Feral: Part One (6 page)

FOUR

I had in fact, beyond any shadow of a doubt, lost my ever-loving mind, and Brianna Hartwin loved it. She was ecstatic even, while I swung back and forth between giddiness and exasperation. I still was amazed I had agreed to carry on seeing Simon in the same manner as we had been, but I was absolutely flabbergasted by the fact I had also agreed to allow things to progress. This, of course, was on the understanding that it happen naturally, and preferably slowly, given my unrelenting concern about his position and my status as a student.

So that was how it was.

I continued to receive random texts from Cole, though they had become increasingly less and less frequent, and I resolutely ignored every single one—although if Brie was ever around, I would show them to her and let her get a good kick out of them. And I continued to be joined by Simon Treviso for breakfast each morning, and enjoyed lunch with him at the Barsetti’s once a week.

I was quite comfortable and happy with the steady pace of my ongoing friendship with the Humanities professor. His knowledge of biology and medical sciences, and my interest in art, history, and literature always ensured that we were never at a loss for good conversation, and as the weeks turned into months, I was unsurprised to find myself falling for more than his inhumanly good looks.

For the first time since I was in high school and dating Cole, I began to fret about what to wear in the mornings. I wanted something that would appeal to Simon, but I wasn’t sure what would work better. I imagined a flowy skirt would appeal more to the more old-fashioned part of his personality, but I also knew a great top paired with the perfect jeans and accessories would be a guarantee to draw his eyes to my more prominent assets.

“Oh dear god,” I mumbled to myself as I dug through my closet. “I know I didn’t just think that. Sof, you are a terrible, terrible human being.” But even as I chided myself for my inappropriate thoughts, I realized I didn’t quite care as much as I would have in the past.

I grinned as I pulled a black sundress from the closet. The red, dogwood-like flowers printed on the bottom would be enhanced with my cherry knit shrug. I briefly considered ruby flats, but opted for black, knee-high boots. One bun, lightly powdered face, and a chunky, red and black beaded necklace later, I was out of the house—I’d worry about my lip gloss when I made it to the school.

Brie noticed the effort I made, as did Simon when were standing in the cafeteria line. Unfortunately, one other person noticed, and she did not hesitate to hassle me about it as I made my way to my medical terminology class.

“So who is all of this for, Deery?” Madison inquired snidely, using her own annoying nickname for me. “Surely, not Cole?”

I was so taken aback by her garish attire—jeans splashed with glitter, tucked into the most god-awful, neon green, furry boots and an equally flashy lime top that I swear would have been uncomfortably tight on a ten year girl—that I barely heard her words.

Somehow I managed to recover from my distasteful shock, and blandly asked, “Why in the name of god would I be dressing up for Colton Malver?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Her voice oozed smug and spiteful glee. “Cole’s back in town for his mother’s birthday. He’s been gone for months now, and since he knows Louise misses him, he wanted to come back for her special day. He’s going to be here the whole weekend.” Her grin was practically vicious. “Didn’t you know?”

“No,” was my simple reply.

To say I spent the rest of my afternoon in sheer misery was an understatement of grotesque proportions. Classes were a nightmare, because I couldn’t focus and missed good chunks of the lecture that I knew I would need for future tests. And it wasn’t as if I was jealous that, apparently, Cole was close enough to Mads to keep in contact with her; it was that an almost painful knot of dread began to coil deep in the pit of my abdomen. I just could not shake the feeling that his return, however brief, was anything but bad news.

In spite of Simon looking incredible in attractive, blue-black pants, white shirt and a charcoal blazer, I could not force myself to feel anything but trepidation, and the moment I approached the door of Barsetti’s, he knew something was wrong and did not hesitate to ask.

I let out a heavy sigh as I let him guide me to our customary sitting place. I did not fail to notice that he took my left hand in both of his. “It seems Cole’s back home for the weekend.”

“Cole?”

