28. Laura

Chapter 28

Laura

M arco's waiting for me in the parking lot of his condo building. I park next to his BMW and get out, and when he comes over to escort me over to the passenger side, I shake my head and lean into him.

"Actually, I was thinking that I'd drive."

His eyebrows raise. "You don't know where we're going."

"That's why they invented GPS." I get up on my toes and kiss him gently, trying not to grin too big. "Come on. Let me drive. I've barely been back on the road."

He reluctantly hands me the keys. "Just go easy."

I can't take it anymore. I crack up and brush him off as I head over to the passenger side. He looks totally relieved as he gets in behind the wheel.

"You're too easy to wind up sometimes," I say as he pulls out.

We planned this date the second we were apart. He wouldn't tell me where we were going, but he said I'd like it, and I'm at the point where I don't really care what we do, so long as we do it together.

I just want to be around him. I wouldn't have been upset if he had said we were staying at his place, and oh, by the way, Jackal's stopping by for a visit. No, I wouldn't have minded that one tiny bit, not after the last time. I swear, I can still feel him between my legs, even though it's been a few days.

This is our first official date as Marco and Laura. He seems himself, almost identical to Jackal, except somehow more relaxed. Jackal is stiff and imposing like a monster from a dream, while Marco seems calmer and looser as he navigates the car away from Chicago and out toward the suburbs.

"Are you about to kill me and bury me in the woods?" I ask him, batting my eyelashes. I put a hand on his thigh and his eyebrows raise. "Because that's about the sexiest thing I've ever heard."

"You have a very twisted sense of humor, you know that?"

"That's true. But I didn't realize I was kidding."

He smirks as he takes my hand from his leg and raises it to his mouth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he kisses my fingers slowly, lingering on each one. It sends a thrill of excitement deep into my core.

I'd been worried that I wouldn't have the same chemistry with Marco as I have with Jackal, but he's already wiping that out of my mind.

He asks me questions about myself as the drive stretches. He wants to know about what it was like growing up a Bianco, what my favorite shows and movies are, what I like to do for fun. I'm a hermit, so my answers are mostly sculpting, sculpting, and more sculpting, but we have other things in common. Like we both love the lo-fi beat playlists on Spotify. I put them on when I'm blocked with my work, and he has them playing while he breaks into computer systems.

I ask him how he got into hacking. He talks about growing up poor and lonely, and finding solace online. "I was deep into the real creepy parts of the web," he admits with a bashful smile that's frankly sexy as hell. "Getting into places where I wasn't supposed to be became my outlet, you know? It was my distraction. My home life wasn't great at this point and I was living in my cousin's basement."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen when my mom left. Eleven when my dad died." He shrugs a little and glances at me. "I found ways to hide from the pain when I was younger. I guess it served me well as I got older."

I hate the idea of young Marco suffering. I want to press him about his parents, but he moves on from that subject and pesters me with more questions. I don't have very interesting answers, but that doesn't seem to deter him at all. If anything, the more we get talking, the easier the talking becomes, like it doesn't matter what I say or how I say it, the conversation will just keep flowing.

I can't remember the last time I talked to someone like this. Easy, free, no worries, no stress. Angelo's probably the only other person in my life I can have a conversation with for more than a couple minutes, and even that's a stretch.

This half-hour car ride feels like five minutes. There's no silence, no gaps, no awkwardness, and I find myself more energized by the end of it. Usually, social contact drains me and leaves me exhausted, but it's not like that with him.

I feel brighter with him.

He parks outside an old industrial-looking building at the edge of a suburban train station. There are other cars packing the lot already, and most of them are high-end brands, like Mercedes and Aston Martin and the like. Which isn't what I think of when I imagine the outlying counties collaring Chicago.

"Last chance to turn around," he says as he opens my door and helps me out of the car.

I shake my head, too curious to do anything else. "How about you warn me before we go inside?"

"Since you were such a good girl on the car ride, I think you earned that much at least." He puts one hand on the small of my back. I shiver and lick my lips. I'm wearing dark slacks and a black silky top with my hair loose around my shoulders. It's probably the fanciest outfit I own, which doesn't say much about my wardrobe of mostly denim overalls and athletic gear. "There's this sculptor named Nicolas Girard and he's having an opening tonight. I hear it's good, and I thought you might be interested."

My eyebrows raise as I stare at the building, and now it makes sense. The place has a gallery vibe, now that I'm thinking about it, very austere and serious but also fun and arty. "I've never been to a gallery opening before. Well, except for my own."

"Then this will be perfect." He offers me his arm and I take it. We walk together to the front door. "If you get uncomfortable or if you want to leave for any reason, just tell me, okay?"

I suppress a smile and nod. That's such a sweet offer, and I have to remind myself that Marco knows me, he's aware that I've been locked up in my house making tongues and fingers for the last ten years, and all of this going out stuff is very new to me. He's right, I'm nervous, but so long as I can hold onto his arm, I'll be fine.

