Caterina
Something is wrong.
Not that Tatiana would admit it, sitting across from me at a burger place near the movie theater where we just caught a matinee. It’s an example of one of the things I like most about her. She might have a billionaire for a father, but she’s still a regular girl who likes the smell of movie theater popcorn and will slum it in restaurants I would’ve considered fancy back when I was a kid.
Her tastes haven’t changed… but something about her has. I know better than to come out and ask her point-blank what the deal is. Not that she would lie, but she’s never liked being questioned.
As close as we are, I’ve always had a feeling there are things she hides. She doesn’t trust anybody with all of her, not even me.
I guess she gets that from her father, who still keeps secrets between us. I mean, it’s not like we’ve been together for a long time, and I don’t expect him to be an open book. But there are moments when I can feel a wall coming down between us, and I know I shouldn’t push much further unless I want to start another war. He has his boundaries, and so does she.
Which is why I don’t want to come straight out and ask Tatiana why she seems distracted. She’s here physically, but her thoughts are a mile away. She’s not the bubbly girl I know. It’s like someone took the volume control and turned it down.
“What?” she asks with a tight smile.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was staring at you.”
“I mean, I know I’m beautiful.” She tosses her golden hair and rolls her eyes the way she always does. It gives me hope, but the hope is short-lived. Her eyes dim again, and she quickly turns her attention to the bacon cheeseburger on her plate.
“It’s funny. All that delicious food in France, and all I wanted after a few days was one of these.” She sinks her teeth in and closes her eyes, and I’m glad to see her truly enjoying something for the first time since she got home three days ago.
“So seriously, do you have pictures? What did it look like? Did you see any famous people?” Because, of course, she only stayed in the most exclusive areas, where celebrities sometimes vacation. At least, that was the way she made it sound when she first described the trip to me months ago.
She shakes her head, picking at the bun. She’s been biting her nails, I see. A new habit. “Not really.”
That’s another thing. She usually never stops talking. When we were younger, Dad used to call her the Energizer Bunny because she would keep going and going. I didn’t think that had changed until now.
I know why. And I want to die right here in this booth.
It was one thing for her to be okay with Gianni and me when she was an ocean away, but obviously, she feels differently now. We haven’t been physically affectionate in front of her, and I’ve kept from talking about us. It’s too awkward, and I don’t want her to feel like I’m rubbing her nose in it.
I hate feeling like I’m walking on eggshells around her, but I don’t want to bring it up. I don’t want to force a conversation if she doesn’t want to discuss this relationship. When she wants to, she’ll come to me. We’re both adults. I have to give her space.
And until she comes around, I’ll be staying in her father’s room. This is so fucked up.
By the time we finish eating—she doesn’t do much more than pick at her food, even after rambling about how much she was craving a burger—she slides out of the booth wearing a determined expression. “I want to go shopping. I need a few new things, especially for when I start my internship next month.”
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about that seems off. Just one more thing. “What a shame you didn’t just vacation somewhere with incredible clothes stores,” I remind her. “I figured you would come back with trunks full of new clothes.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get much of a chance to go shopping.” She’s digging through her purse, intent on finding her lip balm, but I wonder if she is also avoiding looking at me. Something’s not adding up, and I don’t know how to phrase it in a way that won’t piss her off and bring our day to an end.
She was gone for almost two months, and it’s like she came back a different person. Gianni asked over dinner last night if Christopher would come around to thank him for the trip, and she looked like she was going to throw up. She hasn’t mentioned him to me, and considering how tight-lipped she’s been, I don’t know if that means there’s something wrong with him or what.
“I could use a few things for work,” I offer. It’s difficult trying to sound chipper with this dark cloud hanging over us, but I do my best as we leave the restaurant and head for the car waiting outside. Roger isn’t driving, which is unusual, but Gianni has kept him busy lately with all kinds of work I’m not allowed to know the details of. I’m sure it’s better that way.
“Just make sure it’s nothing too cute, or Dad might get jealous.” I almost choke on my spit when she says it, but she pairs it with a light, genuine laugh that makes her sound like her old self.
I wish I knew what to think. I only know I’m so starved for her presence and friendship that hearing her laugh like that is a gift.
* * *
“This is cute.” I turn around in the mirror and check myself out over my shoulder. I wish it would get cold soon, so I have an excuse to wear a sweater dress. It’ll be super cute with boots.
I bet Gianni would love it. The idea makes me giggle at myself. He won’t be able to keep his hands off me with my curves on display. I might not make it out of the house before he attacks.
“Hey, check me out.” I open the door to my dressing room and knock on the door beside it. “What do you think?”
“Gimme a sec.” Her high-pitched voice rings out at the same time I realize her door isn’t fully closed, and it doesn’t occur to me not to open it until I see what she is trying to hide.
She’s just finished taking off a dress and is only in her bra and panties, so nothing’s keeping me from the black-and-blue patches all over her upper arms, her shoulder blades, even her ass.
Her wide, panicked eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It’s not what you think,” she immediately whispers.
“What happened?” The sight of her wearing those bruises makes my throat so tight I can’t do more than sip air.
“It’s nothing.” She backs herself into the corner, her arms crossed over her chest, hands gripping her shoulders. “Can I get a little privacy?”
No, she can’t because when my eyes drop below her waist, the bruises on her thighs jump out at me and make my eyes sting.
“We were swimming,” she explains while I stand in mute horror. “We rented a boat in Catania and were out in the water. I got thrown against some rocks. That’s all.”
And were any of those rocks hand-shaped? Because that’s the shape of the bruise on her left bicep—the perfect imprint of a palm and five fingers wrapped around her arm.
“Listen to me.” I close the door behind me and lower my voice to a whisper. “I want the truth.”
“That is—”
“Tatiana,” I snap. “That isn’t true. What about the bruises on your legs, inside your thighs? What really happened out there? You can tell me. I love you. You’re my best friend.”
“I know that.” She stares at the floor, curling and uncurling her toes and chewing her lip.
“If somebody hurt you, I’m here to listen. No judgment. But you have to be honest with me, and I can tell you aren’t.”
It’s when a tear hits her arm that my heart shatters. I have never seen her cry in all the years we’ve known each other. Even when she broke her wrist after tripping and falling on the playground in middle school, she didn’t shed a tear. She’s gone through breakups, and her mom has flaked out on something important a million times. Tatiana never so much as sniffled.
“It was bad.” I almost have to lean in to hear her; she’s whispering so softly. “Worse than before.”
“Before?” I ask with dread in my stomach. Damn it, I should have known. I saw all the warning signs. I just figured he was a temperamental douchebag, not that he would ever really hurt her. Somehow, I always had this stupid idea Gianni Rossetti’s daughter could defend herself—and that even if she couldn’t, nobody would be stupid enough to screw around with her, knowing who her father is. I figured she was invincible.
There is nothing invincible about the bruised, weeping girl in front of me. “He started getting physically abusive maybe a month before the trip,” she confesses, still looking at the floor, tears now dripping from her chin. “I thought he would be better once we got away and there wasn’t so much stress. But it only made him worse. It took me a while to figure out he didn’t feel like he had to be careful anymore, with us being in Europe. There was nobody watching, nobody that could stop him.”
“Oh, sweetie…”