I suddenly realized I had never 
actually
 said Cole’s name when talking about my ex-boyfriend with the instructor. I briefly pondered if it could have been a psychological, protective measure of some sort, when I noticed he was still waiting for an answer. “Cole, Colton Malver,” I said wearily. “And I’m hoping to god he doesn’t want to see me. Just knowing he’s home makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why. It just does.”

I watched as several emotions played across his features—astonishment, horror, anger, resignation—and was shocked by and curious about each one. I was more surprised when he raised his hands to his face and rubbed in a familiar way many people did when they received bad news and had some to share in return.

I tried to keep the anxiety from my voice as I spoke to him, and tried even harder to not notice the flicker of disappointment in his eyes when I withdrew my hand from its place on the tabletop. “Simon, what? What is it?”

He propped his elbows up on the table and interlocked his fingers, pressing his lips to them, his digits resting beneath his nose. Those lavender eyes I loved so much observed me for quite some time, darting back and forth over my features before resting on my own brown ones. “There is something I have neglected to tell you, something I do not wish to share in—” he glanced around the room, devoid of any life but his and mine— “public.”

What could he possibly need to say that couldn’t be said with just us two in the dining room?

As if hearing my thoughts, Cal Barsetti appeared, inquiring what we wanted for lunch. The moment he vanished into the kitchen, Simon licked his lips, a habit of his when he was preparing to say something important.

“I give you my word I will share this imperative news with you later. Tonight, if you so wish.” He gave me a melancholy smile. “And I promise this has nothing to do with something such as marital status or whether or not I have ever been to prison.”

I couldn’t help but chortle at that, and to my relief, it brightened his smile, however minutely.

“There is also another piece of information of which I must make you aware.” The tiny grin disappeared completely. “I am acquainted with your ex, though I did not realize who he was until just now.” He paused, and I could tell he was searching for the words to express what he wanted to say. “Am I wrong in my assumption that you know a Mister Kendal O’Cleirigh?”

My eyes went wide at the mention of my former high school teacher. “Yes,” I replied in a measured tone. “He taught me and—”

“Colton Malver.” Simon gave a grave nod. “Kendal is a very good friend of mine, and you should know that Colton did not simply leave Georgia to attend college elsewhere.

“Kendal was out one evening and witnessed an… accident that involved Mister Malver,” he continued. “Like myself, Kendal is talented in many fields, and due to the outcome of Mister Malver’s… accident, he traveled out of state with Mister Malver to ensure both his recovery and safety.”

His cautiously chosen words and the tone with which he spoke them left me uneasy and suspicious. “What happened to Cole? Is he-what happened?”

Mr. Barsetti returned with two glasses of wine, one white and one red.

Simon waited until the man left again, then glanced at his hands and back to me. “I can assure you Colton is perfectly all right. He is healthy and sustained no ill effects of what happened, but I am afraid that as much as I wish I could assuage all of your fears at this moment, I cannot say any more without divulging the most important information I need to share with you about both Colton and Kendal, not to mention… myself.”

With an expression of anguish I had never seen on any human’s face, he reached out one of his hands, and despite the extreme apprehension saturating every fiber of my being, I instinctively placed mine with in his.

A small smile, very similar to my own, I was sure, played on his lips as he curled his long fingers around my hand. “Sofia,” he said with slow firmness, “I know what I have said has probably left you feeling confused, not to mention fearful, but I assure you Colton is quite all right, and… this information I must impart to you does not change my feelings for you, nor does it place you in any danger where I am concerned.” A trace of wickedness filled his eyes. “I promise, I am not a member of the mafia.”

Regardless of the current awkwardness, a soft laugh fell from my lips.

“You are so beautiful.”

The sound was cut short, and I could only stare incredulously for a moment before finding my voice. “I… Thank you,” I said quietly, well aware of the heat beginning to stain my cheeks.

The emotion behind his smile shifted, and he looked almost apologetic. “Deplorable timing, no doubt, but nevertheless true, especially when you laugh.” His free hand rose, the back of his knuckles stroking my burning face. “Your eyes, like a deep amaretto, glitter with unbridled joy and,” he carried on, his voice bright with teasing, “even when you are not embarrassed, your cheeks bloom like the fairest carnation, usually when you laugh.”

