Torture to Her Soul
Page 57

Her cheeks tinge pink as she rolls her eyes, like it's the most absurd accusation she's ever heard, but the blushing tells me I'm right. "Whatever, I listen to music because there's so much emotion in it. It feels like I'm tapping into another part of my soul, like some part of the universe actually understands me. It makes me feel alive. Like, I can literally feel the music when I listen to it. It doesn't do that to you?"
I shake my head. "I feel nothing."
Except for annoyance because I can't think straight.
And sometimes a raging headache to accompany it.
She stares at me with what feels eerily like pity.
Karissa Reed… Karissa Rita… pities me.
Unbelievable.
"But, wait... you understood my Tupac reference when we talked about Machiavelli, didn't you? I could’ve sworn you did."
"Just because I don't enjoy it doesn't mean I know nothing about it. Tupac was around back in my wind-up phonograph days, you know." I cast her a sardonic look, which makes her laugh and shrug, as if to say 'hey, not my fault you're an old ass man.' "I'm surprised you know anything about him, actually. He died around the time you were born."
"Yeah, well, music never really goes out of style, especially Tupac," she says with a smile. "Now that I did learn from Melody. She knows the lyrics to every 90s rap song, but I don't think the girl would know what the hell an investment portfolio is, regardless of what her father does for a living."
Karissa goes back to reading then, focusing on the old book. I watch her as she flips a few pages before curiosity gets the best of me. "Why do you like it so much?"
"Music?"
"No, Peter Pan."
"Oh, uh… it's just sort of always been my favorite. Since we moved around all the time, I never really had many friends, never had anyone to talk to. Whenever I got close to someone, my mother would freak out… guess she thought I'd spill who we really were, even though I didn't even know… but she was so afraid of you catching up to us, I guess."
She doesn't say it with anger. Doesn't say it with sadness. She speaks matter-of-fact like it's just a truth she's come to accept.
"And there's something magical about the idea of escaping, of never growing up or having any responsibilities," she continues. "When I was young, I thought it was all real, that there was a whole world out there my mother kept me from. I used to open my bedroom window at night, leave it wide open, just in case." She smiles wistfully, her gaze still fixed to the book, although she's not reading anymore. "My mother caught me, though, and told me to stop, but of course I didn't listen."
"Of course."
"So yeah, that's when she started nailing all the windows shut," she says. "I always pried the nails back out, though, but I remember getting mad and yelling about how much I hated her for locking Peter Pan out, and she just told me I was being ridiculous. She said if anything were to come in my window, it wouldn't be something from a fairy tale."
She turns her head to look at me. "Now that we've gone all Freud on my life, why's Twelve Angry Men your favorite movie?"
"Ah, well, I'm afraid it's not nearly as fascinating of an explanation. It just intrigues me how if you plant a seed, people will cultivate it. It's not hard to get them to believe whatever you want them to believe."
"You mean like you convincing me you were Prince Charming?"
"I did no such thing. I told you point blank I wasn't a good man. And I've told you the same thing multiple times since."
"Reverse psychology," she says. "What did you expect me to think?"
"I expected you to believe what I said."
"Yeah, well, actions speak louder than words," she replies. "You say one thing and then do another, and I guess I trusted what you did instead of what you said. I fell in love with the man who swept me off my feet, who acted like I was special to him."
"You were," I say. "You are special to me."
"I know." Her voice is flat. "I'm a Rita."
I stare at her, surprised that she'd say that. She is a Rita, there's no denying that fact, but she's so much more than that to me. You'd think after all this time she'd grasp that fact, considering I tell her every time it comes up, but I get it now, I think. Nothing I say will ever mean more than what I do for her. She watches, like me. She touches, like me. She learns from seeing and not from listening.
Reaching over, I cup her chin, tilting her head until her eyes meet mine. "Let's go somewhere, get out of this house... out of this city."
She looks skeptical. "Go where?"
I shrug. "Wherever you want to go."
She seems not nearly as confident as I feel about that idea. "I don't know."
"Come on." I brush my thumb across her bottom lip. "We'll spend some time together, no distractions, no worries... just you and me. I'll show you how special you are."
"I'll think about it."
With that, she looks away from me again, pulling from my touch to focus on the book in her lap, conversation over.
Finished.
Done.
Karissa concedes.
It doesn't take much coaxing.
All I had to say was the magic word: Italy.
Two days later we're in the back of the town car, bags in the trunk, on our way to the airport. It's early in the morning, the sky outside still dark. Karissa stares out the side window, laughing dryly to herself when we pass the sign welcoming us into New Jersey. "Did you know?"