Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
Today is always the hardest.
It’s the time of year when I remember the life that I had, or more accurately, the life I could have had. Not because I think I deserve it, or that it’s the path I should be on, but because it doesn’t matter how hard I try, the hole in my heart will never be filled.
That’s not to say my heart isn’t stuffed to the brim. It’ll simply never be whole. There will forever be cracks, and shards have gone missing.
One of the cracks—the one glued back together—came when I was born, and my father decided he wouldn’t be there.
He also decided he wouldn’t be there on my first birthday, second, or even the third. He wasn’t there on my first day of school either, or when Mamá got sick and couldn’t look after me anymore. I didn’t even see him when the state took me in or when they turned Mamá’s body into ash.
Mamá said his name is Carlos. “I told him, Isabella. He’ll come find you, and you’ll be a family.”
It was one of the last things she said before she died.
Still, I’ve never met him.
The biggest crack, the one where no amount of glue or tape will put it back together, happened when I was six. It was ripped off and shattered into a million different pieces. But the hurt wasn’t quick, not really. It was slow, spanning months as, piece by piece, another part of me was taken. Until eventually, there was nothing left to take, and Mamá was gone.
The motel she was cleaning at and my childhood home disappeared from under me.
In a single night, the only family I had left, the woman who read to me every night, and did my hair in fancy braids and perfect pigtails every morning, was gone. I lost it all.
I would give the world just to be able to sit on the floor with nothing but a blunt pencil and spare paper and watch through the window as Ma rushed around to clean the rooms.
I don’t remember much, but I know when she immigrated here, she fell in love with Disney and wanted to give me the childhood she had missed out on.
I still remember the first time we went to McDonald’s because she got a pay raise. I can still hear her sing beautiful songs as she pushed me on the swing or danced with me in the living room. Our stereo was broken, but it didn’t stop Mamá from entertaining her little girl. Nothing would stop her from being the best mother she could be. She spent years saving up so we could go to Disneyland, and we finally did the year she died. That’s when she got me the doll that never left my side and that Mickey keeps saying needs to be washed.
But the hurt didn’t stop there.
Another piece broke off when I got moved into Greg’s house. With each look Marcus gives me and each word that falls from his lips, another bit of my heart splinters off.
But it’s the filling that’s keeping the rest of my broken little heart together.
It’s when Jeremy comes running into my room because he claims to have invented another pun. Or when Mickey “buys” me art and craft supplies, like candle-making kits or polymer clay. Even when he gets in trouble for hitting the other kids at school for being mean to me or, by extension, if I get upset because someone was being mean to Jeremy.
I haven’t told him about Greg and Marcus and everything they do when Mickey drops me off at home. Even if Greg laughs when Marcus calls me a useless whore or pushes things off the table just to get me to clean it, I say nothing. Mickey and I have a plan that doesn’t involve getting me kicked out of the house.
Days like today are always the hardest, but like every other day, Mickey makes it easier. I don’t need to look out the window to know he’s already waiting outside for me. I heard him arrive a while ago—early, like he is on this particular day every year—while I was preparing breakfast for Greg and Marcus. Sometimes Millie helps, but she usually opens the store in the morning, and I never know when she’ll get home. Honestly, I’m pretty sure she dreads coming home just as much as I do.
If I were her, I would have filed for a divorce and said a prayer for my son, who is more of a monster than his father. My foster brother needs to be locked up. He’s a narcissist, but he’s not a psychopath. He gets his kicks from thinking he’s superior, which is why he shuts the hell up whenever Roman is around. Mickey may be younger and just as tall, but there’s no questioning how lethal he is.
He’s basically my personal bodyguard.
I don’t hear Jeremy coming until I’m tackled against the kitchen bench in a bone-crushing hug.
“Happy birthday, Isa,” he squeals, wiggling from side to side.
I laugh quietly, just in case Greg is still asleep. “Thanks, little man.”
He jumps back with a furious look in his eyes. It’s adorable because I’m a head taller than him and I actually know my times tables. “I’m not little. I’m the fourth tallest in my class.”
“Alright, big man.”
He’s the fourth tallest boy in his class, and there are only thirteen boys.
I’ll let him have his victory.
“See?” Jeremy thrusts a stick figure drawing into my hands and points to the boy with curly black hair who’s double the height of the girl with pigtails.
