Ricardo #2
“That punch was not justice,” she says. “It was Dante losing control. And you make excuses for him.”
My lip throbs.
“And I'm willing to bet he knew it,” she says.
My son’s face comes back to me. The shock after he struck me. The way his hand shook. The way his eyes went to the blood and then away.
“He knew it,” I say. “And hated himself for it.”
“Good.”
My gaze snaps to hers.
Julia’s face is pale, but her eyes do not waver.
“Good,” she repeats. “He should hate himself for it. He should know it was beneath him. And you should not take that from him by acting like he had every right.”
“He is not cruel.”
“I know.”
“He would never have struck me if—”
“If he wasn’t hurt?” she finishes. “If he wasn’t angry? If he wasn’t blindsided?” She shakes her head. “Those are exactly the excuses you said you don’t make for him.”
I look away.
Damn her.
Damn her for seeing too much.
Damn me for loving that about her.
“He needs me,” I say, and the words come out lower than I intend.
Julia’s expression changes.
“I know,” she says quietly. “But he doesn't need you to make excuses for him. He does not need your silence. He needs to know you will still be his father when he is angry, but he also needs to know his father can look him in the eye and tell him he crossed a line.”
“That will not push him away?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The vulnerability in the question irritates me the moment it leaves my mouth.
Julia hears it.
Her face softens, and she steps closer.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Maybe he’ll stay away for a while. Maybe he’ll get angrier first. But letting him believe you will absorb anything from him because you feel guilty cannot be the answer.”
I sit slowly on the edge of my desk.
The room feels too warm.
My mouth aches. My head aches. My son’s absence aches worst of all.
Julia comes to stand in front of me.
For a moment, she only looks at me.
Then she reaches up and touches the uninjured side of my face.
I let her.
“You do not have to turn yourself into a villain for Dante to love you,” she says, her thumb brushing lightly against my cheek.
I look at her, this woman my son believes I have stolen from him, this woman who stands in my study with tears in her eyes and anger in her voice because she also loves him enough to tell me the truth.
“I do not know how to fix this,” I admit.
Her face crumples for half a second before she pulls it back together.
“Neither do I.”
“I can call him.”
“Maybe.”
“I can tell him the truth.”
Her hand stills.
“About Liliana?”
“Yes.”
Julia’s eyes search mine.
“Do you want to tell him because he deserves to know,” she asks, “or because you want him to forgive you faster?”
The question is gentle, but it still cuts.
I lower my gaze.
“I do not know.”
“Then wait until you do.”
I nod once.
She exhales shakily.
“But the punch,” she says. “That part should come sooner.”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I understand.”
The answer seems to reach her.
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
Then she looks at my mouth again, and fresh pain crosses her face.
“I hate that he did this to you.”
“I have had worse,” I assure her.
I reach for her waist and draw her between my knees.
She comes willingly, sliding her arms around me and leaning gently against me.
“I’ve seen the scars.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head and absorb the sting of my lip.
“I am sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
“For the position I have put you in.”
“We both made choices.”
“Yes.” My hands tighten at her waist. “But my choices come with baggage.”
“I know.”
“You should be angrier with me.”
“I am angry with you.”
My mouth almost curves, but pain stops it.
She pulls back and looks at me.
“I am very angry with you,” she says.
“I believe you.”
“And with him.”
“I know.”
“And with myself.”
“That one, I will not allow.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to allow my feelings.”
“No,” I say. “But I can object to them.”
She looks as if she wants to argue.
Then her face folds with exhaustion.
“I can’t lose him again,” she whispers.
My chest constricts.
I pull her closer, carefully, giving her every chance to resist.
She does not.
She comes into my arms with a small breath and presses her face against my chest.
I hold her.
For several moments, there is only the sound of her breathing, uneven at first, then steadier.
“What happened to Liliana?” Julia asks softly.
I don't answer.
“I know you know,” she says. “She's Dante's mother.”
Of course she knows. She knows I wouldn't just let Liliana leave our lives like that.
“She passed. About fifteen years ago,” I say quietly. “Overdose.”
Julia presses closer to me.
“There was no one left in her life, so I claimed her and had her buried in a plot that we own. It's unmarked, but I always planned on telling Dante about it and putting a headstone when I did.”
Julia pulls back to look up at me. “You’re not as bad a man as you seem determined to believe, Ricardo.”
My throat tightens.
“I have done terrible things,” I whisper.
“Probably,” she says. “But this wasn’t one of them.”
My arms tighten around her.
“I hope you’re right,” I say.
“I am,” she says and lifts herself up to brush her lips against mine, mindful of the cut.
Outside the study, my house remains silent.
My son is gone.
Julia is here.
For tonight, there is no right move to repair what has been broken. There is only this: her in my arms, Dante’s pain between us, and the truth I have avoided for twenty-six years pressing closer with every breath.
I have spent Dante’s life protecting him from his mother’s choices.
I wonder, for the first time, whether I also protected myself from what he would see in mine.