15. Valentina
VALENTINA
The door closes behind Cillian and I stand there with my hand still on the frame. I listen to his footsteps and then the elevator and then nothing.
Just quiet.
I slowly breathe once through my nose and exhale, utilizing a technique my therapist told me about when I would start to get panic attacks.
The point is to not melt down in my own hallway, especially when I have outsiders still in my home.
Once I’m convinced I’m not going to fall apart, I square my shoulders and pivot. Time to take care of my other issues.
Heading back down the hall, I see Claire and Finn standing in the kitchen doorway looking at me.
Finn is clutching a bottle of water in his hands.
He looks at me silently with those careful brown eyes. How odd. This child has been sitting in my apartment for two hours now, watching every adult in his orbit fall apart in some direction and he hasn’t made a sound.
What the hell has this child seen?
Claire nods toward the door. “Is Cillian returning?” she boldly asks.
I won’t give her the satisfaction of telling her that I kicked him out. “Let’s sit down.”
We sit down.
Claire tells Finn he can have the tablet again and he grabs it like she’s thrown him a lifeline.
He puts his headphones back in before he’s even fully settled, and honestly good for him. I would also like to not be in this room right now.
I look at Claire.
Something is different.
I can’t immediately put my finger on it. It’s not one thing, it’s a collection of small things—the way she’s sitting, the angle of her chin, the fact that she’s not working as hard as she was before Cillian showed up.
Before, everything she did was careful and meek.
She looked at me like she was conscious of every word coming out of her mouth. Now she’s looking at me like she got what she came for and she’s comfortable with it.
Like the show was for Cillian and I’m just what’s left over.
It makes my stomach turn.
Or maybe that’s the pregnancy.
I can’t tell right now.
My nausea and my dread have merged into one undifferentiated awful feeling that has been sitting in my chest since she knocked on my door and hasn’t moved.
She catches me looking at her and her smile is small and polite.
Something about it makes my skin crawl.
“Tell me more,” I finally say, trying to get rid of the feeling with conversation.
I need to go over her story again—something sounds off but I just don’t know what.
“About Belfast. About you and Cillian.” I keep my voice easy and breezy so she doesn’t know how I’m truly feeling. “I feel like I’m missing some of it.”
“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Where should I start?”
And something in the way she says it—the particular readiness of it, like she’s been waiting for the invitation—makes me feel the crawling thing again.
“Wherever you want,” I respond.
A soft, dreamy look crosses her face. “There are things I didn’t mention,” she starts, leaning forward like we’re best friends and sharing secrets.
“Earlier. I didn’t want to—it felt like too much, with everything else.
” She glances at Finn, who is totally absorbed in his tablet.
She looks back at me. “But you said you wanted to understand the full picture.”
I don’t. Not anymore. “I did,” I respond though my mouth feels dry and my stomach flip flops with anxiety.
“We didn’t just see each other at the pub,” Claire says.
“That’s what I made it sound like but—we had a week, toward the end, where his schedule cleared up a bit and we spent almost every day together.
” She pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I showed him the city. The real parts of Belfast, not the tourist parts. We drove out to the coast one afternoon.” She looks at her hands, like the memory is in them.
“He was different outside of the pub. More relaxed. Quieter. He talked about growing up in New York, and his family. How much he loved his cousin—Emma, I think it is? He said she was young but he thought she and I would be really good friends.”
I stiffen at the mention of my sister-in-law, and the green monster rears its ugly head.
Emma is my friend, not hers. There’s an odd ringing in my ears, and I try to shove it back so I can keep listening.
“—he talked to me about things I don’t think he talked about very often.” She smiles serenely at me and I suddenly want to punch her in the face. “I got the sense it was easier, you know? Talking to someone who didn’t know any of it. Who wasn’t part of that world.”
I’m very still.
“He cooked for me once,” she continues fondly and something acidic curdles in my gut.
“In my flat. He just took over my kitchen like it was completely natural and made something absolutely delicious with whatever was in the fridge.” She lets out a small laugh, almost as if she’s amused herself.
“I remember thinking this is someone who knows how to be at home somewhere.” She pauses and looks at me meaningfully.
“He felt like home, I suppose, for those few weeks.”
