I turn, fists clenched, ready for a fight. The voice sounds close.
It takes me a moment to pick out the source: Carlo, sitting on a rock in an end-of-day crumpled suit, collar undone to show the very top of his scar, his hair falling across his face. He’s holding a Polaroid in his hand. When I move closer, he palms it. But not before I spot a little boy in the image.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“How is that any of your business?” He sighs, dropping it into the pocket inside his suit jacket.
“You’re the one who said my name,” I point out. “We could’ve both sat here, enjoying the night, blissfully unaware of each other. What a night that would’ve been.”
“You like the idea of me watching you without you knowing, do you?” His grin is frustratingly tempting, but mostly just frustrating. I think of the feel of his lips. I fight all the urges that rise up within me. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you do when you’re afraid. That’s when you learn who a person really is. And you, Hazel, you’re …”
“I’m what?” I whisper.
The night has given us a cover that maybe both of us were craving. We’re both set loose, somehow, free to let go of the constant arguing. At least, that’s how I feel. Carlo, as always, is a freaking mystery.
“It’s nothing.” He stands up, adjusting his jacket. The moonlight shines through his white shirt so that I can almost make out the hard ridges of his abs. His face is intense. His eyes spark. “It’s nice here. You will find it brings you peace.”
I refuse to look at him as I murmur, “You don’t have to go.”
“Yes, I do.” He turns to leave for the wooden archway that leads toward the maze.
“Carlo!” I hiss. “Why do you always have to do this?”
He pauses mid-step. For a moment, I think he’s just going to walk away. Then he says, so quiet and husky I almost don’t hear it, “Do what?”
“Pretend you’re an asshole. Pretend there’s nothing here.”
“I thought I was just your captor. I thought you thought there was nothing here.”
“I do,” I say weakly. “I mean, I don’t. I … I don’t know.”
His silhouetted shoulders shrug. “There we are, then.”
“Who is the photo of?” I blurt. For some reason, I don’t want him to leave. I’m downright desperate for him not to leave, actually. The way he looked sitting on that rock, so sad and forlorn, might have something to do with it. “You can talk to me, you know.”
He laughs lightly. “No, I do not know that. I can’t talk to anybody, not about this. Not even Mother and Emily. It’s too—”
He cuts himself short.
I drift through the darkness towards him like a marionette being controlled by someone else. I don’t plan it, but my hands find his waist. I wrap them around his belly and interlock my fingers, laying my cheek against his rippled back, telling myself it’s just the night and the moon and stars, all working their weird magic on me. Nothing else.
“It’s your son, isn’t it?” I whisper, mind whirring. “You had a son, once, and—”
“Hazel. No. It’s my brother.”
A cold stab moves through me. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
The same thing moves through him. He stiffens. “I don’t.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“It’s nothing—it’s gone. It’s the past.” With a huff, he disengages from me and marches toward the archway.
“You clearly don’t give a shit about me, Carlo,” I snap, feeling guilty after what just passed between us. But anger can only take a sabbatical for so long. “Maybe you like the way I look, but that’s about it, so why the hell keep me here? Just get a hooker if you want the easy lay. Why do you care if those Irishmen saw me? Let them come!”
He turns. His face is drained of color. It’s the same shade as the moonlight. Two quick steps and he is pressed against me.
“Is that what you want?” he snarls. “You think you can fight the world, Hazel. That was your instinct, just now, when I called your name. Fists raised, ready for it. But this is different. You can’t fight this.”
His hand is on my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone so that quivers move through me. My face is suddenly warm. “Are we still talking about the Irish?” I croak.
He looks past me with faraway eyes, biting down. “We used to swim here as kids,” he says, hand moving down my