21. Charlie
Gwen and I have parked outside of the high school, anxiously watching the clock. Kids stumble out, one by one, their eyes glazed over, pencils clutched in their hands. Gwen’s fingernails are cutting into the skin over her arm, creating those deep crescent moon indents. I reach out and brush her hand away.
“She’s going to do great,” I say, soothing over the irritated skin with my thumb.
“I know, I just worry about her,” she murmurs, her eyes flickering between the clock on the dash and the exit of the school. “She’s had a long week.”
I hum in agreement, watching Gwen try to push down her anxiety. Ana was back at the hospital on Thursday for new scans and a biopsy to check if the radiation treatment worked. The oncologist said it would be a week or so before we got results back, and Gwen’s been understandably on edge ever since.
That edge has been soothed by the new routine we’ve found together. Taking Ana to school in the mornings, training some new skill or staying in the city to work with the Costa Family Foundation. Making dinner with Ana while I quiz her on algebraic equations. Forgoing sleep to make up for all the lost time.
The exhaustion barely affects me. Touching Gwen, learning how to make her fall apart under my hands, trusting her more and more every day, is better than any rest I’ve ever gotten.
As unfair as it is, the more she gives me, the more I want from her. It’s a vicious cycle that I’m a willing victim to.
“There she is,” Gwen whispers, unbuckling her seatbelt and breaking me out of my daydreaming.
Ana appears in the main archway of the school. Her hair is knotted in a loose, messy bun on top of her head, and her sweatshirt is tied around her waist. She looks tired, like the rest of the kids, but she’s not openly sobbing like the kid sitting on the brick planter.
I don’t remember the SAT being this traumatic.
Gwen pops open the door and waves at her sister, whose face lights up when she sees us. I get out too and watch her make her way toward us.
“She doesn’t look devastated,” Gwen whispers through a smile.
“Told you she’d be fine,” I reply.
Ana walks straight to Gwen and slumps into her arms, squeezing tightly.
“You did it, kid,” Gwen whispers into her hair.
“I’m just glad it’s fucking over,” Ana groans, and Gwen swats her on the head.
“Dont’ say fucking,” she chastises, but her smile is wide and her words have no bite.
To my surprise, Ana makes her way around the front of the car and wraps her arms around my waist.
“Thanks for making sure I didn’t completely fail,” she says.
After a moment of motionless shock, I put my arm around her shoulder. I swallow past the lump in my throat, which only gets worse when I see Gwen’s expression over the top of the car.
“You did that. I just made some flashcards,” I say, unable to look away from Gwen.
She’s always been so easy for me to read. Not just because of who I am, but because she’s got such a short leash on her emotions, they pour out of her without restraint. And I know what look I see in her eyes.
“But they were fantastic flashcards,” Ana says, releasing me from the hug and breaking my eye contact with Gwen.
I open Ana’s door, asking her about the test, trying to rein in the feeling in my chest.
We take Ana out to lunch, and she fills the conversation like she always does, talking about the hardest questions on the exam and making jokes about how bad a score she can get and still get into Carnegie.
The live wire between Gwen and I feels different. Hypersensitive. She’s sitting next to me in the booth, her attention rapt on Ana, but I can almost feel her thinking about me. She’s on my right, and every time her hand bumps into mine while we eat, I almost jump out of my skin.
It’s a relief when my phone rings, giving me the chance to focus on anything else but the way Gwen scrunches her nose when she laughs with Ana.
Aurelio Costaflashes across my phone screen, and my blood immediately turns to ice. My father rarely calls me directly. Mama has always been the talker, calling just to check in. The last time my father called me was the day of mama’s attack.
I excuse myself from the table abruptly, cutting off Ana mid-sentence. Gwen grabs my arm before I can leave, her brows raised and her eyes filled with worry. I try to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace, because the only thing running through my head is she’s gone, she’s gone, something happened and she’s gone.
I step out into the hot summer afternoon, trying to find a relatively secluded area before picking up the call.
“Pa,” I answer, trying to keep my voice level.
“She’s coming home.” His voice is shaking, filled with raw relief. All the dread I was feeling disappears in an instant. “The physicians say she can come home. She’s healed enough, and she’s even started talking. She can come home.”
I slump against the window of the flower shop I’m in front of, scrubbing my eyes. She’s okay. She’s alive. She can come home.
“She’s coming home,” I repeat, though I don’t know if it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “You called Clara?”
“Yes, and Gia and Alessia,” he replies on a sob.
It takes him a moment to collect himself, and I’m thankful for it, because the relief I feel is overwhelming. The guilt, too, though I try to swallow that down.
“Okay, yes. My god, she’s okay.” I clear my throat, near tears for the second time today.
A bell rings softly, and when I look up, Gwen appears in the doorway to the cafe. She whips her head around, and when she spots me, she looks scared.
I genuinely smile at her this time, the tears I’ve been holding back finally falling. She moves through the crowd of afternoon shoppers, pushing her way through until I’m able to grab her around the waist and pull her to my side.
“She wants you here, Carlo,” my father says on the other end of the line, his voice cracking. “She’s asking for all of you—the entire council.”
I think Gwen can hear him through the receiver, but she doesn’t ask questions, just wraps herself tighter around me. And I realize I want her here, that her presence makes the relief sweeter.
“Tell me when, and I’ll be there,” I say, leaning my head back against the window and staring at the sky.
“You should bring her.” He says it quietly, not a command but a request, an offer. “Guinevere. If she is really going to be your wife. She should come, too.”
I look down at Gwen, still clearly concerned for me, but no longer afraid. She nods. She doesn’t even completely know what’s being asked of her, but I can see the trust in her eyes.
“When?” I ask, pressing my lips to Gwen’s forehead.
“Be here by next Saturday.”