Chapter 1 Where We Learned to Hide #4
I do know. I've known since before I married him that being a Don's wife would mean sharing him with the land and the family and the endless demands of running an estate this size. I didn't mind it, then.
I thought we would figure it out together, that we would carve out space for ourselves in the middle of all of it.
Instead, the demands have grown and our space has shrunk, and more and more often I find myself alone in this house that doesn't quite feel like mine.
Leon crosses the room and kneels in front of me, taking my hands in his. "I'm sorry. I know I've been absent lately. I'll do better."
"You always say that."
"I mean it this time."
"You always mean it."
He flinches, just slightly, but I don't take it back. I'm tired of smoothing over my own feelings to make things easier for everyone else.
"I thought keeping you away from those situations would help," he says slowly. "When they're cruel, when they look at you like that. I thought if you didn't have to see it, it wouldn't hurt you."
"It hurts more to be alone, Leon. It hurts more to know you're out there with them while I'm here wondering what they're saying." I take his hands, hold them tightly. "I don't need you to protect me from unpleasant people. I need you beside me when they're being unpleasant."
He's quiet for a moment, turning this over. I can see him struggling with it, the gap between what he intended and what I actually needed. He doesn't argue, but he doesn't quite agree either.
"I didn't realize," he says finally. "I thought I was helping."
"I know you did."
"I know. I'm sorry." He brings my hands to his lips, kisses my knuckles. "We'll go to the dinner together. We'll stay as long as you want. And then we'll come home and I'll make it up to you."
My stomach lurches again, and this time I can't hide it. I pull my hands from his and turn away, breathing slowly, willing the nausea to pass. It does, eventually, but it takes longer than before, and when I turn back to Leon his expression is worried.
"You're really not well," he says.
"It's fine. It comes and goes."
"Has it been like this all week?"
"On and off. It's not that bad."
He's quiet for a moment, watching me with those dark serious eyes. "Stay home tonight."
"Leon..."
"I'm not trying to hide you. I swear I'm not. But you're clearly unwell, and the dinner is going to be long, and my mother will be there with all her opinions, and I don't want you to have to sit through that when you're feeling like this."
I want to argue. I want to insist on going, on being seen, on standing next to him and proving to everyone that I belong there.
But the truth is that I feel awful, and the thought of sitting through hours of Vera's pointed comments and his aunt's confused stares makes me want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.
"Could you stay with me?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "Instead of going?"
Something flickers across Leon's face. "It's my aunt's birthday. If we both don't show up, my mother will..."
I nod slowly, looking at my hands in his. "I understand it's her birthday. I just hoped you might stay anyway."
He squeezes my fingers, and I see the pull in his face, the calculation between what he wants and what the evening requires. "Let me make an appearance. Brief. Then I'll come straight back."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Ysabel. An hour, maybe two. Just long enough to be seen, give my aunt my wishes, and then I'm coming back to you."
"I said okay."
He searches my face, looking for something. I don't know if he finds it. After a moment he leans forward and kisses my forehead, soft and lingering, and I close my eyes and try to memorize the feeling.
"I love you," he says.
"I know."
"Get some rest. I'll bring you back something from dinner."
"I don't want anything from dinner."
"Then I'll bring you back something anyway, and you can throw it at me if you want." He smiles, that crooked smile that still makes my heart stutter after all this time. "I'll be home before you know it."
He leaves. I listen to his footsteps fade down the corridor, listen to his voice as he says something to someone downstairs, listen to the front door open and close and the crunch of wheels on gravel as the car pulls away.
Then silence.
I'm still wearing the green dress, the one I chose because I wanted to look like someone who belonged at a family dinner. The biscuits sit on the dresser, wrapped in cloth, still warm from the oven, going nowhere.
I should change. Wash my face. Find something to do with my hands that isn't sitting here cataloging all the ways tonight could have gone differently.
Instead, I cross to the dresser and unwrap the cloth.
The biscuits smell like almonds and orange zest, like my grandmother's kitchen, like the farm where my parents live now and where everything makes sense. I pick one up and bite into it.
It's good. I made something good today, even if no one else will taste it.
The room is quiet. I picture Leon arriving at his aunt's villa, explaining that his wife wasn't feeling well, smoothing things over the way he always does.
The green dress was supposed to be seen tonight, and instead I sit here wearing it for no one.