In the fraction of a second, I’d lost my childhood sweetheart.
And a man I’d loved just as much as if he were my own blood brother.
I wasn’t going to take it lying down, watching everyone sit around feeling sorry for me, listening to Zia Maria-Teresa telling me to go on a solo honeymoon because that would really be sticking it to them . . .
I had to see them. I wanted to look into his eyes. Slam him against the wall. Spit in his face. Beat the shit out of him because at the time, it seemed like a good way to transfer the intense pain that was coursing through my body.
And then, when he was lying on the floor in a pile of his own blood and vomit, looking like the fucking piece of shit he was, I was going to inform him that he was dead to me.
Losing Kerenza hurt like a bitch.
But losing my best friend, my brother, hurt a hundred times worse.
My hands gripped the wheel hard as I sped through the windy Provincetown highway that led to his place. I wasn’t watching my speed, though I know I was flying. And before I knew it, I was literally flying. The car caught a hairpin turn on a road I was unfamiliar with, and when I woke up, I was lying in a hospital room hooked up to machines, consumed with the worst physical pain I’d ever felt in my life.
The next thing I knew, my mother was frantically yelling in Italian and running off to get the doctor, and within the twenty-four hours that followed, I was told that my right shoulder was shattered in five places and more than likely, I’d never pitch a baseball again.
“This past year,” I say carefully. “I haven’t been mourning you, Kerenza. I’ve been hating myself for getting in that car, believing that you two were worth the trouble I was getting myself into. We were best fucking friends, he and I. Closer than brothers. And you took that away. The two of you did. Together.”
“See, this is why I wanted you to read the journal,” she says, almost smiling. “I wanted you to see that it wasn’t easy for me. He documented everything. His love for me was different than yours. You loved me too much, Alessio.”
“Goddamn it.” This is what I get for arguing with a narcissist. “You’re not. Fucking. Listening.”
Kerenza’s head tilts, her tongue slicking along the part of her lips. She looks like a confused cocker spaniel, her dark hair all wavy and loose around her shoulders. I used to think it was endearing, and now I can hardly stand to look at her.
“Alessio, I just want you to know that I regret my decision every single day,” she says. “Knowing that my actions caused your life to be turned upside down is not lost on me.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“He represented excitement and adventure. He was shiny and new,” she says, her eyes lighting. “He traveled the world. You traveled to stadiums. He loved me with everything he had, never holding back. Your love terrified and amazed me. It felt like home. You were my anchor, Alessio. I just didn’t want to be tethered. At least not at the time.”
I glance at my watch. “Are we done here?”
“Why? You have somewhere you need to be?” She chuffs, like she’s insulted I don’t want to stand here and let her wax poetic about the good fucking thing she once had and how she screwed it up by being a heartless fucking bitch.
“Save it, Kerenza. At the end of the day, I never should’ve gotten in that car. I never should’ve come after you two, because the fact of the matter is you and Gianluca? You were perfect for each other. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect.”
Kerenza’s jaw drops and she stands, blocking my doorway.
“Move,” I growl.
She swallows, blinking quickly and glancing at a passing couple on the sidewalk. She turns back to me.
“Did you read it?” she asks. “The journal.”
“Fuck. No,” I say, everything starting to make sense for once. Can’t say that I blame Aidy now. I’ve seen the way Gianluca writes, and I know he has a penchant for hyperbole, and anyone who knows him knows he doesn’t mean half the things he says. He’s a lot like Kerenza that way. Even their eyes are matching shades of bullshit. “But my girlfriend did, and apparently she thinks I wrote all