I bit my lip, shaking my head. Yes, I was in so much pain.
“I—I had another patient, so I asked Romilda to check on Signora Fausti,” the other nurse said.
“I see,” Uncle Tito said, and it was clear that he did see, more than he wanted to admit. “Romilda was engaged to Rocco, nephew. He broke it off due to her untrustworthy nature.”
Brando seemed to make some sense from this remark, because he stood so abruptly that I hardly had time to catch his arm. I knew I was the only force stopping him from going after her.
“I am truly sorry, SignoraFausti,”Romilda said, going for demure. “I had no idea that no one told you about the—”
Before anyone could get to her, she rushed out of the room, but not before I caught the smug look on her face. Brando’s face lost all color and he turned to stone. Even so, he looked…unsteady.
“Brando,” I said. My voice had gone soft, and it was so easy to speak. Whatever Dr. Abbruzzese had given me made me feel good and tired. “That’s what she told me—she lied to me.”
“It seems all is well here now,” Uncle Tito said, going for the door. Dr. Abbruzzese and the other nurse followed. “We will give you some privacy. If you shall need us—”
Brando nodded, and after they were gone, he took my hand. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said, bringing my hand to his mouth.
I tried to sit up, not able to take my eyes from his face, but he told me to be still in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
“It’s true?”
It was plain to see, this glaring thing that he couldn’t keep to himself any longer. He nodded.
“H—how? How can that be? That can’t be.” I tried to think, to make sense—no, after the incident with my pills I had gotten— “No. They must be mistaken.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said again. “Tito said it is possible. It was.”
“It was?”
“Yeah.” His voice broke even further, shattering to almost nothing.
“Oh.” I sat back, gazing at the ceiling. “I had no idea.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“I think I need to sleep now.” I sunk back below the surface, but not even the depths could drown the pain.
Chapter Fourteen
Brando
All she wanted to do was sleep. When she wasn’t sleeping, she had little to say and mostly gazed in whatever direction her eyes landed, looking but not really seeing.
After Elliott’s death she had subsided into a similar state, turning all that she felt inward, hiding her pain from the world just so she could keep it to herself. Pnina had told me that she didn’t sleep much and seemed to have more energy than normal back then. She couldn’t seem to find an outlet for it. Most of the time she sat at Elliott’s grave, staring up at the sky, or whispering things to him that the wind seemed to snatch before I could hear.
I had watched her back then, worried about what she would do, and missing her as though she held my soul for ransom. More than once I had found myself taking steps toward her. The only force that stopped me was my word to her mother.
Nothing short of God could stop me now. Instead of running from the pain, she was sitting in the same room with it, but hiding in the darkest corner, praying for mercy.
Tito released her after a week in the hospital. Coming home had never meant so much. Home meaning her, not the ground beneath our feet or the walls that rose up around us. The bags I carried fell from my shoulders. I couldn’t find it in me to move much further than the door. Scarlett let my hand go and petted Jet, who came out to see her. In the soft evening light, their eyes glowed like warm jade. The tiny sparks of gold in Scarlett’s was the only difference.
I couldn’t leash the thoughts that ran rampant. What if time could be reversed—when would she have known? How would she have told me? Blurted it out like she did when she needed to release whatever was on her mind? How would I have reacted? The same as I did when she told me she might be? Would we have brought him home here? Or to Snow?
A son. Matteo.
How would I ever be able to forget those words, his name, and not lose a piece of my heart when I did? To see the same in my wife, his mother, when she thought of what could have been crushed me even harder.
Scarlett’s hand rested on her stomach as she ran a finger from her other hand along the table, along the counters, over the stove, until she came to the refrigerator. I wondered if she was thinking the same thoughts.
