I’d be the rock he could take his rest upon.
I didn’t see him move, but as sensitive to his presence as I was, I felt him. So quiet that his feet didn’t even seem to touch the floor, he sat on the bed, head in his hands, at a loss.
Knowing him as well as I did, I knew he’d pushed what his father spoke of to a dark place inside of his mind—perhaps only bringing it out when something called to the specific memory of it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer for a while, then he lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “What’s the point?” His voice came out quiet, matching the autumn night—nothing stirred, not even the wind or leaves.
“The point?” I asked, almost incredulous. “I could have—”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You couldn’t. I’d never let you touch it. It’s too fucking dirty.”
“One of her lovers?” I held Matteo closer, resting my head against his.
“Would have been,” he said. “He took care of him before it got that far.” He shook his head. “That’s enough. I won’t speak on it again, Scarlett.”
“All right. You don’t need to tell me any more.”
At those words, most of the tension seemed to ease out of him, and he slumped, head almost lolling. He seemed tired all of a sudden, much more tired than I’d ever seen him.
Moving closer, I offered him Matteo to hold, and he took him, staring at his son’s face.
“He seems peaceful,” he whispered in Italian.
“You will be, too,” I whispered back.
“Tell me when.”
The words were barely whispered, perhaps not even meant for me to hear, but I did.
Instead of giving him an answer he didn’t want or need to hear, I kissed the back of his neck and then rested my head against his shoulder. With his free hand, he took mine, bringing it to his mouth, before he put it against his heart.
“You terrify me,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Today?” I asked.
“Always.”
“Let me be your light, not your darkness,” I whispered in Italian.
His muscles seized beneath me at the words, a current that almost stole my breath, pushing me further from him.
Closing my eyes, I gave in to the momentary respite of his warmth, of the scent of his skin and hair, and the fact that his presence had always been comforting to me.
Something nagged at me, though. A memory that had somehow gotten pushed into my own box—a memory that had dust on it, had faded, but was still there.
A cold night came rushing back to me, sending the dust flying.
* * *
I’m sitting in the back of the car, strapped in, my tutu fluffed around me, my pointes glistening in the night. They sparkle from all the crystals sewn on them.
Mati is driving. Elliott’s in the passenger seat. He’s antsy, signing to her every few seconds. Her voice is calm, and so are her hand gestures, but the tapping of her fingers against the steering wheel makes me feel like she’s hiding something.
Every time I ask what’s going on, she either ignores me or tells me to get some sleep. Every time I try to sleep, though, the car slows, or takes off (she has a heavy foot) and I jerk awake.
We come to a streetlight, brightening the area beneath, the cold so sharp I could see the air standing still. Louisiana is humid, and in winter, the moisture feels like it goes straight through my clothes just to bite my skin.
