find an answer to the unfounded fear, except to come to the conclusion that she made sense.
Which actually made no sense, but somehow it did, to me.
Brando, in his usual way, had taken note of my unease all evening, always keeping me close, and not even mentioning the fact that I had moved the ring he had given me to my left ring finger.
“It’s a bit tight on the other finger,” I had mentioned at one point. The truth, but not the entire truth.
Every once in a while his gaze would flick to the finger, and he seemed to tense and relax at the same time. I couldn’t tell if the placement of it pleased or terrified him. Probably both. But he wasn’t the one needing reassurance.
Even though he made an effort to soothe my nerves, I couldn’t pinpoint the source of the unease, so there was the crux of problem, hovering around in the shape of a blue sphere.
The tension rose in me until it bubbled over onto him and we argued. Brando Fausti wasn’t built to withstand secrets, which he felt I kept from him. Attempting to explain to him that not even I knew what was wrong was not good enough for him. He brooded and stewed, an extremely formidable opponent, but not against not knowing.
I couldn’t explain to him what I couldn't understand myself.
This wasn’t our first fight after making love. That had happened on our second day in the house on Snow, after I had brought up his first lover while we were in our bed. This had not gone over well with either of us. Him, because he had stated, cruelly I might add, that only the two of us were allowed in our bed. Me, because I had found out that he had been “deflowered” by the gorgeous woman from Sweden who owned the chocolate shop in town. Tall, tan, pure blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, and probably ten years older than him.
When our tempers came together, gas and fire, they exploded. I had tried to leave, he had carried me back inside like a caveman, but not before he put a few holes in the walls. That quiet confidence he carried, all of that resolve, seemed to dissolve in the face of what we had been fighting over.
Then he proceeded to show me what he had meant by it’s too soon for me to show you what you need. Soon had come. He had showed me what he had meant by it, while he had me up against the wall, my traitorous body giving in to him.
Afterward, he seemed almost repentant, but not fully. He promised to never take a hand to our walls again—in the house on Snow—and I promised not to bring up anyone else while we were in the sanctuary of our bed.
This fight, though, seemed different. It lingered. The tension remained in my bones.
I sighed, grabbing for another cup from the pile I had stacked to be washed. Emory Snow’s wife had beautiful china from the 1950s, and I couldn’t resist the pull to salvage the pieces, the history that went with them, and place them back in the glass cabinets where they belonged.
The ballerina ring still rested on my left finger, and it twinkled something fierce in reflection to winter’s hazy sunlight and the warm water it had been immersed in.
I dipped the cup in the soapy water, moving my stare to the rows of dead roses swaying to the tempo of the harsh breeze. Staring at the ring was bringing me no answers. As I washed around the rim, the dishcloth caught. I pushed a little harder and my hand slipped. The sensitive area between thumb and pointer finger immediately caught fire. A bloom of crimson rose to the surface, turning the white bubbles red.
“Shit!” I yanked my hand out, water and blood streaming down my arm. I snatched a dry, clean cloth from the pile, applying pressure.
Resting my back against the counter, I closed my eyes, counting to ten in my head. I didn’t like blood—the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of it. Especially if the blood belonged to me.
In some of my worst nightmares, I dreamt of the whistle of the train, the sound of glass shattering, the crunch of metal collapsing, the splatter of blood saturating snow. My brother’s face came to me in vivid color. His friends were facedown on the ground, surrounding him. Some nights, it