Page 28 of It Hurts Me

The waitress returned with the water.

“Thank you,” Astrid said quietly, her eyes dark with the shadow she wore. She had catlike eyes, and she’d done something with her makeup to make them appear bigger, smokier and sultrier.

This woman sold art, but she could easily sell herself. I’d been with escorts who charged a million dollars for the evening—and she could charge double. I hadn’t fucked her yet, but even if she just lay there while I did all the work, that’d be just fine with me.

I picked up the menu and took a look. “I hope you aren’t getting another salad.”

She smirked slightly, like she might laugh. “I don’t want to look bloated.”

“Why?”

She seemed to realize what she’d just admitted and looked down into her water glass before she took a drink. “Just don’t.”

“A belly isn’t going to make my dick less hard, sweetheart.”

Her eyes immediately flicked up.

“Get what you want,” I said. “I’m getting the lasagna.” I set the menu down, confident in my selection.

She continued to stare at me before she looked at the menu again.

When the waitress returned to the table, I ordered first to give her another moment to decide. “I’ll take the meat lasagna.”

She took one final look at the menu before she handed it over. “I’ll have the same.”

I smirked before I took a drink. “Attagirl.”

“My parents are from Milan,” she said. “We moved to Florence when I was about ten.”

“They still live in the city?”

“No…they’re gone.”

I gave a slow nod in understanding, absorbing her sadness. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while now.”

“Can I ask what happened?” Unless her parents were older when they had her, they should still be mobile and healthy. It must have been a tragedy, like a car accident.

“Well, my mom got sick. By the time they caught it, there was nothing they could do. She was gone in three weeks. And then my dad…” She stopped and stared at her water glass, taking a moment to combat the pain inside. “He killed himself a month after she was gone. He just couldn’t live without her…” She moved her stare from the water glass to her half-eaten plate, keeping her emotion locked behind an invisible dam as best she could.

Sorry was such an empty and ambiguous thing to say, so I avoided saying it at all costs. But I truly felt sorry for her. “I’m sorry.” I repeated the words I’d already said, but I wished there were something else I could have said instead.

She grabbed her fork and cut off a small piece of her lasagna, but she let it sit on her plate instead of taking a bite. Her eyes were down for a few more seconds before she had the strength to look at me once more.

“Do you hate him?”

“Hate him?” she whispered. “No, I could never hate him.”

To leave behind his only child was a cowardly thing to do—in my opinion. Even if she was an adult who lived on her own, every child needed their parent. Different stages of life presented different needs. You needed a parent to hold you when you were scared at night, and then one day, you needed their friendship and advice.

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen.”

“And how old are you now?” It was hard to tell. She didn’t look as young as a twenty-one-year-old, but she didn’t look thirty either.

“Twenty-eight. So it’s been about ten years.”