Forty-five minutes later, Danica has a new wardrobe: three pairs of jeans, four long-sleeved tops in various colors, two skirts, two plain shirts, two cardigans, two dresses, two sweaters, a coat, socks, tights, and underwear.
“That’s one thousand three hundred and fifty-five, please.” Sarah beams at Lorenzo.
“What!” Danica squeaks.
Lorenzo hands over his credit card, pulls Danica into his arms, and kisses her long and hard. She is breathless when he releases her, and she stares down at the floor, mortified. She cannot face Sarah.
To Danica, holding hands in public is considered forward. Kissing. No. Never. Never in public.
“Hey,” Lorenzo murmurs, putting his hand beneath her chin to pull her face up.
“You spend too much,” she whispers.
“Not for you. Please. Don’t be angry with .”
***********
*LORENZO*
Her gaze lingers on my face, but I have no idea what she’s thinking.
“Thank you,” she says finally.
“You are most welco,” I reply, relieved. “Now we’re going to get you so decent shoes.”
Danica’s face lights up like a sumr’s day.
Ah. Shoes...the way to every woman’s heart.
In a nearby shoe shop, she chooses a pair of stout ankle boots in black. “You’ll need more than one pair of shoes,” I say.
“These are all I need.”
“Here, these are nice.” I hold up a pair of ballet flats. I wish they stocked high-heeled fuck- shoes, but alas, everything in the store is practical.
Danica hesitates.
“I like these,” I say, hoping my opinion will influence her decision.
“Okay. If you like them. They are nice.”
I grin. “And I like these.” I hold up a brown leather knee-high boot with a heel.
“Lorenzo,” Danica objects.
“Please.”
She gives a reluctant smile. “Okay.”
“We can leave your boots for recycling here,” Lorenzo says as they stand at the sales counter.
Danica looks down at the new boots she’s wearing and then at her old pair. They are all she has left of her clothes from ho.
“I would like to keep them,” she says.
“Why?”
“They are from the orphanage.”
“Oh.” He looks surprised. “Well, perhaps we can get them resoled.”
“Resoled? What is this?”
“Repaired. The bottom of the shoe replaced. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes,” she replies, excited. “Resoled.”
**************
Danica watches as Lorenzo hands over his credit card once more. How can she ever repay him?
One day she’ll earn enough money to pay him back. In the anti she has to think of sothing she could do for him.
“Rember, I want to cook,” she says.
This is one way.
“Today?” Lorenzo asks as he picks up her bags.
“Yes. I want to cook for you. To say thank you. Tonight.”
“Okay. Let’s take these bags back to the car, and we can shop for food after we’ve had so lunch.”
They dump the bags in the small trunk of the car, and as they walk hand in hand to a restaurant, Danica tries not to dwell on his generosity. It is rude to reject a gift, but she knows what the sisters would call her if he knew what she was doing.
Was she bringing dishonor to her na?
Her mood nosedives.
**********
*LORENZO*
We lunch at Rick Stein’s Café. Danica’s quiet, and when we order our food, she’s a little subdued. I wonder if it’s because I’ve spent money on her clothes. Once the waitress has taken our order, I reach over and take her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Danica, don’t worry about the money. For the clothes. Please.” She gives a tight smile and takes a sip of her sparkling water.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head.
“Tell ,” I insist.
She shakes her head again, turning away to stare out the window. Sothing is off.
Shit. Have I upset her?
“Danica?”
She turns back to face , and she looks distraught.
Fuck.
“What is it?”
She gazes at , dark eyes clouded with misery, and it’s like a knife to my gut.
“Tell .”
“I cannot pretend I am on holiday,” she says softly. “You buy all these things, and I can never pay you the money. And I don’t know what will happen to when we go back to town. And I am thinking about if those n find again and what they would do to ...”She pauses and swallows “...and to you, I also wonder if I’m doing the right thing with you. And I’m tired. I’m tired of being afraid.” Her voice is a raw whisper, and tears shine in her eyes. She looks directly at . “That is what I am thinking.”
I stare back. Paralyzed, but empty and aching. For her.
“That’s a lot to think about,” I murmur.
The waitress returns with our food and cheerily places my chicken sandwich in front of and the butternut squash soup in front of Danica.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Fine. Thanks,” I say, dismissing her.
Danica picks up her spoon and stirs her soup while I’m helpless and floundering for sothing to say. Her voice barely audible, she says, “I am not your problem, Lorenzo.”
“I never said you were.”
“That is not what I an.”
“I know what you an, Danica. Whatever happens between us, I want to be sure you’re okay.”
She gives a sad smile. “I am grateful. Thank you.”
Her response angers . I don’t want her gratitude. I think she’s got so old-fashioned notion about us doing sothing so wrong.
What was so wrong about us being together?
What the hell does she want?
Fuck. What do I want?
I watch as she lifts her soup spoon to her lips, her face pale and sad. At least she’s eating.
What do I want? From her?
I’ve had her beautiful body.
And it’s not enough.
It hits . Like a sledgehamr. Right between the eyes.
I was falling in love with her and I wanted her to fall for too.
Fuck.
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