truth, and it aches every day. But maybe saying it out loud will make my heart understand the real world. “It wasn’t right, but it’s what it’s meant to be.”
Slowly, he rocks us with his arms wrapped around my waist. He’s heard me talk about my missing parts before, but he’s never been one for words. Not really, at least.
His soft breaths ruffle my hair as he says, “There’s no point living if you don’t feel alive. I’m going to make you a promise; you’re going to wake up every day knowing that your heart is full and you have someone who will never leave your side. It’ll be my life’s goal to make you so happy that you shit rainbows and eat butterflies. You’ll never live feeling like you need more.”
“Please, don’t hurt the butterflies.” We both chuckle half-heartedly, and a sad smile curls across my face. “I always knew you would carry a part of me with you wherever you go.” I bite the inside of my lip and continue, “Because you took it from me. I knew you cared about me and lent me every piece of your heart that you had. But there’s a quote I once read: Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt.”
He rearranges us so that his eyes bore into mine. Calloused fingers wrap around my wrist to bring my hands to his face.
“Do you feel me, Isabella?”
I nod.
“I am skin and bone, living and breathing. I am not a ghost. Most definitely not to you.”
My fingers move on their own. At my touch, his eyes slide closed as he shivers. Stubble prickles the skin beneath my hand, traveling up his cheek and over his jaw.
Opening his eyes, he says with a pained whisper, “I missed you so much, Bella. I woke up every morning, counting down the minutes until I could go back to sleep so I could see you.” Soft, dark hair brushes against me as he lowers his head to mine, taking all the air from my lungs. “In prison, I couldn’t keep anything physical. No pictures, no bracelets, or drawings. But everything reminded me of you, and I finally understood the meaning of looking under the same moon.”
“What?” Roman Riviera doesn’t quote classic literature.
Wearing a grin, he shrugs innocently. “I told you I started reading.”
That’s life with Mickey: easy. He gets into the deep end and always finds a way out. But there’s one thing I almost forgot; he’s always kept me afloat.
“R-18 books?” I ask, plucking at the carpet.
A smile cracks across his face, and the old wooden floor creaks beneath our weight. “We call that contraband in prison.” His hot breath feathers against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But maybe those books of yours taught me a thing or two.”