I tentatively reached for his hand and curled mine over it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. I didn’t know what else to say.
I wished there were magic words I could utter that would make him feel better. But nothing could change the past, and people had to deal with their trauma in their own time.
Christian had been holding onto his for decades. It would take more than a few nice words to heal it.
The best thing I could do was be there for him when he was finally ready to confront it.
“I’ve never told anyone that before.” The haunted expression lingered in his eyes for a moment longer before it disappeared.
“Now that I’ve ruined a beautiful Italian afternoon with my poor little sob story, we should go.” Christian rose, his face an impassive mask once again. “We have lunch reservations in half an hour.”
“You didn’t ruin it.” I squeezed his hand. “I care more about you than any fancy meal or museum outing.”
Christian’s jaw flexed. His gaze held mine for a brief, burning moment before he turned away.
“We should go,” he repeated, his voice rough with emotion.
I let the moment pass. I sensed he’d reached his limit for personal introspection today.
We paid and left the cafe, but when we neared the main street, he paused. “Stella.”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for listening.”
The ache returned in full force. “Thank you for telling me.”
Christian thought he’d ruined our afternoon when, in fact, he’d made it. Not because I enjoyed hearing the heartbreaking details of his childhood, but because he’d finally let me in.
No more hiding behind his walls.
Despite all the luxury hotels we’d stayed at, the gourmet meals we’d eaten, and the extravagant activities we’d done, that was the best part of our trip so far.
As dreamy as our vacation was, I loved it not because I was in Italy but because I was in Italy with him.
And that made all the difference in the world.