Send Me a Sign(90)

“I’m thinking. I know mostly kitchen Italian. If you want to know how to say something food related, I’m your guy. ‘Kiss me’ doesn’t come up at the dinner table.” He laughed and I raised my eyes to him.

“So you do …?” I trailed off. “The playlist wasn’t so subtle by the end.”

“I tried subtle, Mi. You didn’t get it.”

“And the last song? It’s you singing; you wrote it for me?”

“I could make you a whole playlist with the songs I’ve written you,” he confessed.

“Please do.” I put down my juice and leaned forward. “Gyver, I believe I’m going to get better—I do—but I’ve got lots of this left. Are you sure it’s what you want?”

“Lots of you—in bed? It’ll be torture, but I think I can manage.”

I frowned. “Be serious.”

“Mi, I’ve waited years for you already. I know what you’re saying, but I’m in love with you. Did you really not know? It’s going to take something worse than cancer to scare me.”

I shook my head. “You’ve called me ‘Mi’ forever. How long have I been oblivious?”

“Only since I was ten. Don’t you remember? You caught me repeating your name in the backyard.”

“You told me you liked alliteration. You were lying?”

Anyone else would have blushed; Gyver smiled and handed me a slice of toast. “Eat or I’m gonna get kicked out.”

I took a hasty bite. “All these years I’ve been collecting alliterative names for you—”

“Baciami!” Gyver interrupted, satisfaction settling on his face.

“Ba-cha-me?” I repeated slowly, my initial grin falling to a pout. “It’s not fair. I want to kiss you and can’t.”

“I don’t know; last time I initiated a kiss, you dropped ice cream on me.”

I laughed. “I didn’t do it on purpose! Is that what you thought?”

Gyver shrugged and nodded.

“Seriously? You think I’d waste perfectly good ice cream? That was a poorly timed clumsy moment, which I interpreted as a very bad omen.”

Gyver groaned. “You and your signs.”

“I’m done. I promise. I’ll cancel my horoscopes and throw away the Magic 8 Ball.”

“Keep the Magic 8 Ball. I gave you that.” He picked up and rubbed my hand. It was a gesture that should’ve been familiar and comforting, but it felt new and electric.

“Gyver, just so you know, Ryan and I didn’t …” I blushed and stumbled over words. “That day in the kitchen it looked like—But we never.”

He cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheek; there was a smile in his voice. “I didn’t think so. At least not that day.”

“How were you so maddeningly calm? I can’t believe you invited Ryan over for lasagna while we were standing there half-naked.”

“Rest assured, I went home and lifted till I threw up, but I didn’t think you’d … I knew you’d interpret my interruption as a very bad sign and cancel your plans.” His smile was smug. “But I don’t want to hear the words ‘Ryan,’ ‘you,’ and ‘naked’ in the same sentence again.”

The door opened too soon. My parents and the counselor entered the room. Far too soon for me to tell Gyver everything I needed to. “Come back later?”

“Tomorrow,” Dad corrected.

I opened my mouth to protest, but Dad repeated himself.

Gyver squeezed my hand under the tray. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mia Moore.”

I twisted my hand in his, tracing the guitar-string calluses on his fingertips. In a voice as steady as a statue and only slightly raspy, I answered, “I love you too, Gyver.”

“Did she say … to Gyver?” Mom looked from the door where Gyver exited to my father.

“Dear, let’s go,” said Dad.

“But what about Ryan?” she asked.

“We broke up.”

“You and Ryan broke up?” Her voice climbed from confused to baffled.

“Mom.” My voice was stern. She stopped fussing and turned to me. “You’ve got to start trusting me to make my own decisions about what makes me happy.”

“Of course, kitten. I do.” She smoothed her already smooth hair and laughed nervously. “Gyver Russo, really?” It wasn’t criticism, it was curiosity.

“Really.”

“Well then, it looks like I’ve got some catching up to do … that is, if you want to tell me.” She looked almost timid, adjusting and readjusting the shoulder strap of her purse.

“I’d like that.” We exchanged smiles, and Dad patted my hand before taking her arm and leading her out of the room.

That left me facing the counselor. She looked at me from behind thick lenses with an expression both patient and compassionate. I thought about Mrs. Russo’s comments. “Are you going to tell me it’ll help to talk? Because I have a lot to say …”





Chapter 51

I woke Tuesday afternoon to a gentle but persistent poking in my shoulder.

“I’m up, I’m up,” I grumbled, swatting away someone’s hand.