“Points for accuracy,” I quip, smiling at the sloppy, inaccurate spelling of HAPPY BERTHDAY ISA in blue highlighter at the top.
“I’m taller than a big kid.”
“I don’t doubt you for a second.” I really should stop feeding into people’s delusions. “But thank you, Jer. I love it.”
He grins the same type of shit-eating grin he must have learned from Mickey. “I asked Ro if he wanted to go halves on a present with me, but he said no.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “His loss.”
Jeremy is too smug for a twelve-year-old. I’d boil it down to the fact he thinks he’s the smartest kid in his grade (he’s the sixth smartest), and he’s friends with the “cool kids.”
I lean in closer. “Don’t tell him, but your gift will be way cooler anyway. You’re better at drawing.”
His eyes light up, but he acts nonchalant as he grabs a slice of toast. “Ms. Terry said I’m a natural at everything I do.”
Note to self: teach Jeremy how to be humble.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to school today?”
“Yes,” he drawls. “It’s weird if you do.”
“Your loss.” I don’t know why I still bother asking. He hasn’t said yes in over a year. Jeremy thinks he’s too grown up to be walked to school by his foster sister, so it’s just me and Mickey now.
Shaking my head, I tuck the drawing away in my bag for safekeeping and head outside. Jeremy barely notices me pat his head before I leave, too caught in his fairy tale of Lord knows what.
My heart skips a beat when I see him. It’s been doing that a lot more lately. He makes butterflies erupt from every corner of my belly, and the entire world seems to revolve around Mickey. He’s trouble on legs, and he’s all mine.
I think.
I hope.
I’m all his, at least.
Now that he isn’t at school anymore, who knows how many girls he’s talking to. Before he graduated, all the girls in the neighborhood would throw themselves at him. He never looked at them once, but people change. He has so much more freedom, and I know the admin girl from his work at the garage, Cassie, always bats her eyelashes at him, especially when he’s all greased up, unshaven, and sweaty.
Then she gets handsy. Or at least tries to. Roman pushes her away like he’s uncomfortable, but I think that’s because I’m there.
In the morning, after school, and right after dinner on some nights, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Cassie isn’t around, and Mickey is all mine. When I’m at school, and once I’m in bed, I guess Cassie is all his.
But every morning, the space beneath my ribs blooms from the sight of him leaning against his motorcycle, muscled arms straining against a black t-shirt, with cargo pants belted around his hips.
I didn’t believe people when they said puberty does wonders, but Christ, they weren’t lying. He’s turned into the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Mickey smiles from ear to ear the second he sees me. Not a devilish smirk or a mischievous grin, a smile. Does he smile like that at Cassie?
I shake my head internally. There’s no point in being jealous. It’s not like he’s ever made a move that might suggest I’m anything more than just a good friend. Or little sister. Gross.
“Morning, sweet Bella.”
Another thing I didn’t believe about puberty is how deep a voice could get.
The butterflies seem to be activated by voice command as well, because the deeper his voice gets, the crazier they react.
“Morning,” I whisper, unable to look into his eyes. They’re too hypnotizing, and the last thing I need is for the gremlins in my stomach to make my cheeks heat and for me to become all giggly.
I’m still studying and work at Greg’s shop a couple of times a week. I’m practically a child compared to Mickey now. Maybe Cassie is more his style because they both have the same kind of responsibilities.
The wings on those pesky butterflies sag every time I think of her. He hasn’t given me a reason to believe he’s into her, but who could ever fall in love with a girl who’s missing a part of her heart? Not to mention that Cassie is prettier.
Mickey reaches behind him and pulls out a plaid green pencil case filled to the brim with stationary, probably—hopefully.
The answer is obvious, but as I said, I don’t know how to function around him.
“I—’
He chucks it in my direction, and I already know I’m going to miss it. I lurch forward to catch it and fumble uselessly as it falls to the ground.
He chuckles, and I turn red. I’m too caught up in the sound of his deep voice and my incoordination to glare at him, though.
He doesn’t say anything if he’s noticed I’m getting shier around him.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the prick likes that I keep getting flustered.
It’s so stupid. All I want to do is impress him, when I’ve quite literally done every embarrassing thing possible in his presence. I drooled all over him when I fell asleep on him two years ago, threw up on him once when I got car sick, went through an acne phase, and tripped over my feet more times than I can count. Oh God, and when I was twelve, I thought I was an amazing singer and tried serenading him by singing “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. He even caught me rehearsing it beforehand.
