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“You think I am being cruel,” I say.
“I think you are hurt.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he agrees. “It is not.”
I look at him again.
The softness in his face is unbearable.
“They are not the ones who hurt you,” he says quietly. “And they don’t deserve the anger you’re putting on them.”
His words land like a physical blow right between my ribs, and air leaves my lungs in a jagged rush. My vision blurs for a terrifying microsecond, the ghost of an apartment three thousand miles away flashing behind my eyelids—the sound of a door clicking shut, the silence of a man who didn’t fight to keep me.
They are not the ones who hurt you.
I stare at Dante, my throat closing so tight I can’t even swallow. The urge to lash out, to smash the canvas, to say something unforgivably cruel and wipe that gentle, knowing expression off his face is overwhelming. But the truth beneath the rage is so heavy, so pathetic and hollow, that my voice fails me completely.
“I am not taking my anger out on anyone,” I finally manage to say.
Dante does not argue.
He only reaches across the space between us and brushes his thumb gently over the back of my paint-stained hand.
“I know,” he says. “But sometimes we close every door because one person hurt us behind it.”
I swallow.
“You are very annoying for a birthday present,” I mutter.
Dante lets out a soft laugh. “I have other gifts.”
“Better gifts?”
“Much better.”
That pulls the smallest smile from me.
He rises from the bench, smoothing one hand down the front of his dark trousers. Before he steps away, he bends to kiss my hair.
“I will come back for you at seven,” he says. “Wear something warm. I am taking you to dinner.”
“You are kidnapping me on my birthday?”
“I am feeding you on your birthday.”
“Same thing.”
“Seven, amore mio.”
I look up at him.
His expression is calm, but something tender is there too.
“Fine,” I reply. “But if the restaurant has bad wine, I am leaving.”
“It will not.”
