Mess Me Up
Page 16
Admittedly, I would’ve just spent the day thinking of him.
And I would’ve just wound up in the same exact place that I was in right now.
Fidgeting at the stoop, wondering if this was a good idea, I decided “fuck it!” and knocked.
I didn’t expect him to answer the door, to be honest.
After everything I’d said and done, I hadn’t expected him to give me the time of day.
But there he was, moments after I’d knocked, staring at me with such a blank expression on his face that it physically hurt to look at him.
I felt this burning urge in my chest to throw myself at him, but I thought better of it once I saw the look on his face.
“I didn’t think you’d answer the door,” I murmured, looking at him with pleading desperation in my eyes.
Rome blinked, then looked away, studying the street at my back. “I’ll always open the door for you, Iz. If you need me, and come to me, I’ll swing this door open like you haven’t broken my heart into a million pieces and slammed the door on your way out.”
It probably wasn’t the best idea to point out that he hadn’t answered the door any of the other times that I’d come, but I did it anyway.
“I’ve knocked on your door fifteen times since your son’s funeral,” I pointed out. “And each time I had to walk four and a half miles each way to get here…”
Rome’s eyes narrowed, and his eyes went over my head as if he was searching for something.
“You walk here?” he asked incredulously.
I nodded. “I walk everywhere.” I shrugged. “My parents never saw fit to teach me how to drive. They said it was something I could learn later since they didn’t have the money to send me to the school or to get me a car.”
His eyes narrowed. “A lot of parents don’t have the money to do that, yet they find a way to do it. I think your parents are just assholes.”
There was no debating that. My parents were assholes. Always had been, and always would be. They looked out for themselves, and themselves only.
I snorted. “You’re not telling me anything that I haven’t thought of on a daily basis.”
He looked away and swallowed. “I’m still really fuckin’ mad at you, Iz.”
I looked down at my hands that were twisting around each other.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I whispered. “But seriously, how the hell was I supposed to tell you who I was? Think about it. You would’ve thought I was a crazy weirdo.”
He shrugged. “We’ll never know now, will we?”
No, I guess we never would.
But that didn’t mean that I wouldn’t try to fix what I’d broken. Try to mend the bridge that we’d formed through some very tough times.
I didn’t want to lose Rome. Not because I’d done something stupid that he couldn’t forgive me over.
“I told you things,” he said, shaking his head.
“I told you things, too,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But I thought I was talking to some virtual stranger over the last couple of months. There are things I said that I don’t want you to hold against me.”
That’s when I lost my temper.
“Do you honestly think that I would hold you being depressed that your son had just died against you?” I asked furiously. “Because let me tell you something, Rome. I’m not a bitch. I care about you. I’ve cared about you for a very long time, and you may think you know it, but you have no idea to the extent.”
He snorted. “You don’t…”
“I do care about you,” I told him. “I fucking care about you a lot. So much so that I lie awake at night thinking about you. I walked eighteen freakin’ miles today when it was hot as balls out here to make sure that you’re okay. I text you. I write you letters. I care about you—too much.”
He whirled, and my gut instinct was to protect myself.
In my experience, a man with a big body, moving that fast, usually meant bad things for me.
I didn’t think that he would ever hurt me, but because this was such a deeply ingrained reaction that I literally couldn’t stop myself.
I crouched and covered my face and head with both hands, catching what I’d done within seconds as the silence surrounding us became oppressive.
Coming out of the crouch with embarrassment written all over my face, it was to see him staring at me with horror in his eyes.
“I’d never hit you,” he whispered, sounding heartbroken at my reaction when he’d made threatening steps toward me.
“You can yell at me. You can take out your anger on me. You can do whatever you want to do to me…but that,” I whispered. “You’re a big man, Rome. Three times my size, and I don’t care how well I know you. Something that deeply ingrained isn’t something that I can just stop feeling.”
He didn’t say anything.
I growled in frustration and then pushed past him…or tried to.
He didn’t move, and then before I could react, he had his arms around me and he was hugging the crap out of me.
“I’m a mess,” I told him.
He laughed. “You and me both, sweetheart. You and me both.”
“Have you eaten?” I asked his chest, trying not to get too comfortable.
But the appeal of wrapping my arms around him and getting lost in his scent was too appealing.
I couldn’t help myself.
Wrapping my arms around his trim waist, and trying not to pay attention to how hard his body was—holy abs, Batman!—I snuggled into the hug.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed it.