But that’s not the worst part. My rehearsals involved a complete dance routine.
I want to crawl into a hole and die just thinking about it.
I miss the days when I didn’t have a ridiculous, soul-consuming crush on Roman Riviera. The time when I could argue with him day and night because I wasn’t yearning for his approval. Now, like some idiotic little girl, all he needs to do is look at me, and I’m a puddle.
“I will hear nothing from you, because the pencil case has nothing to do with your birthday.”
“Hmm? Oh, right. Thank you.” I swallow as I quickly shove the pencil case into my bag, ignoring the hot blood rushing up my neck toward my face.
Two days ago, I told him I had forgotten my pencil case on the bus when we went on a field trip. This is just what Mickey does; he gets me things I need and things I never asked for.
Like the shirt I’m wearing of a Sumatran tiger, which is not stolen from anyone. We listened to a documentary on tigers a couple of months ago, and I decided then and there that they’re my new favorite animal. They’re the smallest breed of tigers, and there are only four hundred of them left in the world. I tried to hide the fact that it made me a little emotional, but Mickey must have seen right through it because, a week later, he gave me this t-shirt with the WWF tag still on it and a card that said, Thank you for your donation.
It was probably the first and last charitable thing Mickey will do in his life.“You get your actual present tonight.”
My heart soars. He’s spending less and less time with me at night. He always has some kind of excuse relating to work for why he has to leave early or not see me at all. He also seems to be perpetually bruised and tired. Case in point: his purple knuckles and the patchwork of yellow and green on his cheek.
Mickey told me he’s working so much because he’s saving up for when I graduate.
That makes sense, but the problem with his argument is that he’s a mechanic, and mechanics don’t normally work night shifts. Or get bloody knuckles and bruises.
I never knew him to be a liar, but he can be tricky, mincing words so they’re only half-truths. All it takes is for another half to disappear, and it’s a full lie.
I nod, and the slight twitch of his brow is the only sign he’s displeased with my response. If I weren’t so woozy and awestruck, I would tease him and say it’s because he forgot to get me something or joke that I made plans with Jeremy and he’s not invited.
It’d make him all angry and jealous, then he’d throw a little hissy fit and tell me he’d throw me over his shoulder and whisk me away. Then he’d say, “Tradition is tradition. I wasn’t asking.”
Mickey is big on his traditions, even though he only has three of them that I know of.
One, we celebrate every birthday together, because even though there’s two years of difference between us, we promised to never leave each other’s side.
Two, I can be certain I’m going to receive something to do with Mickey Mouse as one of my gifts. Every birthday, without fail, I’ll have another item to add to my ever-growing collection.
Three, rain, hail, or shine, Mickey will be there to take me to and from school. Before I left for a year, he’d sometimes miss a day or two because he woke up too late. Since I got back, I’ve had to wake up earlier just so he doesn’t need to wait outside for so long.
He saunters toward me—well, he’s walking normally, but I can’t stop staring at how his hips move, so he might as well be sauntering. I watch him through my lashes as he towers over me and tilts my head up with a calloused finger under my chin.
“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he whispers.
Beautiful. Not cute or pretty. He thinks I’m beautiful.
I move my head to the side and hide my face with my hair to stop him from noticing the blush tinting my cheeks, but it’s useless. Especially when I stop breathing because he moves my face back and his lips descend against my forehead.
“Another year of you and me.”
The chain around my neck tugs, but I stay completely still as I feel the heat radiate through the cotton as he checks the pendant. He makes a sound of approval that practically melts my insides.
I don’t miss how his eyes drop to my chest every time I see him, like he’s checking it’s still there. The corners of his mouth tilt up, and he does a little nod that I’m not sure is meant for him or me.
But I get it. I have that feeling whenever I see the bracelet around his wrist—a new one because he seems to break it every two years.
Thanks to the advancement of technology and since Mick started working full time at the garage, we both have phones and a decent camera. This means that he spends all day, every day, taking photos of everything but himself, and I have half a million selfies with him. Now, on one side of the locket, I have something to remember Ma, and on the other side, there’s a picture of Mickey and me.
“Did you eat breakfast? What do you have for lunch?” Mickey asks.
