Charles' point of view.
A chill ran down my spine as the door creaked open. It was Milan's aunt. Even until this moment, the frantic thrumming in my chest had been a bewildering mystery.
Her gaze locked onto mine, and a tremor of fear, sharp and undeniable, shook me. My heart hammered against my ribs.
Seventeen. She was just seventeen. And I, eighteen. The stark reality crashed down on me: I had been with an underage girl.
Prison felt like an imminent threat. But then, Milan moved at lightning speed. Before her aunt could utter a single word, Milan was a blur of motion, running naked to her aunt, collapsing at her feet, clutching her legs, her sobs a desperate plea.
The knot of fear in my stomach loosened, replaced by a wave of unexpected tenderness. My hardened private part, which had been brittle with panic, softened completely.
Her aunt, her face unreadable, gently pulled Milan to her feet and led her away. Moments later, she returned. I had already pulled on my dress, the fabric suddenly feeling heavy and unwearable.
Her voice, when it came, was a raw, furious scream, a command to leave her house was like a death sentence in my ears.
And just like that, silence descended. I heard nothing more from Milan.
Weeks bled into months. Two months later, a beautiful afternoon found me still mired in the despair of her absence. Then, my sister's voice broke through my gloom. "You have a visitor."
Reluctantly, I went to see who it was. My breath hitched. It was Milan's aunt.
Her eyes met mine, direct and unwavering. "Milan is pregnant," she stated simply. Without hesitation, the words tumbled from me: "It's mine, I will take responsibility." A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a dawning understanding, a realization of the depth of my feelings for Milan.
We talked, we navigated the complexities, we made plans. And then, finally, I was allowed to see my beautiful Milan again.
Some months later, she was in the labor room. A strange expectation had taken root in my mind. The nurse's announcement, "It's a girl," struck me with unexpected force. It was as if the possibility of Milan giving birth to a daughter had never occurred to me. I had been so fixated on the idea of a son.
The nurse's gentle congratulations brought me back to reality. A daughter. Of course.
My love for Milan was unwavering. So, I waited. Years passed before I even considered another child, careful not to burden Milan with my unspoken desires. I never let my longing sour my affection for her.
Then came the second pregnancy. And another daughter.
A wave of disappointment, sharp and bitter, washed over me. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, losing its vibrant hues.
It was at that moment that my uncle's preacher's words echoed in my mind: "Hell." And in that instant, I understood. A profound and suffocating hell had opened within me.
Milan's point of view.
Returning to America as a child, my English was clumsy, each spoken word drawing curious stares.
The story of Charles and me is etched in my memory. I was sixteen, teetering on the edge of seventeen.
I was a vision then, or so the boys seemed to think. My early years were spent in America, then a move to Italy at nine, and finally back to the States a few months shy of my seventeenth birthday.
Since my return, people have seemed captivated by a dual charm: my lingering Italian accent and my blossoming beauty.
One day, at a local shop, our paths crossed. Charles and me. The moment I stepped inside the shop, his gaze locked onto me, possessive and intense.
I could feel his unspoken attempts to bridge the distance between us, but he remained silent.
Unable to find what I needed, I called out to the shopkeeper for assistance. The Italian word, "Padrone," slipped out, drawing every eye in the store. I had momentarily forgotten the American English equivalent.
Before I knew it, Charles was beside me. He seized the opportunity. "Padrone!" he said, a playful question in his voice. "How are you?"
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks, and I didn't reply. He persisted, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Hey, I was talking to you."
"Good afternoon," I managed, my voice soft.
"We call him Shopkeeper here," he explained gently.
"It's okay," I murmured. He thanked me for speaking to him. Americans, I thought, why the gratitude for a simple response?
Friendship blossomed quickly. We lived nearby, and our conversations deepened my understanding of him, allowing his affection to take root in my heart.
One of his most endearing qualities was his restraint. He never pressured me for sex. Italian boys, even young ones, seemed to possess an innate boldness, a tendency towards inappropriate touch.
After months of friendship, a playful impulse took hold. I told him I desired no material gift, but something far more significant; a memory to last a lifetime.
Confusion clouded his features, a silent question hanging in the air. He didn't press for an explanation, perhaps fearing embarrassment. He simply smiled and played along.
My birthday arrived, the perfect stage for my playful words to take on a deeper meaning. Oh, that birthday party! Charles fought four boys who dared to encroach on my space.
Later that night, when we were finally alone, the air thick with unspoken desires, I initiated a subtle seduction.
My dress, already short, I hiked higher, revealing the curve of my hips, the subtle invitation undeniable.
Faking the removal of my shoes, I deliberately bent over, offering him a tantalizing glimpse.
The heat radiating from him, the sudden pressure of his hard private part against my backside, confirmed my success. He stood directly behind me with full confidence.
That night, he ushered me into womanhood, revealing the intricate tapestry of sexual experience for the first time. It was a raw, slightly painful initiation, yet a profound awakening. My limbs felt heavy, my senses heightened.
As I drifted towards sleep, I felt his renewed arousal. A silent question echoed in my mind: Did he want more?
My own desire, despite the lingering tenderness, mirrored his. I reached for his hardened private part. What fueled his renewed passion remained a mystery, but my own longing was undeniable.
He shifted, his body covering mine, and then, the intrusive intrusion. My aunt burst into the room without knocking, shattering the fragile intimacy. Anger and terror warred within me.
Charles froze, caught in the sudden glare of exposure. I knew my aunt. Beneath a sometimes stern exterior lay a gentle heart, a fortunate truth given her husband's absence.
Instinct took over. I launched myself towards her, a torrent of tears and passionate sobs. I confessed, my voice thick with emotion, that I had wanted it.
That was the key to my aunt's heart: honest confession in the face of discovery.
She banished Charles, her initial fury softening into a reluctant understanding. And afterward, life with my aunt settled back into its familiar, comfortable rhythm.