Life Before Damaged Vol. 8 (The Ferro Family) Read Online Free PDF Page A

pat my face. That’s when he starts speaking again.
    “It reminded me of me.” He’s tense but trying to hide it. He keeps the curve of his spine, but his eyes dart around the room as if he wants to run. Pete wrings his hands as he explains. “And I owe you more than a sentence since I saw something you didn’t really want to share.”
    I glance at him. “No, I didn’t—but I’m listening. Make us even Ferro. Tell me something that’s connected to you on such a deep level, something you can share or show me, something you hide from the world.”
    He nods slowly and I can tell how hard it is for him to do this, but he does. He doesn’t protest or tease me. “I don’t know if this is enough, but it’s not something I talk about. Ever. The books you found in my room—the poems. They’re not just rhythmic words on paper. Poetry is a baring of the soul. It’s making yourself vulnerable to the world with every word, every pang of pain, every tear of remorse. I see what I feel when you dance. I’ve been looking for a connection, wondering if they’re similar—dancing and poetry. And I’m not certain, but both are beautifully strung together—forged by feeling, emotion, and technique—to form the perfect balance.”
    His words strip away my anger until I feel naked beside him. The way he speaks, with such conviction tempered with uncertainty—but a sincere desire to know—floors me. The words tumble out of my mouth because I can’t hide my shock. “There’s more? How can there be more?”
    Did I just say that out loud? Eyes wide, I glance away from him quickly not wanting to fathom the expressions on his face. I’m in my damp nightshirt and panties, nothing else. I tuck my legs underneath me, trying to hide from him. But I feel naked regardless and what I just said made it worse.
    Add in the fact that he saw me dancing and not some pre-arranged choreography that was meant to please an audience. He saw me pour every bottled up emotion I have onto the floor. The frantic desperation, the slow ticking of time, the melancholic sadness, the hopeful joy of something better yet to come. It’s like he said, to the untrained eye, it’s just movement, but Pete gets it, somehow.
    “More? More, what?” His tone is so soft, so careful. Pete reaches for my hand and presses it lightly on top of mine. “Gina, tell me.”
    My stomach is swirling too fast. This is not supposed to happen. I can’t think when he touches me. I slip my hand away from under his and look up into his intense sapphire eyes. “I can’t. It’s nothing.” Fake smile, I find it and plaster it on my face before looking at him.
    Pete’s gaze sweeps over me before resting on my bare feet. They’re mangled and less than pretty. “You know, there’s no trace of anything like that in my life.” He tips his head toward my feet.
    I suddenly want to hide them and my face flushes with embarrassment. They’re calloused, cracked, bleeding, and bandaged. They’ve been broken and repaired so many times that they don’t look feminine any more. I try to laugh it off. “You mean a big ugly mess?” I smile at him.
    For the first time in a long time, Pete meets my gaze and shakes his head. He swallows hard and confesses, “There’s nothing ugly about your feet. They show passion, dedication, endurance, promise and hope. They are a testament to the type of person you are—you don’t give up and you’re willing to endure whatever it takes to get what you want, come Hell or high water.” The corners of his lips rise for a moment and then fall. “I have nothing like that, and never will.”

IT'S A DATE, DUDE
November 2nd, 3:59am
    H is blue eyes study my face, and I wish he wasn’t going to turn back into pumpkin Pete at daylight. I like this side of him, the way he’s confident and vulnerable at the same time. He’s honest with me and with himself. It’s rare and I had no idea how deep these waters ran within him. That’s why I blurted out