Chapter eighteen
Saint
In the car, the silence between us was thick and heavy. Aria sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the window. She didn’t ask where we were going, and I didn’t offer an explanation. Because I didn’t know how to talk to her. Maybe I had gone about this the wrong way. But then, what was the alternative? Aria didn’t want this life, but I wasn’t leaving it.
The drive to my father’s doctor’s office was short. I felt my hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary when I pulled up. I didn’t get nervous often, but it was creeping up my spine. My grandmother’s words echoed in my head, a haunting refrain, “I feel sorry for you, losing your father and mother before you even got a chance to know them.”
Words came out of my mouth before I even thought about expressing them.
“My grandmother said something to me a while ago,” I said, breaking the silence. Aria didn’t turn to look at me, but I could feel her attention shift. “She said she felt sorry for me, losing my father and mother before I even got a chance to know them.”
Aria’s brow furrowed, but she stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue.
“I thought she was just confused. She had dementia. She said non sensical shit all the time. My father was alive. Though my mother died at childbirth. But now…” I trailed off, my throat tightening. “Now I’m not so sure she was just rambling.”
Aria finally turned to look at me, her expression unreadable. “What are you saying, Saint?”
“I’m saying I’m here to find out the truth.”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t argue either. That was something, at least.
I helped her out of the car.
“I know this doctor, my cousin uses him,” she volunteered absentmindedly. Probably just trying to find anything to say to fill the silence.
It was early morning, and the office hadn’t even opened yet. The doctor let me in and walked us back to the office, Aria at my side. I handed over the bag with my father’s toothbrush and hairbrush. The doctor had been my father’s physician since I was a boy. It took a suitcase full of money to get him to run a quick blood type test first—my father had a rare blood type, and if mine didn’t match, it would be a clear sign that he wasn’t my biological father. The DNA test would take longer, but this would give me an answer today. The doctor took a vial of my blood and everything I’d given him and left.
While we waited, Aria stood by the window, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. I wanted to pull her into my arms. I should have, but I stopped myself.
“I need to use the restroom,” she said suddenly.
I nodded, but as she turned to leave, I caught her wrist. “You know what I’ll do to your friends if you run, don’t you?”
She looked at me with no expression. “I’m not running,” she said, pulling her wrist free.
When she came back, the doctor entered the room a few minutes later, holding a clipboard. His fat face was unreadable, but I didn’t need him to say anything. The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
“The blood types don’t match,” the doctor explained. “For a biological father and child to share the same blood type, they must inherit compatible alleles. it’s genetically impossible for him to be your father.”
I didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. Everything just suddenly made sense. The abuse, the mistreatment, everything.
Aria, however, wasn’t so composed. She took a step back, her hand flying to her mouth. “Saint…”
I held up a hand, cutting her off. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” she repeated, her voice rising. “How is this fine?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned to the doctor. “Thank you. Let me know when the DNA results come in.”
He nodded and left the room, leaving us alone. Aria stared at me, her eyes searching mine for a reaction. But I couldn’t give her one. I had spent so long pushing back emotions I didn’t feel, only for her. I was numb otherwise.
“My grandmother taught me to dance,” I said finally. “I want to dance at our wedding.”
Aria blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “What?”
“You heard me,” I said, taking a step closer to her. “I want to dance at our wedding.”
She stared at me. “Saint, this isn’t the time—”
“It’s the perfect time,” I interrupted.
She hesitated for a few second. Finally, she nodded. “Yes.”
I knew she only said it because she felt sorry for me. Because she didn’t know how else to respond. But I didn’t care. I would use those feelings to my advantage.
I drove us to a dance studio. Aria waited in the car while I went in. I was trusting her not to run.
When I went back out to get her, she was still in the driver’s seat. The instructor was waiting for us. She taught us a simple waltz, guiding us through the steps.
At first, Aria was stiff, her movements awkward and hesitant. But as the music played and we moved together, she began to relax. Her body softened against mine, her hands gripping my shoulders as we swayed to the rhythm.
The tension between us built, palpable. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. I was surprised when she pushed herself up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to mine.
It wasn’t gentle or sweet. It was desperate, hungry, like I was trying to pour everything I couldn’t say into that one kiss. Her hands tangled in my hair, her body pressing against mine.
But then she pulled away, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I’m sorry for what you found out today…” She smoothed her thumb over my lip, removing the lip gloss she’d left there.
“I know whether you show it or not that you’re—”
I didn’t let her finish. Instead, I pulled her back into the dance, holding her close as we moved together.
When I took her home that night, she hesitated at the door of the room she had been sleeping in, her eyes meeting mine. “Can I… can I stay with you tonight?”
I nodded. More pity I would accept.
She followed me to my room. I didn’t miss how her eyes darted over all the art of her. The fact that she was uncomfortable and still wanted to stay with me meant she cared.
We took turns taking showers. I lent her a shirt. After, she curled up beside me on the bed, smelling like me. We didn’t talk.
But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that my father wasn’t my father. And that my life was a lie.