For Angelo(25)

She winced. “I lied about that. I’m sorry.”

“I figured as much.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

“Are you mad?” The words came out haltingly, and her hands moved restlessly under the covers as she spoke.

“Of course not.” And there it was again, that odd note of reserve, like he was deliberately putting a wall between them. “But I would like to know what happened, if you’re comfortable talking about it.”

She swallowed, realizing that the time had come to lay all of her crazy cards on the table.

And after—

After, it was up to Angelo to decide.

“I h-have a social anxiety disorder.” Cold sweat bathed Lane’s skin as she admitted the truth, and she had a perverse, childish urge to hide under the covers.

If only she could close her eyes and wish they were back to being normal.

If only.

But the pain in her heart – it wasn’t the good kind of pain, not the kind that Angelo made her feel and crave.

This pain…was cruel.

This pain told her what she wanted was impossible.

This pain told her she would always be sick.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “My anxiety is a s-special form of plutophobia—” Lane saw Angelo’s head snap towards her, his gaze incredulous.

“Are you saying you’re afraid of money?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Not exactly.” The way he stared at her made Lane’s fists clench, but she pressed on doggedly, “I’m more afraid of rich people.”

Silence.

And then it was as if shock had shorn Angelo of his usually unfailing courtesy as he demanded, “Are you f*cking serious?”

Lane flinched.

“Rich people? You’re afraid of rich people?”

She gave him a small nod.

“Rich people…like me?”

Paling, she nodded again.

“Dio, Lane.” Frustration underlined Angelo’s voice. “That’s the worst illness you could possibly suffer from in my home. You know that, right?”

“Y-yes.” She bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

He raked a hand through his hair. “And what about CU? What the hell did you even think you were doing, enrolling in a school like CU?”

“It w-works like my therapy,” Lane answered stiltedly. “Sort of like confronting your fears until you get used to it.” Her voice trailed off at the way he was looking at her, which told her he might have her certified any moment.

Angelo was staring hard at her. “And that time in the car?” he asked finally, his voice grim.

She could see in his gaze that he had already figured out, and she said tremulously, “I know it’s stupid, but it was only that moment I realized you were rich—”

“Didn’t you even think of looking me up on the Internet?”

“I try not to use the Internet to search for people. It’s just unnecessary…trauma.”

Silence.

And then Angelo asked tautly, “Are you still afraid of me?”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“But you were afraid of me earlier?”

She nodded.

“What changed?”

“You laughed.”

He stared at her. “Is this crazy language?”

A nervous giggle escaped her. “N-no. I mean, your laugh. It reminds me of a fallen angel.”

“Still crazy language?”

She tried to explain. “It was what drew me to you t-that first day. The sound of your laugh, it was refreshingly—” Lane hesitated.

“Say it.”

“It was refreshingly bad,” she mumbled.

Angelo’s eyebrows shot up.

Words rushed to her throat, so many of them that she knew if she tried to say all of them she would just end up speaking gibberish.

Closing her eyes, she pretended she was hearing his laugh, and as the sound washed over her, so vivid it almost made her want to grasp the sound and never let go, she remembered the other fallen angel in her life.

The words spilled out of her.

“Your laugh, it reminds me of my mother.” Lane’s voice was tight with remembered pain. “She was kind, but she wasn’t perfect.” And without looking at him, she told Angelo everything. Every humiliating, heartbreaking thing that by the time it was over, she could barely breathe from all the wounds it had reopened in her heart.

She opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was Angelo’s ashen face.

“I’m sorry, Lane.”

Oh.

Memories of her grandfather were agonizing.

The strangers in the hallway were terrifying.

But none of those things had threatened to break Lane the way her heart started to shatter at hearing Angelo call her…

Lane.

Like she was no one, and her name was just letters stitched together.

No ‘tesoro.’

No ‘my Lane.’

Was she just Lane now because he knew the truth?





****





“I’m sorry.” Angelo felt he had to repeat the words when only silence answered him. He waited for her to say something, but there was none. He raised his gaze to hers—

And that was when he heard it.