I stiffen. These questions are worse than random tests at school because at least I have a chance of passing them. Mickey’s questions, on the other hand, are an instant fail. Straight to detention (also known as Roman’s blistering glare and his huff of disapproval).
If I could sink into the grass, I would. He should just hand me a shovel now if he’s planning on asking any follow-up questions.
He shakes his head, reaching for something behind him as he mutters, “Signore, dammi forza.”
Lord, give me strength.
I bite the inside of my cheek because I can deal with his anger, but not his disapproval.
“I have crackers.” I wince the second the words are out of my mouth.
“And?” He cocks a brow.
Please, no more follow-up questions.
“Maybe an apple…”
He sighs again and drops a container into my hands, which I quickly shove into my bag. He’s about to say more, but the sound of the front door opening causes his entire body to tense.
I gasp when he tugs me behind him, becoming a makeshift barrier between me and Marcus as he innocently descends the stairs. But Marcus’s eyes aren’t on me; they’re on Mickey, and they’re having a stare-off so vicious they could silence the cicadas with it.
Make that four traditions. He always glares at Marcus.
Neither of them breaks eye contact, even when I try to get Mickey’s attention.
“I don’t like him.” His voice is devoid of any softness, something I’ve only heard seconds before he goes in for the attack. “If he touches you, say the word, and he’s fucking dead. You got it?” Those steel eyes dart to where my room is, and he scowls. “I told you to keep your windows closed.” Roman trains his attention back on me, and I almost step back with how much ire simmers there. “Do you put the chair under the door handle like I told you to?”
“I mean, sometimes?” I haven’t. Not once. What if Jeremy has a nightmare?
I can’t very well lock him out.
His eyes darken. “The alternative is leaving the phone on the entire night so I can hear if that fucker comes in. Don’t say I don’t give you options.”
I shouldn’t get all gooey when he goes into protective mode, but I do. I don’t just know that he cares about me. I feel like I’m cared for.
“I’ll make sure I don’t forget,” I say, just to ease him. He worries a lot about other males, especially after how much I was bullied when I went away. But mainly because he sees what happens to the wives in the houses he used to get put in.
“You leave your window open at night. Nothing will stop me from checking to see whether you’ve been a good girl and done as you’ve been told.” If his voice alone could kill, I’d be dead ten times over. “You better make sure you do it.”
I bite the corner of my lip. Every sound, every accent-laced syllable coming out of his mouth is sending me and my swooning into a frenzy. “Or what?”
Oh no. I realize right away I shouldn’t have said that.
I wait with bated breath as the darkness in his eyes changes from murder to mayhem, and his lips morph into the grin that has every girl around dropping their panties.
“I have a question.” He prowls forward until our chests touch, and his scent consumes my every thought. My throat bobs as I stare at his lips. You never look a predator in the eyes. “How much punishment do you think you can take?”
I don’t answer. I’m not even sure if I heard him correctly. There aren’t just gremlins in my stomach anymore; there’s a colony of bees buzzing around in my veins, making tingles creep up my neck to where his skin touches mine. He doesn’t mean what I think he means, right? He’s never spoken to me this way before.
Mickey hums as his finger traces the line of my jaw. “I think you can take whatever I give you. I bet you’ll even ask for more.”
Yes, he definitely means what I think he means.
I bite my tongue to stop myself from making a single noise, because any sound that comes out of me will deepen my humiliation. I shudder when he leans down until his lips brush against my ears. “One more year and every inch of you will be mine.”
My hold on myself disappears as I whimper. He pulls back, lips quirked in satisfaction as he walks backward to his bike. I fix my gaze on the ground, body burning with sensations I’ve never felt before, and I’m hyper-aware of every breath he takes, every movement, every touch.
A helmet comes down over my head, and he fastens the buckles beneath my chin. He brushes his fingers along the skin of my neck, skimming my collarbones as I finally look up at him.
His helmet is already on, but there’s no escaping the weight of his stare on me. He could be watching the movement of his hands, transfixed on the trail of blazing heat he leaves behind. Or maybe his eyes are meeting mine, and he’s studying the effect of his touch. I want to know what he sees and what he’s thinking. I want to tap into his brain and see what types of ideas are bouncing around in his head.
And what punishment he had in mind.
