Breakfast on Tuesday

19. Sad girl

Dante hugged me.

It was unexpected, and yet it felt so wonderfully right. For a cold man, his hugs were warm and anything but stiff.

I couldn't say the same for myself. My body was stiffer than a broomstick shoved way up an aristocrat's haughty ass.

I wasn't a hugger, and Dante's warm muscles pressing against my breasts like a hard bedrock wasn't helping at all. Contrarily, I wanted to lean in closer.

He didn't say anything.

He simply hugged me, held me to him gently, and I let him. After a long while, I rested my head on his shoulder and felt at peace. Safe. Safe enough to let my guard down even more than I had already.

"W-when did your mother die?" I asked, and immediately, I cringed and stared down at the floor, remembering that I had promised not to ask any more intrusive questions. "I'm sorry."

His hand slid up the back of my head and settled at the nape of my neck, his fingers playing with my baby hairs.

A sigh escaped him. "It's okay. She died nine months ago. Who shot your father?"

Slowly, I looked up and our eyes met. His were dark, darker than I had ever seen them. Like wet sand... Or a deep whiskey brown. I skimmed the rest of his face and noticed that the small crease between his eyebrows was deeper now. He looked me squarely in the eyes.

Talk his eyes told me. Talk before he changed his mind.

I opened my mouth and the words came spilling out. "Strangers shot him. They came in the night, two of them. It was a Tuesday evening, a little after eight or so. My father thought he heard something while we were reading together in bed. He told me to stay put but I followed him."

"Fuck, Carla. You saw it happen?"

I nodded. "My mother was in her room. She didn't care much about reading to me. She loved feeding me and that's how she showed her love. My father was different. He was playful and very involved in every aspect of my life. That night, he tried to stop those masked men from stealing from us and they shot him in the heart and left him to die."

"Were they ever found? The robbers?"

"No. It's a mystery who they were." I paused. "I didn't talk for two months after my father died. I became a mute and my mother didn't know what to do with me."

A sad sob escaped me as dreadful tears poured from my eyes and ran unchecked down my cheeks. Old memories flooded my head like an unexpected tsunami that couldn't be held back and once more I was transported back to my old room and the giant dollhouse I took refuge in.

She's grumpy and sad every day. She won't talk to me or anyone else. And she won't leave that stupid dollhouse.

I'm going to call you grumpy girl from now on, Carla, so open your mouth and talk.

Grumpy girl.

Grumpy girl.

I give up.

I never liked hearing your voice anyway. It's so whiney. Now I can pamper myself in peace without your voice nagging me every five seconds. Your father's death is enough on my plate. I don't need your petty drama on top of it.

Dante's lips moving on the side of my neck drew me out of the ugly memories. "What made you talk again? Because cariño, you talk a lot now."

I rolled my eyes and chuckled softly, wiping at my tears with trembling hands. Just like that, he drew me out of the gloomy funk I was in.