He shows an invitation at the door and we enter into a crowded space broken up by big white walls. The sculptures dominate the space: they're figures, mostly women, but done in strange geometric and abstract shapes. The human form is still there, still obvious in the lines and curves, but somehow that's only hinted at through the sweep of the marble. One in particular catches my mind, and I'm impressed at how smooth the edges and curves are. I get close, staring for chisel marks, trying to figure out what technique he uses while Marco patiently stands beside me.

The night goes like that. He procures drinks while I study the works, obsessing over tiny details, and he doesn't even mind when I start talking shop with a few random guests. The densely packed rooms make my heart race and sweat break out on my skin, but when I'm focusing on the art, I can forget all about the crowd.

He indulges me for an hour. I'm not sure he expected me to get this into it, but I have to admit, the guy's a fucking patient saint for hanging around and letting me nerd out.

"You wait here," he says and kisses my cheek. "I'll get us fresh drinks. Then I want you to myself for a little while."

"I guess I can spare you some time."

"That's what I love about you, Laura. Your generosity." He kisses the corner of my mouth before walking off.

It leaves me breathless, the way he so casually says what I love about you . I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before. Mostly, people are creeped out by me, and for good reason. I've worked very hard on my fuck-you-I'm-a-psycho vibes for years, and I think I've gotten pretty good at it. But with Marco, I don't feel like I need to push him away. I can say what I want and feel what I want and be who I am, without worrying whether he's going to get weirded out about my murder jokes.

"From what I hear, you seem to know a thing or two about sculpting." A man's voice jostles my attention. "I'm Nicolas. What's your name?" I half turn to face him, and I freeze.

He's in his mid-thirties, older than I am. Scruffy facial hair, curly dark brown hair, light skin. His brown eyes seem amused, and his thin lips are pulled into what's probably meant to be a friendly smile. He's in a button-down, a scarf around his neck, and slacks.

It's not him . It can't be him. Ethan was in his thirties when he was my teacher, which means he'd be in his forties by now. At least, if he weren't dead.

But, oh my god, Nicolas looks exactly like him. It's uncanny, it's disturbing. It's making my heart race and my hands go clammy. I can barely breathe, because even though I know Ethan's gone, this guy reminds me so much of the man I looked up to, the man who took everything from me, and now suddenly the crowd's pressing against me, their faces leering and laughing as I gasp for air. My head feels light and my feet are numb, and Nicolas shows his teeth in a vicious smirk, laughing as I turn away from him, my hand going up to my heart.

I can't think. I can't breathe. Fuck, I haven't had an attack like this in a very long time, but once it's triggered, I can't do anything to stop it. I feel small and helpless again, a lost and broken teenager trying to process a hurt that won't ever heal, as I stagger and bump into someone. I try to apologize, but words won't come out. Everything is muted, all the voices are mumbles, and more people are getting in my face as I try to wave them away.

This can't be happening. This shouldn't be happening. Ethan is gone . Except I never should have come here. I should've known better. This is what happens when I'm in public—sooner or later, I lose my shit, and it's happening all over again, miles and miles from home, from my safe place.

Then hands grab me. I turn, ready to scream, and Marco's face swims into view. He's got me, one hand on my arm, the other one on my waist, and he's steering me away from the crowd, away from the mutters and murmurs, down a side hallway and toward a bench set across from the toilets. He gives me water and he's talking, but I can't understand a word he's saying, as I struggle through my breathing exercise. Four in, four hold, six out, over and over, four-four-six, until my racing heart slows to something manageable and the ringing in my ears fades, and Marco's face resolves into something solid.

He's rubbing my back. It feels good. "You're okay," he says softly. "You're okay. You're all right. I've got you. You're okay."

"I'm so sorry," I manage to say, leaning forward with my face in my hands. I won't cry, I won't cry, but I think I might.

"You have nothing to apologize for. What did that bastard say to you? I'll kill him, Laura."

"No," I say, grabbing his knee in panic. "Please."

"Okay, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere." He keeps rubbing my back. The worst of the panic attack is over, and now it's only a matter of time before I get myself together. I drink some of the water and sit back against the wall, my eyes shut as I lean into his shoulder.

"That hasn't happened in a while," I admit once I'm feeling like myself again.

"I shouldn't have pushed you. This is my fault."

"No, it's not, it was just bad luck." I let out an ugly laugh and scrub at my face with both hands. "It was the artist. He wanted to talk shop, I think, but when I saw him—" I shake my head, fighting a groan.

How am I supposed to explain to him why I'm broken? I haven't had to do this in such a long, long time, and I'm stupidly out of practice. But it's only a story—a sequence of events that happened to a fifteen-year-old girl named Laura Bianco, a girl I used to be, but a girl I'm most definitely not anymore.

"If he hurt you?—"

"No, believe me, it's not his fault. He just, he looked like someone I knew, and that triggered a bunch of old feelings, and I guess the crowd finally got to me, and here we are." My laugh sounds hysterical, even to me. "I'm not doing great on this date, am I?"

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me tighter against him. "Baby, you're doing perfect. Come on, let's get out of here. I'll take you home."