I pull away first, missing his touch the instant it’s gone. As much as I want nothing more than to feel him, it’s eight in the morning, and he’s quite literally my ride to school.
He taps the top of my helmet twice before climbing onto his bike like he didn’t just threaten to punish me and tell me that I’ll like it.
Roman will be the end of me. I knew it the day I met him, and I know it now. Maybe I’m a sucker for pain, but I won’t fight it anytime soon.
We pull up down the road from the school, and like clockwork, I jump off the bike first, and Mickey follows straight away.
“Helmet off,” he orders, even though his hands are already underneath my chin, and he’s pulling it off for me as if I’m incapable of doing it myself.
“Thanks,” I mumble as my hair catches on the soft inner lining.
For a split second, I cringe at the thought of whether my braids survived the journey. My hair probably looks like a rat’s nest right about now.
He shakes his head once he takes his own helmet off, whipping the soft strands of raven-black hair across his forehead. Mickey hardly ever styles it, so some tufts stick up at odd angles to give him even more of a rugged appeal.
My eyes glue to his broad shoulders, trying to stop my shame from showing on my skin. He’s so lethally handsome. I don’t know how anyone can breathe around him.
“It’s cute,” he says, stroking my braids. “I like it.”
Five words. That’s all it takes to make the tension in my muscles relax to the point I almost become a weightless feather in the wind.
I tried extra hard to do my hair this morning—not that I don’t do that every other morning, but today is special. My crazy, thick hair is one of the things Mamá and I had in common. Every day she would plait her long dark hair into two French braids, then turn to me and do the most elaborate hairstyles.
She was obsessed with turning me into her own personal Minnie Mouse, giving me space buns or crazy pigtails with gigantic ribbons.
“Here,” Mickey says softly, gently turning me around. “Let me.”
Roman has many faces. Most of them, he never shows to the outside world. This side of him? It’s all for me. The one that evens my pigtails, fixes the many braids I’ve done, and reties the ribbon so it’s perfect. Cassie might see him elbows deep in an engine, but she’ll never get to experience this part of him. She’ll never know how it feels to have her heart swell with each tug, and her eyes will never well with unshed tears.
He’ll never truly understand how priceless that gift is.
I smile to myself, remembering all the times I’ve walked out of the house with my hair down as he gawks at me like I’m a whole other person. Every time, he’d pull out a comb and get to work on my hair. Each move of his hand is always practiced and precise, and he’s careful not to pull too hard or tie things too tightly.
Some kids give us weird looks as they pass, but most don’t bat an eye because they’ve seen this very scene enough times; me, gnawing on my lip while Mickey scowls at the back of my head like he’s been personally victimized by my hair.
Simply put, he looks murderous every time he fixes my hair, like he hates it. Yet, every day he does it, and every morning, no one dares to say a word about it—other than Maxim and Mikhail, but Roman doesn’t need to know that.
Mickey grips me by the elbow and turns me around, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger as he gazes down at me. Warmth spreads to every inch of my body when our eyes meet.
This is what being loved feels like.
I sink my nails into the palms of my hands because one day, I’ll stop feeling this way. I’ll no longer know what adoration looks like. He’ll do someone else’s hair and call someone else beautiful. I want to bottle this moment up, lock it away, and keep it for myself because the feeling is intoxicating. But the sad truth is that, even if I’m meant to be loved, it will never be permanent.
“You’re so beautiful, Bella.”
He means it. Every letter and every syllable. Those four words are said from the darkest depths of his heart, not just the dopamine fired in his brain.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’ll never say that I agree. Maybe I am beautiful—even though I’ve never seen myself that way—or maybe I’m not. Beauty isn’t just something you put on or become blessed with from genetics. It’s a feeling that doesn’t need a mirror or a photo for proof or validation. And Mickey makes me feel beautiful, even on days when I’m disgusted with myself.
The school’s warning bell rings through the street, and I can almost hear the collective sigh of every student in the area.
“I’ve got to go… I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, hopeful.
The answer is always yes, but one day it’ll be no. I’d rather be prepared and face the anguish now than look like an idiot, standing around waiting for him.
He smirks. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Once he plants another kiss on my forehead, he grabs his helmet. My cheeks burn, and so does the spot where his lips touched. I’m too dumbstruck to do anything but stare at him.
“Don’t be late.” He winks.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod helplessly, backing away toward another one of my versions of hell.
