I don’t know how to reconcile that. How to make him see that clinging to old vows won’t make him happy. That it’s not wrong to love me–or anyone, or to enjoy the pleasure that we both felt together.
I hate that anyone ever made him feel like it was, like he needs to cling to a past that isn’t his any longer.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and I wipe at my face again, trying to clear away any lingering signs that I’ve been crying. The door creaks open, and Max steps in, carrying a tray of food.
It almost makes me laugh aloud at the irony.
Breakfast in bed.He’d brought it to me, just not in the romantic way I’d imagined.
“What’s so funny?” Max asks as he carries the tray to me, and I quickly shake my head.
“Nothing. You just look very domestic with that.” I nod at the tray, which he arranges in front of me atop the blankets. The smell of the food–eggs cooked with cheese, tiny fruit pastries, smoked salmon, and a bowl of freshly cut fruit alongside glasses of water and orange juice that looks freshly squeezed–makes my stomach rumble and clench painfully, and my mouth water. I haven’t eaten since that lunch, and I feel as if I’m starving. Iamstarving, technically.
“Eat slowly,” Max cautions, as if he can hear my thoughts. “You’ll hurt yourself if you eat too fast. I told Giana that plain eggs and toast might be better, right off the bat, but she’s apparently been dying to cook for someone other than her and her husband, so she gave me this.” He gestures at the tray.
“What about you?” I glance at him. “Shouldn’t you eat?”
He points at the second fork, and I feel myself flush. “I did tell her to add a little extra for me.”
“Oh.” I wince, feeling embarrassed, and Max laughs.
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you eat first. Surprisingly, I’m not all that hungry. Just don’t bite me when I try to get a forkful.”
“I’m not a rabid dog!” I exclaim, laughing, but at the moment, I’m so hungry I almost feel like Iwouldbite anyone who got between me and the food. I poke at the eggs, forking up a small bite and putting it in my mouth, and I nearly moan aloud at the taste of it. They’re buttery and rich like the ones Caterina’s cook makes, made with cream instead of milk, and the herbs and soft goat cheese mixed in is heaven. I close my eyes, savoring it, and when I open them again, I can see Max’s mouth twitching with humor.
“What?” I ask, a touch defensively, and he laughs.
“I’ve seen people have religious experiences that looked less ecstatic than you with that bite of egg.” He smirks. “Is it that good? Maybe I’ll–” He pokes his fork out teasingly towards the eggs, and I swat it away with mine.
“I’ll tell you when I’m done,” I snip teasingly at him, and Max laughs.
“Well, go ahead. I wouldn’t want to be accused of starving you.”
I’m so hungry that it takes a moment for it to sink in how easily we went back to our usual, friendly banter. It’s not that I’m not glad that things aren’t strained between us–they so easily could have been, after sleeping together, followed by my declaration of love and Max’s rejection of it–but it’s just another reminder of howgoodwe are together, how good it all is. Our relationship, our chemistry, the sex–it’s all easy and good and mindblowing, and it feels so wrong for it to be thrown away with both hands…for what?
A promise that’s already been broken?/
“Tell me about your family.” I glance at him, scooting the plate of food closer to his side of the tray as I cut off a sliver of smoked salmon, so that he can get to it more easily, too. “This is where you grew up, right?”
Max nods, taking a bite of eggs. “This is my family home, yes. I haven’t been back here since my parents died.”
“They’re both gone?” I look at him sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been a long time now.” Max waves a hand as if to brush it away. “My father wasn’t the warmest man, and my mother had plenty of issues of her own, but she tried to be a good wife and mother. My father broke her heart on a regular basis with his string of mistresses, and she poured all of that love into us–but it was a bit stifling at times. There was some friction growing up, especially between her and my older brother, and my father accusing her of coddling us.”
“So you have two siblings?” I take another bite of egg, looking at one of the fruit pastries and trying to decide if eating it would be too taxing on my shriveled stomach. “One brother and a–”
“Another brother,” Max says, taking a sip of water. “My mother probably would have been a lot happier if she’d had a daughter, to be honest. At least one. But she ended up with three boys, which means she had no end of our father telling her she was ruining us by being too ‘soft.’”
“Your other brother was younger or older?”
Max’s mouth twists slightly and he sets down the pastry he’d picked up, his expression suddenly strained. “Younger,” he says finally. “I’m the middle child. Which is the issue with everything.”
“What do you mean?” I look at him curiously.
“The older was meant to inherit, of course. And in the Agosti family, the tradition has always been, for as long as the family name has existed, for the youngest son to enter the priesthood. That’s the way of things. The eldest inherits, the middle son–if there is one–remains to take up the eldest’s place if there are no heirs, and the youngest goes to the Church.”
“But that didn’t happen?”