Chapter 21
Lucia
As the sky switches from a peaceful afternoon glow to a murky gray, tiredness swamps me. Camille and I spent hours at the park today. While pushing her on the swings and playing Frisbee with half a dozen children, I scanned the face of every dark-haired boy who dashed past.
I never spotted Gabriele, and even hours later, that disappointment is still a bitter pill to swallow.
Don’t get me wrong. Today was fun. It’s just hard to treasure unexpected pockets of happiness when the last time you saw your child, he was in tears.
After the park, we raced Marco, Camille’s bodyguard, to the tram.
Camille won. Her triumphant dance made the frayed edges of my disappointment a little less jagged.
Marco pretended to have a stitch mere feet from the finish line.
Camille didn’t need any help to beat me.
She won by a mile. I’m not surprised. She’s a tiny force of nature who barrels through life with a confidence I’ve never possessed.
Dinner was a simple, messy meal all children love. Pasta, without the vegetables adults sneak in, and cheesy garlic bread. I nearly burned the bread when Camille distracted me with her dance recital routine she performs next month.
Her routine is incredible, and I feel privileged to have seen it before anyone else.
We ate in the kitchen nook, and although Camille’s feet swung happily, I couldn’t miss how often her eyes drifted toward the door. She was waiting for someone to arrive.
She was waiting for him.
I acted like I wasn’t doing the same, but honestly, the silence is almost unbearable without Dante’s presence filling the space.
He’s been gone all day. Meetings, Marco said. As much as this hurts to admit, I’ve missed him in a way that’s unfair but completely out of my control. He didn’t lie when he said he and Camille are a package deal. You can’t have one without the other.
Having one all day meant missing the other like a missing limb.
Even in the bathroom, while I assist Camille with brushing her teeth, his absence is notable. Gently, I guide Camille’s hand to her molar teeth. As we circle her brush over the tiny white pegs at the back of her mouth, the hairs on my nape prickle and excitement flutters in my stomach.
He’s home.
I don’t hear the door or footsteps.
I feel him.
The part of me that’s been half asleep all day awakens.
Camille’s excitement mirrors mine. Her cheeks’ hue deepens when she hears her father’s voice calling her name, before her eyes widen. With her toothbrush dangling out of her mouth, she angles her head to check she isn’t hearing things.
I can tell the exact moment she realizes she’s not imagining his voice. Imaginary hearts burst from her eyes as she spits out foamy toothpaste, then bolts out of the bathroom without rinsing out any leftover nasties.
“Be careful!” I call out when her bare feet slap the floorboards at a speed too reckless to be safe.
Her speed remains unchecked, and I smile.
I’ve only ever dreamed of a love where I’d sprint to leap into the arms of the man who keeps me safe and protected. It’s never been a reality for me—though I’m unsure if Dante would agree with me.
When Camille launches herself into Dante’s arms, she hits him with a force that nearly knocks him on his ass. He catches her midair, and while his mannish laugh does crazy things to my insides, he thanks her for her eagerness by peppering ghostlike kisses on her cheeks and hair.
Camille giggles and squirms. They’re not the silent giggles Dante and I are accustomed to. They are little chirps of happiness that flood my heart with joy as fast as they unhinge my jaw.
Laughter isn’t words, but it’s pretty damn close.
When Dante glances my way, confident he’s dreaming, I clutch my chest. He’s so awestruck that I swear tiny, salty blobs are welling in the corners of his eyes.
The sight of him on the verge of tears bombards me with a strange, conflicting force. It’s like being punched and hugged at the same time.
I feel out of place yet also at home.
Once every squeak is diminished to soundless laughter, Dante lifts Camille into his arms. With one of her daddy’s arms under her legs and the other around her back, she clings to him as she’s waited to do all day.
So have I, though I’ll never admit that out loud.
Dante carries her to bed, and I hover in the doorway as he tucks her in. I can’t see Camille—Dante’s shoulders block my view—but I picture her pleading expression when he reads her needs without a word spoken.
“A story?” He scratches at his beard, fluffing up a scent that shouldn’t be familiar but is. “It’s already late…” I bite my lower lip to hide my grin when he caves only a second later. “But I think we can squeeze in one bedtime story.” He holds his index finger in the air to emphasize his reply.
Camille beams, and the knot in my stomach loosens. This is when I’d usually slip away, taught not to intrude on moments like this. But today, my feet refuse to budge. Don’t ask me why. I doubt I could give you an honest answer.
I should have left.
It would have hurt less.
Without looking up, Dante says, “Thanks for watching her. I left a schedule on the kitchen counter. If anything clashes, let me know.”
No invitation to stay.
No “This story is as much for you as it is for Camille.”
Nothing but practicality.
His rejection shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Badly.
I don’t know why I’m shocked. You can’t repeatedly push someone away and expect them to still reach out to you. I just figured he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Even though he isn’t looking at me anymore, I swallow the hard lump in my throat and nod. Camille is already absorbed in the book she picked from a hundred, her fingers tracing the illustrations to memorize them for future drawing endeavors, so I slip out relatively unnoticed.
The apartment immediately feels colder without the false illusion that I belong.
In the kitchen, I find the schedule Dante mentioned. It was printed recently and assembled by someone highly organized. I’ve never seen a color-coded schedule before.
My throat grows scratchy when I lift the multiple-page document off the counter. Three bundles of cash are stacked underneath it. Each bundle is clipped and labeled.
Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.
He paid me thirty thousand dollars, as he said he would.
I should be relieved, or at the very least grateful, but instead, I feel hollow. It’s like the good parts of me have been scooped out and replaced with greed.
This isn’t who I want to become. I don’t want Dante’s money. I never have. I want something I refuse to name since it will ruin everything.
Despite my unease, I memorize the schedule. The hours Dante needs me to work won’t affect me when I find a new job. He only needs me during the day, which leaves my nights free to work.
Who needs sleep?
Although tempted to test Edoardo’s offer of biweekly video chats, I leave the money where I found it. I’m desperate to see Gabriele again, but what kind of mother will I be if I compromise my morals to do that? My son deserves better, and it seems Dante has come to understand the same.
I spent the entire day pretending I didn’t miss him, and now I get to spend the night pretending I’m not hurt that I got exactly what was coming to me.