whispered, still attempting to recover. “They are very important.”
“Yeah.” He sighed again. He seemed to be working hard to keep his humor in check. “They are.”
Silence descended upon us once more, and all of a sudden the cabin felt empty, the loss of his voice almost cruel.
He looked up from his plate, which was almost clean now. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“Grandma Poésy. She taught me. Even though my grandfather was very wealthy, she always cooked for her family. She came from lean means. One of those people who stood centered despite marrying into money. She didn’t need fancy dishes, the fuss of parties, or the gossip of ‘friends.’ High-society circles called her a snob. I always thought she was just giving them a taste of their own medicine.” I took a sip of water and set it down, enjoying the fact that he was determined to get the last bite of food from his plate. “She had never thought of it that way, though,” I continued, the thought of her inspiring me to share. “She was just being true to her. After Elliott died we spent a lot of time here. I didn’t want to dance. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I was having nightmares every time I closed my eyes. She took me under her wing and brought me here. I learned a lot about life through her.”
“Like cooking.”
“Like cooking. What it takes to be a good woman. She was.”
“I’m sorry, Ballerina Girl.” He fixed his eyes on mine, no trace of humor left. “I know that she passed two years after Elliott. I went to her funeral.”
“You did?”
“I’ve been places.”
I leaned forward, intrigued. “You’re good at hiding in the shadows.”
“You don’t look hard enough. The closer you get, the brighter my darkness becomes.” He took a second helping of dinner, going in with as much attention as he had before, as though he hadn’t just said those impactful words.
Brando Fausti might have been rough, a man that not many would challenge, but there was a poetic side about him that I doubted he realized. His blood was as good as his word, actions over words, and he didn’t seem to make romantic gestures. But when he spoke from the heart, it was hard to keep steady. I felt the conviction in my blood.
I sat back in my chair and studied him, as one does a piece of art that calls from someplace beyond the real.
A few times he broke the silence to ask more questions about Grandma Poésy, about what we did here during that time, and about school. But they were general, far from deep, and for some reason I got the feeling that he had known some of the answers before I even had the chance to respond. He was giving me the chance to share, or perhaps to expand.
He had been watching me. The thought thrilled me, sent a shock of electricity up my spine and made the blood fizzle in my veins.
Each time he would break the silence I would create it again, once my answer had been spoken aloud. Perhaps I was naïve, but given the chance, I caught on fast. Elongating moments, the language of hands and touch, the longer looks during drawn-out pauses, allowed a certain kind of tension to seep into my body—the kind that made my heart pick up speed, my breath harder to catch, and an ache to take root in my lower stomach.
There was no doubt that he understood what I had started to do. He had turned those eyes on, the heat from his body moving over me, the scent of him even stronger with the spike in temperature.
Until he was finished with his dinner, we sat in silence, the candles wavering gently for no apparent reason at all. Then I offered him cake. He offered to get it.
He removed our dirty dishes from the table, setting them in the sink, and then cut us each a slice. We ate again in silence, our feet touching underneath the table, only commenting on how good the cake was every so often. He ate three pieces to my one.
Once done, he set his plate to the side, but he didn’t seem tired, or deterred by the amount of food he had consumed. Setting my fork down, I used a fingertip to collect a leftover crumb on the plate, but just before I put it to my mouth, he seized my wrist in