He felt like home.
I pick up my mug and take a sip, just to do something besides throttle her. The tea is cold and the ginger is bitter on my tongue.
“And there was one night,” she says, quieter now, “toward the very end, when we both knew he was leaving in a few days. We didn’t really talk about it.
But I remember he…” She stops, seeming to struggle with what to say to me.
“He was different that night. Softer. Said things he probably wouldn’t have said otherwise.
” She holds my eye contact. “I think he knew it was real too and it wasn’t nothing. We had such a connection.”
It wasn’t nothing.
She has just handed me a whole other version of my husband that I have never met and she knows it.
“Eight weeks doesn’t sound like long to know someone but by the end of our time together, it felt like I had known him for years.
” Claire sighs, looking forlorn. “We really were intense. It left a mark. Among other things.” She pauses and glances at Finn meaningfully.
My stomach drops to my damn toes. “Some things you just never forget.”
She stops herself there and looks at her hands, like she’s being careful not to say too much.
I don’t buy that shit for a second. She is absolutely saying exactly what she wants to say.
I need more tea. Actually no, I need something significantly stronger than tea. Like a martini. Or three.
“It sounds like it really meant something to you,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth.
“It did.” She nods. “Then he left and I had to deal with the reality of that.” The warmth shifts and gets heavier, a cloud passing over her face.
“On my own. Every milestone, every parent-teacher night, every time Finn asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer.
” She shakes her head. “You can’t imagine what it’s like.
Doing all of that without anyone in your corner. ”
Her voice has taken on a new quality, but I can’t put my finger on it. Envious? Smug? Annoyed? Like she’s owed a great big debt and now that she’s tracked down the person who owes it, she plans on cashing in.
“How hard,” I say, unable to infuse any sense of sympathy in my voice.
Claire notices it. Her eyes narrow. “It was.” She looks at me suspiciously.
“But we managed. Finn’s a wonderful kid.
He deserved so much better.” Her eyes fall to my stomach and it takes everything in me to not cover it up with a pillow.
“At least your baby will have their father from the beginning.”
I stiffen.
Claire looks at her son. “Finn’s waited eight years to get to know his father.”
Ein. Zwei. Drei. Vier. Fünf.
I breathe through my nose.
Sechs. Sieben. Acht. Neun. Zehn.
Every part of me wants to—I don’t know. Several things that are not options. This woman has the audacity to invite herself over and is currently looking at me with eyes that are sorry-shaped but there’s no actual remorse behind them.
I want to rip her apart limb from limb, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I know several people and organizations that can make this woman disappear.
Finn is unfortunately collateral damage, but I can think of something to make sure he’s safely out of the way, too.
Then I think about my mother and how she handles people who are being rude.
Composure first, Valentina. If someone insists on embarrassing themselves, the least you can do is look gracious while they do it. Fists are crude things; words, placed carefully, can bring a whole room to its knees.
Kill them with kindness.
Well, I plan on doing so but with a lot of emphasis on kill.
“How generous of you,” I say warmly, “to finally tell Cillian about his alleged son after eight years.” I smile at her and I can tell I’ve thrown her off. “Pure maternal devotion, from beginning to end. Really, Claire, it’s deeply admirable.”
The warmth goes out of her eyes all at once and she doesn’t bother trying to hide it.
“I know this is hard,” she says, and her voice has gone thin and sharp, her cheeks reddening slightly.
“Finding out your husband has a child with someone else.” She smirks at me, as if knowing this will hurt.
“Especially now while you’re carrying his baby.
” Her smirk widens. “That must be absolutely devastating—knowing you weren’t the one to give Cillian his first child. His first son.”
The odd ringing in my ears is back but I refuse to let this woman see that what she’s saying is affecting me.
But Claire takes my silence as proof that what she said hurts.
She looks triumphant. “There’s something about that, isn’t there?
The first one. A boy.” She runs her fingers over the arm of the chair casually.
“That means something to men like Cillian. Men who come from families like his. Legacy, succession, all of that.” Her eyes don’t move off that.
“I’m sure you know all about that considering you are a Santoro.
Your baby will have a wonderful father. But Finn was first.”
A thousand insults and nasty retorts fly to my lips.