Page 119 of Dissolving Prejudice

“What?” Only now noticing the gun, his gun, Camilo’s eyes widened with horror. “What happened?”

“You just gave me a freaking heart attack, Camilo. That’s what happened.”

Shay-Lee

“Yeah, I know.” I paused to tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear so I’d be able to multitask while speaking to Vito and wash some bell peppers in the sink. “I know I need to cast my models.”

“And yet, you are my only designer who did not submit the list, Bello. Just because I love you does not mean you can push it,” Vito scolded me, but despite the amusement in his colorful voice, I knew he was serious.

The Renieri summer fashion show was only a few months away, and I needed to meet my deadlines. Somehow, despite all the shit that had happened in the past couple of months, which included Camilo’s return, Soren getting shot, Jordan and I breaking up, and, of course, me finally being with my man again, I still had it in me to design my collection.

“I just feel like having models walking down a runway isn’t it,” I told Vito, who sighed over the line.

“Bello, please, I’m begging you—”

“Don’t worry!” I turned off the tap and dried my hands with a towel before grabbing my phone and turning to face the room. “I promise to figure it out soon.”

The line went quiet for a moment before he muttered something in Italian that included Maria’s name.

“Fine, you have another week to decide on your models, but it better be good.”

Pleased that I’d gotten a bit more time, I smiled. “Thank you.”

We ended the call shortly after, and thank God for that since my ear was hurting from all the listening. I placed my phone on the counter and was ready to go back to preparing our salad when I received a text message. I checked it out and saw it was from Blaire, who texted me that she had time at noon tomorrow in case I needed it. And by I, I meant Camilo.

Almost a month had passed since that awful night—a month in which he refused to even bring up the subject. Camilo had no memory of what had happened, but when I told him about the gun, he was mortified. While he did get rid of the gun, he refused to do anything else about the matter, let alone meet with a therapist, which I knew he had to see.

I obviously told Blaire about everything that took place that night, including my concerns that Camilo might be struggling with more than just bad dreams. Afterward, I told Camilo that I’d spoken to her, thinking it would encourage him to open up. Instead, it had the opposite effect. He’d gotten so angry that I’d talked to a professional about him that he dashed out of the house without so much as acknowledging my worries. Later on that day, when he’d returned home, he rejected any idea of meeting anyone, and when I told him my suspicion that he might be suffering from PTSD, he looked at me like I was dead-ass crazy.

My heart clenched, and my skin grew colder just remembering his expression. I took a break from cutting my salad to breathe some air. Putting the knife back on the cutting board, I crouched down and closed my eyes.

“PTSD?” he hissed, his eyes going wild. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and the clear issues you have, Camilo—”

“I don’t have any issues,” he shouted, cutting into my words. “And the fact you talked about it, about me, with a complete stranger… what the fuck, Shay-Lee?”

“Blaire isn’t a stranger. She’s my therapist.”

His eyes widened as irritation crossed his face. “I don’t need fucking therapy.”

“Oh, fuck off. We both know that’s bullshit,” I snarled while holding his stare. “You and I are both fucked-up to the core, and pretending we’re not is like pretending the sun won’t rise tomorrow, you moron.” I huffed, took another breath, then met his shocked stare again. “But that’s okay, you know?” I offered him a slight smile. “It’s okay to be broken. And it’s also okay to try and fix the cracks… But the only way to do it is by treating it.”

“Treat what?” he hissed.

“What makes us hurt.”

My eyes latched on to his as silence followed my words. It was in that moment that his anger turned into pain, even sorrow. Sorrow I could almost touch until he tore his gaze away from me and looked aside.

“Camilo—”

“No,” he snapped and turned his back to me. “We’re not talking about this again.” He grabbed his helmet from the counter and began walking toward the door when I followed him.

“Please, just listen to me.”

“I said no, Shay-Lee.”

That conversation ended with him leaving the house, and any attempt to bring up the subject since then ended pretty much the same way, with him getting pissed off and running away.