Her gaze holds mine. A slow breath in. Out. “You’ve hurt a lot of people.”
“Yes.”
“You hurt me.”
“Yes.” The word slaps. I don’t flinch away from it.
She nods, tiny. “I don’t forgive you,” she says, and then adds, in a voice that wavers once and steadies, “Not yet.”
“I didn’t come for forgiveness,” I say. “I came to see you. To listen. To tell you I love you, and I’m sorry I hurt you. That I disappointed you. If all you ever want from me is this, I’ll take it.”
Her eyes shine, and then, like her mother, she blinks it back into steel. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she says.
“I won’t,” I answer.
Nick takes a measured sip of his water, then sets it down. He doesn’t speak, but I can tell they’re having their own conversation through touch. The way you do when you’ve built a private language with someone.
“How are Vito, Nico, and Caterina?” Lucia asks hesitantly.
“They ask about you,” I say.
Lucia looks down, drags another fry through the sauce slowly. “Even Caterina?” she asks in a whisper.
“Of course. She’s your sister,” I say.
“She’s not angry at me?”
“Of course. She’s your sister,” I repeat.
Lucia’s breath comes out in a laugh.
“She wrote me a furious text last month and then sent three heart emojis five minutes later,” Elena offers. “I took that to mean ‘I love you and also you’re wrong.’”
“That’s Caterina,” Lucia says, mouth tipping. “She used to leave me passive-aggressive notes on my bathroom mirror when she was angry.”
“She upgraded technologically, I guess,” Elena says cheerfully. “Still, she’s doing all right. She’s excited about the baby coming. Shockingly so.”
“She used to play with that creepy doll when she was a kid. The one with the eyes,” Lucia says. “She loved that thing.”
“Until the eyes stopped blinking and one of them stayed open all the time,” I add, remembering.
“Yeah, I was happy when she lost it.”
“She didn’t lose it. Your mamma threw it away. Said it kept her up at night.”
Lucia tips her head back and laughs. A real one. The first I’ve heard in too long.
The ache in my chest loosens a little.
Nick’s fingers graze the back of her hand; she doesn’t pull away. He glances at the fries, then at me, and I don’t read challenge there, just watchfulness that isn’t spoiling for a fight.
She nods, looks down at her glass, then back up at me with the frankness I remember from a small girl who once demanded a pony and settled for a puppy, which is probably what she wanted in the first place.
“I can stay ten more minutes,” she says. “After that, we go.”
I want to protest, but I force myself to nod and accept.
She reaches for another fry, breaks it in half, offers a piece to Nick without looking. He takes it. Their shoulders touch.