I’d had five men hug me in my lifetime that I could remember. Slate, Oscar, my father when I was a very young child, my ex-boyfriend, and Rome.
Rome had, by far, been the best one.
I’d give just about anything to give Slate a hug right now…but Rome’s hug? I’d give up the breath in my lungs. The ability to walk. The ability to see.
Rome’s hugs were that special to me.
And he likely had no idea what wrapping his arms around my shoulders meant for me. It meant trust. It meant forgiveness. It meant everything.
Rome took a deep breath, then blew it out. “No, I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.”
He grunted. “Someone left an entire bag full of tamales on the table from lunch today, and I ate every single friggin’ one of them.”
I laughed, rubbing my nose along his chest.
I wondered if he was as affected by my hugs as I was by his.
Probably not since he was able to speak in complete sentences, whereas I was thinking about how beautiful his stomach likely looked. Or how he probably had that V that drives all women wild.
Then he let me go, and I felt like my whole world shattered.
I held on for a few long seconds after he’d dropped his arms from around me, and I wondered idly how long was too long before it got to the weird department. Ten seconds? Fifteen? Sixty?
I let him go and felt like he’d stolen all my body heat when he’d pulled away.
“Come on in,” Rome said, pushing the door open wide.
I smiled and did as instructed, this time taking in all the sights there was to see.
Though there still wasn’t any décor on the walls, there was enough architectural character in the design of the house itself that it didn’t really need any.
The woodwork was damn near a work of art in and of itself.
“I love this house,” I told him as he walked past me to the living room.
“You’ve seen it before,” he pointed out sarcastically.
I rolled my eyes. “I know, but I had other things on my mind,” I answered honestly. “And I’ve had a crush on this house since we moved here years ago. I had hoped that my parents would buy it. It was one of the ones that we looked at…well, they looked at. Slate, Oscar and I weren’t allowed to get out of the car.”
“Who’s Slate?” he questioned, looking over his shoulder at me.
To keep myself from staring at his ass, I continued to study the house. It had high, vaulted ceilings. Rough cut lumber on the walls. Huge windows that had to be a bitch to keep clean since you couldn’t reach half of them, and cobwebs.
And I would’ve just wound up in the same exact place that I was in right now.
Fidgeting at the stoop, wondering if this was a good idea, I decided “fuck it!” and knocked.
I didn’t expect him to answer the door, to be honest.
After everything I’d said and done, I hadn’t expected him to give me the time of day.
But there he was, moments after I’d knocked, staring at me with such a blank expression on his face that it physically hurt to look at him.
I felt this burning urge in my chest to throw myself at him, but I thought better of it once I saw the look on his face.
“I didn’t think you’d answer the door,” I murmured, looking at him with pleading desperation in my eyes.
Rome blinked, then looked away, studying the street at my back. “I’ll always open the door for you, Iz. If you need me, and come to me, I’ll swing this door open like you haven’t broken my heart into a million pieces and slammed the door on your way out.”
It probably wasn’t the best idea to point out that he hadn’t answered the door any of the other times that I’d come, but I did it anyway.
“I’ve knocked on your door fifteen times since your son’s funeral,” I pointed out. “And each time I had to walk four and a half miles each way to get here…”
Rome’s eyes narrowed, and his eyes went over my head as if he was searching for something.
“You walk here?” he asked incredulously.
I nodded. “I walk everywhere.” I shrugged. “My parents never saw fit to teach me how to drive. They said it was something I could learn later since they didn’t have the money to send me to the school or to get me a car.”
His eyes narrowed. “A lot of parents don’t have the money to do that, yet they find a way to do it. I think your parents are just assholes.”
There was no debating that. My parents were assholes. Always had been, and always would be. They looked out for themselves, and themselves only.
I snorted. “You’re not telling me anything that I haven’t thought of on a daily basis.”
He looked away and swallowed. “I’m still really fuckin’ mad at you, Iz.”
I looked down at my hands that were twisting around each other.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I whispered. “But seriously, how the hell was I supposed to tell you who I was? Think about it. You would’ve thought I was a crazy weirdo.”
He shrugged. “We’ll never know now, will we?”
No, I guess we never would.
But that didn’t mean that I wouldn’t try to fix what I’d broken. Try to mend the bridge that we’d formed through some very tough times.
