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

there’s more. I thought I knew the depths of him, but every time I think I’ve found the bottom, he goes deeper.
    “I’m not so sure about that.”
    He looks up at me, hopeful and hesitant. “What do you mean by that?”
    “I’m guessing you have books full of poems you wrote. You probably wrote them at all hours, through all things. I doubt the pages are pristine and perfectly white. They probably are smudged, written in emotional turmoil, and maybe some are stained with tears. Maybe." I smile at him carefully, quickly. “Writers tend to hide their hearts, don’t they?”
    He nods. “I suppose so.”
    The corner of my mouth pulls up.
    “It seems dancers do the same thing—hide their hearts.”
    “Will you show me one day? One of your poems?” I try to catch his eye. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t have asked, but the other part is jumping up and down like an 8-year-old on a trampoline.
    Pete shakes his head and looks down to the floor, breaking all eye contact with me. His fingers toy with the frayed ends of satin at the tips of my shoes. "I never said I write poetry."
    "Yes, you did. You said that—”
    "No." His rebuttal is short and sharp, so unlike his earlier confessions. I should stop. I'm pushing his buttons, but I'm tired of this chasm between us.
    "Why?” I demand, annoyed with him.
    “Why what?”
    “Why do you pretend to be someone you’re not? Why do you deny that you write? So what if people know?”
    “I have my reasons.” His walls jut up, and form turrets this time. I know I've lost the sentimental poet. For a brief moment, I had a friend in this empty, hollow house, but I'm back to being alone.
    I rub my arms over my nightshirt, to ward off the sudden chill in the air. “I’m sorry I asked. You shared a personal moment with me, so I thought...”
    He grins. “Yeah, personal for you maybe.”
    “You know what? Never mind." Hurt, I pick up my shoes and tie them together neatly. Once a fucking Ferro, always a fucking Ferro. Rules don't apply to them, or rather, they live by their own set of rules and, no matter who you are, there's no getting around it. It's only then that I notice Pete is still fully clothed, even though it’s the middle of the night. "Why are you up at this hour, anyway?” I immediately regret asking. I don’t want to know what he’s been up to and, with his arrogant mask on, he’ll be all too willing to describe his adventures in great, explicit detail. I toss my shoes into my dance bag and zip it up.
    “Are you kidding?" Pete looks at me skeptically, then, when he sees my confused expression, continues in a gentle tone. "Gina, your room is across the hall from mine; I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you’ve arrived. Do you scream like that every night?”
    Oh. My. God. My heart drops into my feet and I can’t move. I can’t breathe. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
    “I understand. It’s okay.” Pete is quiet for a moment and he can tell I’m ready to bolt.
    The thing is, I can’t share that. Nightmares are so real and so terrifying. If he laughs and says it’s nothing, I couldn’t hold myself together anymore.
    As if on cue, Pete says, “You don’t trust me. I haven’t given you reason to, it’s just that—if I can do something…” He watches me standing there and gets up so he’s in front of me. Pete catches my eye. “I will. You sound terrified and I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.”
    Damn it! I want to cry. I want to scream, throw my arms around his neck, and cry—but I do nothing. I just stand there and stare blankly. I refuse to speak because my voice will betray me. It’s so late and I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore tonight. “I need to go to bed.” I offer a weak smile and start to turn away.
    Pete reaches for my arm, brushes his fingers against my elbow, but doesn’t hold on. His hand drops back to his side, like he shouldn’t touch me. “You don’t have any weekend classes, do