16. Valentin #3
After they leave, I spend the afternoon answering calls from my lawyer, from the security firm, from various family contacts who have seen the original article and want to know what’s happening. I tell them all the same thing: the truth will be out by morning.
The evening passes slowly. I try to eat dinner and manage half of it.
I try to read and can’t focus on the words.
I try to sleep and lie awake in the dark, thinking about Solenne in Los Angeles, about Summer getting ready for preschool while this day ends here, about all the ways I failed to protect them when it mattered.
Around midnight, my phone buzzes. A link from Elena: the piece is live.
I watch the footage play on the screen, see my own face saying the words I meant. Read Delfina’s statement below it, her account laid out simply and clearly. The video is stark in black and white, the timestamp visible in the corner, the violence of Ginevra’s shove unmistakable.
I fall asleep at some point, the phone still in my hand.
***
I wake Friday morning to messages. Dozens of them.
The original outlet has updated their article with a correction notice and a link to Elena’s piece. Several others have pulled their versions entirely. A few have run both side by side, letting readers draw their own conclusions.
My mother’s social circle has begun to react. A charity board she sat on has requested her resignation. Two families who regularly hosted her have sent polite notes expressing their regret that they won’t be able to include her in upcoming events. Small consequences, but visible ones.
Ginevra’s image has shifted overnight. The wounded victim pose doesn’t hold up against footage of her shoving an older woman into a doorframe. The comments on her social media have turned hostile. I don’t feel satisfaction exactly, but I don’t feel sorry either.
At six in the morning, my phone buzzes with a message from Los Angeles. Solenne.
I saw the piece. Thank you.
I start to write a longer reply, then delete it. She has seen it. She doesn’t need to look after how I feel about that.
I type back: It was owed. Long before now.
A pause. Then: When do you fly back?
Noon, through Rome. I’ll be in LA tonight. Still on for Saturday morning.
Summer’s been talking about the honey.
Tell her I haven’t forgotten.
Before I pack, I open the invitation the Solano family sent weeks ago. Their formal gathering is next week, another evening of people deciding where to stand and who is worth being seen beside. My name is on it. Solenne’s isn’t.
I remember letting my mother lead her away from me at dinner. I had thought we could talk afterward. I had always thought there would be an afterward.
At eight I call Signor Solano. He answers without the usual questions about my journey.
“I’ve seen the article,” he says.
“Then you know why I’m calling.”
“I doubt I know that.”
His daughter has been exposed in a way he can’t explain away. I can hear him searching for a tone that will let him acknowledge it without discussing her.
“You invited me next week,” I say. “Is that invitation still open?”
“Yes. This is a family occasion. There will be no discussion of private disputes.”
“My wife being shoved out of her own home wasn’t a private dispute.”
“Valentin.”
“I’m not asking you to make a speech. I’m asking you to invite her by name. Solenne Varga-Caruso. If she wants to come, she comes beside me.”
For a few seconds I hear nothing except someone speaking in another room at his end.
“Ginevra will be here,” he says at last. “She’s my daughter.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t want a scene in my house.”
“Neither do I. Solenne is entitled to the same courtesy as any other guest. Can you give her that?”
“Of course.”
He sounds offended by the question. I let him be.
“I’ll send a revised invitation,” he says. “Shall I expect you both?”
“You can expect an answer after I’ve asked her.”
When the new invitation arrives, I check it before forwarding it. Our names are together. Such a small correction. It should never have required a call.
It’s late in Los Angeles now, so I leave the question in a message she can read tomorrow.
Would you come to the Solano gathering with me next week? Ginevra will be there. So will the people who watched what happened at the fiesta. I know that’s a great deal to ask. I want to stand beside you in that room, if you want to be there.
I stop typing. I want to promise that nobody will hurt her again. I have made promises like that before.
Whether you come or not, I will choose you in every room. You won’t have to be there to make me remember.
I send the invitation with it, then put the phone beside my suitcase.
In a few hours I’ll be on my way back to Los Angeles. Tomorrow Summer will look for me when Odette opens the door, and I will be there. I can do that without asking anyone what it means for my marriage.
Solenne’s answer will take as long as it takes.
I zip the suitcase. The chair by the window is empty, and I leave it where it is.
I want my wife beside me.
This time, she doesn’t have to be beside me for me to take her side.