Chapter 2 - Sarah #2
Two simple syllables, yet they hang in the air between us. I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat.
We reach my building far too quickly. Franco parks directly in front, the Audi looking like an alien spacecraft among the beat-up cars and overflowing dumpsters. Before I can reach for the door handle, he's out and coming around to my side, opening the door with unexpected courtesy.
He helps Tommy out first, then offers me his arm again.
As we approach the building's entrance, I'm conscious of how shabby it must look to someone like him.
The green paint on the door is peeling, revealing layers of previous colors beneath.
The security buzzer has been broken for months, and someone has spray-painted an obscenity on the brick beside the entrance.
Franco doesn't comment, just holds the door open for us. Inside, the fluorescent light in the lobby flickers erratically, casting strange shadows across the dingy linoleum.
"The elevator's broken," I say, gesturing toward the out-of-order sign that's been taped there since summer.
"Which floor?" Franco asks.
"Third," I reply, dreading the climb with my throbbing ankle.
Without warning, Franco scoops me up into his arms. I gasp, instinctively grabbing his shoulders. He's carrying me like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back.
"Tommy, lead the way," he says to my wide-eyed son.
Tommy grins and bounds up the stairs ahead of us. "This way! We're in 3C!"
"You don't have to carry me," I protest weakly, aware of how close his face is to mine, how solid his chest feels against my side. It's been so long since a man has touched me with anything but casual indifference that I hardly know how to react.
"Your ankle needs rest," he says, as he begins climbing the stairs. "And we'll get there faster this way."
He's not even breathing hard as we reach the second-floor landing.
I'm suddenly, painfully conscious of my extra weight, the fifteen pounds I've never lost after Tommy was born, now pressed against this man's muscular frame.
I want to squirm away, to insist on walking, but the pain in my ankle reminds me why that's a bad idea.
Tommy reaches our door first and bounces impatiently as we catch up. "This is us!" he announces proudly.
Franco sets me down gently, keeping one hand on my arm until he's sure I'm stable. I fumble with my keys, noticing how shabby our door looks with its peeling paint and the childish drawings Tommy has taped at his eye level.
"Thank you," I say as I finally get the door open. "For everything."
Franco nods. Tommy tugs at his pant leg.
"Do you want to see my ninja turtle collection? I have all four, but Raphael is my favorite 'cause he's red and that's the best color."
Franco looks down at Tommy, and for a brief moment, something almost like a smile crosses his face. "Not tonight, kid. It's past your bedtime."
Tommy sighs dramatically. "That's what everyone always says."
"Because it's true." I ruffle his hair. "Go brush your teeth, okay? I'll be right in."
Tommy gives Franco one last curious look before disappearing into our small apartment, leaving me alone with my mysterious rescuer.
"Ice your ankle," Franco says. "And elevate it while you sleep."
I nod, suddenly awkward. "I will. Thank you again. I don't know how to repay you."
"You don't." His answer is immediate and firm.
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He checks it, his expression hardening as he reads the message.
"I have to go." He steps back, already turning toward the stairs.
"Wait," I call after him. "Will I... see you again?"
I'm not sure why I ask this. Maybe because despite his intimidating presence, he's the first person in a long time who's helped me without expecting anything in return. Or maybe because Tommy seemed to like him, and Tommy rarely warms to strangers.
Franco pauses, looking back at me with those impenetrable dark eyes.
"No," he says simply. "Lock your door."
Then he's gone, his footsteps fading as he descends the stairs. I stand in the doorway for a moment longer, listening until I can't hear him anymore.
I close the door and lock it, leaning against the worn wood for a moment before limping to the bathroom where Tommy is making a mess with toothpaste.
As I help him clean up and get ready for bed, I try to push thoughts of Franco from my mind. He was clear enough. Our paths won't cross again.
He exists in a different world than mine, one of expensive cars and designer suits and casual violence, a world where he can break a teenager's wrist without hesitation.
It's better this way. Safer.
But as I tuck Tommy into bed and lie down beside him, my throbbing ankle propped up on a pillow as Franco suggested, I find myself wondering who he really is and what kind of "business" brings a man like him to our neighborhood after midnight.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to my routine: morning shift at the diner, evening shift at the mart, picking up Tommy from my mother's house, making dinner with whatever's on sale at the grocery store. The endless cycle of barely getting by.
But tonight, just for a little while, I'd glimpsed another world. One where danger and protection wore the same face, where a stranger could appear from the shadows exactly when needed and disappear just as quickly.
As I drift toward sleep, Tommy's warm body curled against mine, I wonder if Franco ever thinks about the people he helps or if we were just a momentary distraction from whatever "business" had brought him to our part of the city.
Probably the latter. Men like him don't waste time thinking about women like me.