I didn’t want to lose Rome. Not because I’d done something stupid that he couldn’t forgive me over.
“I told you things,” he said, shaking his head.
“I told you things, too,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But I thought I was talking to some virtual stranger over the last couple of months. There are things I said that I don’t want you to hold against me.”
That’s when I lost my temper.
“Do you honestly think that I would hold you being depressed that your son had just died against you?” I asked furiously. “Because let me tell you something, Rome. I’m not a bitch. I care about you. I’ve cared about you for a very long time, and you may think you know it, but you have no idea to the extent.”
He snorted. “You don’t…”
“I do care about you,” I told him. “I fucking care about you a lot. So much so that I lie awake at night thinking about you. I walked eighteen freakin’ miles today when it was hot as balls out here to make sure that you’re okay. I text you. I write you letters. I care about you—too much.”
He whirled, and my gut instinct was to protect myself.
In my experience, a man with a big body, moving that fast, usually meant bad things for me.
I didn’t think that he would ever hurt me, but because this was such a deeply ingrained reaction that I literally couldn’t stop myself.
I crouched and covered my face and head with both hands, catching what I’d done within seconds as the silence surrounding us became oppressive.
Coming out of the crouch with embarrassment written all over my face, it was to see him staring at me with horror in his eyes.
“I’d never hit you,” he whispered, sounding heartbroken at my reaction when he’d made threatening steps toward me.
“You can yell at me. You can take out your anger on me. You can do whatever you want to do to me…but that,” I whispered. “You’re a big man, Rome. Three times my size, and I don’t care how well I know you. Something that deeply ingrained isn’t something that I can just stop feeling.”
He didn’t say anything.
I growled in frustration and then pushed past him…or tried to.
He didn’t move, and then before I could react, he had his arms around me and he was hugging the crap out of me.
“I’m a mess,” I told him.
He laughed. “You and me both, sweetheart. You and me both.”
“Have you eaten?” I asked his chest, trying not to get too comfortable.
But the appeal of wrapping my arms around him and getting lost in his scent was too appealing.
I couldn’t help myself.
Wrapping my arms around his trim waist, and trying not to pay attention to how hard his body was—holy abs, Batman!—I snuggled into the hug.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed it.
I’d had five men hug me in my lifetime that I could remember. Slate, Oscar, my father when I was a very young child, my ex-boyfriend, and Rome.
Rome had, by far, been the best one.
I’d give just about anything to give Slate a hug right now…but Rome’s hug? I’d give up the breath in my lungs. The ability to walk. The ability to see.
Rome’s hugs were that special to me.
And he likely had no idea what wrapping his arms around my shoulders meant for me. It meant trust. It meant forgiveness. It meant everything.
Rome took a deep breath, then blew it out. “No, I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.”
He grunted. “Someone left an entire bag full of tamales on the table from lunch today, and I ate every single friggin’ one of them.”
I laughed, rubbing my nose along his chest.
I wondered if he was as affected by my hugs as I was by his.
Probably not since he was able to speak in complete sentences, whereas I was thinking about how beautiful his stomach likely looked. Or how he probably had that V that drives all women wild.
Then he let me go, and I felt like my whole world shattered.
I held on for a few long seconds after he’d dropped his arms from around me, and I wondered idly how long was too long before it got to the weird department. Ten seconds? Fifteen? Sixty?
I let him go and felt like he’d stolen all my body heat when he’d pulled away.
“Come on in,” Rome said, pushing the door open wide.
I smiled and did as instructed, this time taking in all the sights there was to see.
Though there still wasn’t any décor on the walls, there was enough architectural character in the design of the house itself that it didn’t really need any.
The woodwork was damn near a work of art in and of itself.
“I love this house,” I told him as he walked past me to the living room.
“You’ve seen it before,” he pointed out sarcastically.
I rolled my eyes. “I know, but I had other things on my mind,” I answered honestly. “And I’ve had a crush on this house since we moved here years ago. I had hoped that my parents would buy it. It was one of the ones that we looked at…well, they looked at. Slate, Oscar and I weren’t allowed to get out of the car.”
“Who’s Slate?” he questioned, looking over his shoulder at me.
To keep myself from staring at his ass, I continued to study the house. It had high, vaulted ceilings. Rough cut lumber on the walls. Huge windows that had to be a bitch to keep clean since you couldn’t reach half of them, and cobwebs.
