Sweet Soul (Sweet Home #5)(60)

I knew her body. I knew her heart; all I had yet to claim was her soul.

Breaking from her mouth, I rolled to the side, gently sliding out from inside her. Elsie hitched a breath as I withdrew, removing the rubber and throwing it in the trash. Turning back to Elsie, she was staring at the ceiling, her face beautiful, glowing. “Tu sei bella,” I whispered. Elsie rolled her head to me. She smiled and reached out for my hand. As soon as our fingers were linked she pulled me forward until we were sharing the same pillow.

Elsie gave me the softest kiss and asked, “How do you say ‘kiss’ in Italian?”

Her eyes focused intently on my mouth, and I said clearly, “Bacio.”

“Bacio,” she repeated, her mouth plating out the unfamiliar language. I smiled seeing her face so excited, so bright, when she asked, “What’s your favorite Italian word?”

I frowned, then nearly broke apart with light when Elsie laughed, she sounded an adorable laugh and shook her head. “You probably think I’m crazy?”

I laughed back and shook my head. “I’ve just never been asked my favorite word before—in any language.”

That didn’t seem to deter Elsie and I thought about what she’d asked. I smiled when a word came to mind. “You have one?” she suspected. I nodded.

“I like the word farfalle, I suppose. I remember being a kid and finding any excuse to say it to my mamma or brothers.”

Elsie shuffled closer. “Farfalle. What does it mean?”

I shrugged. “Butterfly.”

Elsie’s responding smile could have lit up the damn room and I shrugged. “What?” she questioned.

“I think… I think my favorite sentence would now have to be ‘bella mia’.” I shifted, embarrassed, then translated, “My beautiful.”

Elsie froze, all humor fled her expression. I shook my head. “That was probably real damn cheesy.”

“Shh,” Elsie interrupted, her hand on my cheek. I glanced up and she said, “It was beautiful, Levi. Nothing from your mouth could ever be wrong or ‘cheesy’, as you say.” I stilled, waiting for her to finish, when she said, “You are the kindest, most sweet soul, I’ve ever met. Nothing you ever say has anything but honesty and gentleness to it.” She dropped her eyes. “Because that’s you, the kindest person there is.”

My heart swelled as she said that, and I slid my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side. Elsie’s head settled on my shoulder and she gazed at the stars. I did too.

After minutes in silence, she asked, “How do you say stars in Italian?”

“Stelle,” I replied and felt her head nod against my skin.

She was silent again, until her hand took hold of mine and she confided, “I couldn’t look at the stars for years after my mom died.”

Ice ran through my veins at the sadness in her voice. She pointed at the plastic stars. “Every time I looked up at them, I felt small, unimportant… and completely alone. I’d look at them and wonder where she was, wonder if there was even a heaven.” She shook her head. “My mom did so many bad things, Levi. Maybe not bad, but reckless things. Drugs, never having a home for us.”

“Where did you live?” I asked, my voice husky with sympathy at the pain she was in.

Elsie sighed and replied, “Mainly on the streets.” She looked up at me. “It’s all I’ve ever really known. And being here has been…” she inhaled and exhaled, “divine.”

There was nothing to say, so I held her closer. She didn’t say anything else about her mamma and I didn’t want to make her any sadder than she was, so I asked, “Why do you love poetry so much?”

This time when she took in a breath, it wasn’t filled with pain. “I don’t really know. I’ve just always been fascinated with words—how they sound, their structure, their meanings,” she cut herself off, then said, “how they can be used for good… and used for bad.”

I frowned, wondering what she meant when she flipped onto her stomach and laid her hands on my chest. I ran my fingers through her hair, completely infatuated with everything she was saying.

“Bad?” I questioned, when Elsie immediately paled. “What?” I asked, my hand stopping mid-stroke on her hair.

Elsie shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You sure?” I pushed, but she smiled and nodded.

Inhaling, she said, “I suppose I became fascinated with words because I lived without them or sound until I was eight.”

“Eight?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I inherited my deafness from my mom—who was deaf in both ears.” She pointed to her right ear. “I had low hearing in this ear. When I was eight, we found out about a new surgical technique that could restore the hearing in my right ear.” Her eyes dropped. “My mom had no money. Somehow she managed to scrape enough together to pay for my surgery—I don’t know how. Though I can guess.”

I brought her hand to my mouth and kissed it, a blush coating her cheeks. “When I woke from the surgery, I had been fitted with a hearing aid. I could hear, not a huge lot better, but it sounded like thunder compared to what little I had before. I remember being confused at the sounds all around me. At people speaking to me.” She ran her fingers over my lips. “I would hear them, and match the sounds up with the movement of their lips. My mom didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. When she tried, sometimes her pronunciation was too difficult to understand. So I had to learn for myself. I had to listen and learn. I learned and became obsessed with words.” She shrugged. “I guess it never went away.”