Merda! 
I knew Simon Treviso had a masterful grasp on the English language, but I’d be damned if the way he employed it now was not the most eloquent and beautiful I had ever heard. I actually had half a mind to glance down at my own skin to see if I were, in fact, melting in the same manner I felt I was. I could only imagine how dark my face must have become.

"Il gatto ti ha mangiato la lingua?"

I blinked in confusion, my face warming further as humiliation filled me. I was third-generation Italian, so one would think I would’ve understood something he said. To my dismay, though, I could only make out a couple of words. “I’m not entirely sure what you said, but I’m guessing from
gatto e lingua
you were asking if a cat got my tongue? Your accents’ a bit different from my family’s.”

“I did, and it could be due to the differences in regional dialects. My family was from Treviso, obviously, which is a northern region near Slovenia. Your mother probably spoke a Tuscan dialect, which is closer to the modern, standard Italian.”

“Oh,” was my bland response. “I guess that explains why I couldn’t pin-point the accent.”

To my surprise, his smile dimmed momentarily, then returned more vibrantly than before. “I traveled,” he supplied, the hand caressing my cheek dropping to his glass of seemingly untouched wine. I tried not to notice the way his fingers stroked the glass rim. “Indeed, I traveled quite extensively when I was younger. After touring so many countries for so long, it begins to affect one’s accent.”

Well, that was unexpected. He couldn’t be more than forty-two. How much traveling could he have possibly done?

I was unaware I had voiced my thoughts aloud until I heard his laughter again. “Sorry,” I muttered, reaching for my white wine—I probably should not have been indulging in any alcoholic beverage, but who was going to know—and took a hasty swallow to cover my mortification.

“No, per favore. No.”
The tone of his reproach was one full of warmth and fondness rather than actual censure as he repeated in English, “Do not be.” An atypically smug smirk spread across his face. “I am quite a bit older than I appear, 
cara mia
.
”

Considering how wide I felt my eyes go, I was sure I looked practically bug-eyed, but I wasn’t sure what affected me the most: his questionable age or that he could call me beloved.

I chose to focus on the former for the time being, as I had been of the unspoken belief that Simon Treviso could only be in his late thirties to very early forties. His statement was leading me to rethink that belief, and I frantically began to recalculate numbers I was too uncomfortable to solicit.

Just looking at him made me question his words. Surely, he was teasing me? Because in all actuality, he looked unbelievably youthful. I only placed him at such an age due to his holding of multiple degrees, as well as his interests and knowledge in both his own fields and others. He had, after all, claimed to be a child prodigy. With that being the case, surely, he was not much more than forty-two or forty-three! It seemed almost impossible.

He beamed. “I can practically hear the gears in your head turning, 
cara mia.”

“You can’t be,” I argued half-heartedly. “You just… can’t be. You look too young.”

“Well, I do thank you for that compliment,
amore.”

“Love.
Amore? Tu amore?
”

He seemed amused. “Actually, it would be
tuo, e solo se sei d'accordo.”

“Tuo,” 
I repeated the correct pronoun with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t really speak Italian, remember?
E inglese, per favore.”

“Certo.
Certainly,”
 
he said with a snicker at my cheekiness of asking him to speak in English in Italian. “And only if you are in agreement.”

I was most definitely in agreement, and I tried, as fluently as I could, to express that in something other than English. It sounded less formal that way. 
“Io… d’accordo?” 
I cringed. “Honestly, you’d think I would have paid more attention to my mother when she talked, not that she spoke it often. Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“I agree is s
ono d’accordo,”
 he instructed gently, his eyes taking on a contented glow. “Why did your mother not speak her language?”

Once more we were interrupted, this time by both Barsettis carrying out multiple dishes of food, and I battled between feeling relieved and annoyed.

“Well, she did,” I continued once alone with my date—wait, could I consider this a formal date? “But from what I can remember, she stopped speaking in Italian, save for the occasional expletive, after my 
nonna
 died. Hence, I’m well-versed in Italian cursing, but not much else,” I said with a wide grin.