14. Solenne #2
“You were right. Being her father doesn’t settle anything between us.” He moves his cutlery away from the edge of the table. “Would you let me talk about what happened? You can stop me.”
“You can talk.”
I wait. The candle flickers between us.
“When my father died,” he says slowly, “my mother became the only parent I had left. And I know that sounds obvious, but it felt like more than that. It felt like she was the only person who understood the family, the business, the weight of everything I’d inherited.
I wanted her guidance. I needed to believe she was helping me. ”
“Even when she wasn’t.”
“Especially when she wasn’t.” He picks up his water glass, sets it down again without drinking. “Because admitting she wasn’t helping meant admitting I was alone. That the person I thought was on my side was actually working against my marriage. And I wasn’t ready to face that.”
“So you chose her.”
“I chose comfort. I chose the relationship that didn’t require me to change or question myself or admit I’d been wrong.
” He meets my eyes. “You kept asking me to listen. To see what was happening. And I chose not to, because listening meant accepting that my mother was capable of cruelty. It was easier to believe you were overreacting.”
“I wasn’t overreacting.”
“There were things I saw and chose not to question. The way she spoke to you. Where she put you at dinner. I didn’t have to know everything to notice those.”
The wine arrives. I take a sip, letting the cool sharpness of it settle on my tongue.
“What changed?”
“I came home and you were gone.” He looks at the empty place beside my plate. “I’d promised we would talk after the fiesta. I came home expecting you to be there, still waiting for me to decide I had time.”
“Ginevra.” The name still tastes bitter. “Your mother’s choice.”
“My mother’s choice,” he agrees. “But I’m the one who stood next to her at that fiesta. I’m the one who let the photographs happen. I could have walked away. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was a coward.” No hedging, no softening. “I told myself it was easier to play along, that it didn’t mean anything, that you would understand. But the truth is, I was afraid of my mother’s disappointment. More afraid of that than of losing you.” He pauses. “I’m not proud of it.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“I’m not.” He holds my gaze. “I’ve told everyone who will listen that Ginevra was never a prospect.
I contacted the town paper back home. Gave a statement correcting the record.
My wife and daughter are the real Carusos.
The photographs were my mother’s arrangement, and I was wrong to participate in them. ”
“You told the press that?”
“I told anyone who would print it. I should have said it publicly the moment those photos appeared. I should have stood beside you and made it clear. Instead, I let other people define our family because I was too busy avoiding conflict.”
I hadn’t known about the statement. For weeks I’ve avoided looking up our names together.
“They needed to hear it from you.”
“It took you leaving. It shouldn’t have taken that much.” He looks down at the table. “My mother arranged those photographs. But I chose to stand there. I chose to let it happen. That’s on me.”
The food arrives, beautifully plated, the lamb glistening with herbs and the salad bright with color. We eat for a few minutes in silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. The lamb is tender, rich with rosemary, exactly what I circled on that menu years ago.
“This is good,” I say.
“Better than the spicy disaster I ordered last time?”
“Much better. Though watching you sweat through dinner was entertaining.”
“I’m glad my suffering amused you.”
“It really did.”
He smiles, and for a moment he looks like the man I fell in love with. The one who laughed easily and didn’t take himself too seriously and made me feel like the most interesting person in any room.
“Tell me about your work,” he says. “The project with Rachel. How’s it going?”
I’m surprised by the question. He’s asked before, in texts and brief conversations at handoffs, but always in passing. This feels different. Like he actually wants to know.
“It’s slow,” I say. “Development always is. We’re still working on the structure, trying to figure out the right balance between the personal story and the larger context.”
“What’s the personal story?”
“A woman trying to rebuild her life after losing everything. Not literally everything, but the version of her life she thought she’d have. She has to figure out who she is when the plan falls apart.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“It’s not autobiographical. Not exactly.” I take another bite of lamb. “But it’s informed by things I’ve felt. The fear of starting over. The way people expect you to either be fine or be broken, with no room for the messy middle.”
“The messy middle?”
“The part where you don’t know what you want yet. Where you’re still angry but also tired of being angry. Where you miss someone and resent them at the same time.” I set my fork down. “The part where nothing is resolved and you just have to keep living anyway.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s the part I’m trying to understand. How to keep showing up when nothing is resolved. When I can’t fix it or speed it up or make you forgive me on a schedule.”
“You can’t make me forgive you at all. That’s not how it works.”
“I know.” He picks up his wine glass, turns it slowly in his hands. “I’m not asking for forgiveness tonight. I’m asking for time. For the chance to keep being the person I should have been all along.”
“And if the time doesn’t change anything? If I decide I can’t do this?”