I nod and don't have the energy to argue. We leave the back way and he spares me the indignity of going back through the main room. Once we're in the car, he starts driving back to Chicago, and all I can do is stare out the window and stew in my self-loathing.

I thought I'd moved on. It seemed like I was doing better. Marco and Jackal both make me feel safe in ways I haven't experienced in a while, but looking back on it, this was our first time out in a big crowd without any masks. Jackal was with me at the hotel bar; I had my face covered during my gallery openings.

This was different. No games, no defenses, just two normal people doing a normal thing, and I couldn't fucking handle it.

"I want to tell you what happened to me," I say, suddenly convinced that this is the only way I can excise the shame, by telling him about it.

"You don't have to," he says softly. "You don't owe me that. But I'll listen. I'm here for you."

I suck in a deep breath, and that's actually refreshing to hear, instead of something like, Laura you need a therapist, Laura you have to talk about it, Laura you can't keep it all bottled up .

"He was my teacher," I say quietly. "I can still picture him: scruffy, skinny, always smiling. Just like Nicolas, except thinner. Everyone loved him. He ran the art club and I joined up, mostly because I thought he was funny and cute, and he was always complimenting my class work. There weren't many of us, and some days it was only him and me. I felt special, you know? He gave me so much attention, and I really looked up to him. I kept thinking, if this brilliant, funny man actually thinks I'm talented, then maybe I can be someone and not just another Bianco.

"It wasn't weird at first. I mean, maybe it was, I don't know. He stuck to working on my art with me. Helping me with drawing, critiquing pottery, stuff like that. But gradually, we got closer. He wrote me notes, long notes, about how smart I am and how amazing we are together. He said he wanted to make things with me, real things, not just school stuff. I was fifteen, and he was probably in his thirties, and I thought I was special."

I glance over at Marco. He's staring straight again, his jaw tense, his fingers white on the steering wheel. I force myself to keep going.

"He kissed me one day after school. We were standing together near the kiln, and he turned to me, brushed my hair from my face, and put his lips on mine. I didn't know what to do, so I just sort of stood there. It was like my spirit left my body. But he wasn't satisfied, he just kept going. I didn't scream, you know? I don't think I told him to stop. I was in shock, I was paralyzed, I just let it happen to me because I looked up to him and I was so afraid of what might happen if I didn't. He kept saying I was special, over and over, I was special, special, special , and I remember staring at the kiln as he did it to me, watching the light inside glowing dull amber and orange. There was a painting tacked to the wall, this Picasso, a bunch of ears and fingers and teeth, and sometimes I think I'm just sculpting that print over and over again.

"I didn't cry until I got home. My brother Angelo found me curled up in my closet. He said I'd been there for a while, but I don't really remember. I told him everything. He was so mad, he went straight to my dad, and then there was the police and the lawyer. Ethan got arrested and went to prison, and three years after that a member of the Famiglia brutally murdered him in his cellblock. I was told it was slow and very painful.

"But anyway, that Nicolas guy looked exactly like Ethan, or at least similar, and I just, it all hit me again." I try to smile, but I can't muster the energy.

Marco's silent. I let the story end there. I could tell him more: the years of therapy, the fights with my mother, the struggle to feel sane again. I lashed out as a kid after it all went down, and I could never get back that trust again, and in the end I decided it was easier to stay away from people, to sculpt, to hide. I'd hit first and fight like a beast and never, ever take shit, not ever again. But mostly I just hid. That way, nobody could hurt me.

"I'm so sorry," Marco says. "If I had known?—"

"How could you have? I don't go around announcing to people that I was raped by my art teacher when I was fifteen. Not exactly an easy thing to talk about."

"Still." He blows out a long breath. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Really. I feel better already." And it's true: in times past, I'd be an emotional, shaking wreck for a whole day after a panic attack, but I'm starting to feel more like myself already, barely an hour later.

"I can't imagine what you went through."

"It was strange, you know? My dad, he was so mad for a while, but I was the youngest and a girl, and sort of an afterthought. He got over it, then everyone else got over it, and I thought I did too. Then tonight happens."

"Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn't easy, and I'm glad you feel like you can trust me enough to share."

I smile a little and put my hand on his leg. He takes my fingers into his and squeezes, and we hold like that for a while as we get deeper and deeper into the city, winding our way back to his condo. Once he parks next to my car, the thought of driving back to the oasis and going into my cold, empty, quiet house feels like an impossibility, and I hold onto his hand tighter.

"I don't want to go home," I say, looking at him.

Marco's head tilts. "Do you want to come inside?"

"Yes. Please." I lean across the car and kiss him. I run my fingers through his hair. This, right here, this is what I've been looking for all this time. A simple moment, a good one. I feel unburdened and free. I can choose, and my choice matters. "Do you mind?"

"Baby, no part of me ever wants you to go home," he says softly, brushing his knuckles across my cheek.

"Good. Then come on. You better have something to drink up there."

He laughs and leads me across the parking lot, and I don't care that I couldn't so much as make it through a gallery opening without having a total meltdown. At least I'm here with him, and now he knows me, he can really see me for what I am, and he's not pulling away.