Brando sat still, staring down at the floor. He didn’t want my pity, nor my sorrow, but damn if he didn’t have all that was mine to give.
Settling between his legs, I made him look at me.
“You told me that I talked too much.”
“Yeah.” His voice was gruff. He shook his head. “Of all the times for you to remember—you remember now.” He studied my eyes. “You remember because you feel what I do.”
“Probably so,” I said. “I just remembered. It came to me, like I was there again. I felt you, Brando. Even then. That’s why I was crying when you got into the car.”
“That’swhyI got into the car,” he said, reaching out a hand and tucking a stray piece of hair away from my face. “You were pounding on the window. You were in there all by yourself. I thought you were scared. You did the same thing the night it happened.”
“That wasn’t the same night?”
“No, you were probably too little to remember the night it happened. I was six, close to seven. You were even younger. I did the same thing every year on the same date. You were in the car the night it happened and the night you’re remembering. It must’ve been a few years after. You acted the same—as far as not wanting to stay inside while Mati and Elliott came out and got me.”
“I was worried for you. You seemed cold.”
“I didn't feel it. Not until the heat hit me inside of the car.”
“Youwereafraid of the dark. You lied to me.”
“No. Think back, Ballerina Girl.”
“That was the first—or second—time you called me that. Ballerina Girl.”
He said nothing, but the look on his face urged me to be quiet and remember. I did. Then I realized something I’d missed as a child.
“You weren't afraid of the dark. You didn't want to see his face. The man—”
“Yeah. His face—I couldn’t stop seeing it in the darkness.”
I nodded. “But you were afraid of me?”
“Still am. You knew all of my secrets. Still do. I didn’t know it at the time though. I just knew that you did. Looking back, I was staring my future in the face.”
“Despite that, you still liked me.” I couldn’t help the grin that came to my face.
“I always thought you were beautiful.” He leaned in closer, inhaling my hair. “You always smelled so good. So, so good. Roses. You smelled like roses.” His nose skimmed my neck, up to my ear. “It lingers on you, on our bedsheets, on our children, even on my clothes.”
Sliding his hands underneath my arms, he lifted me like I weighed no more than a child, bringing me up on the bed.
Before he got comfortable, though, he left the room. When he came back, he had the portable crib we’d used for Mia. Taking Matteo from the center of the bed, he kissed him.
The sight of it made me inhale and hold my breath, while my heart seemed to tear in two.
Rarely did he kiss Matteo. He would occasionally, barely touching his lips to his forehead. Mia, on the other hand, received kisses from him every day. Big, fat, loud Italian smooches that vibrated her pudgy cheeks.
This time, he kissed Matteo as he did Mia. Not as loud, but with more feeling. He held him close for a moment before he laid him down gently in the crib, covering him with a soft blanket.
He stared down at his son for a moment before he whispered, “He sleeps like Mia.”
“He does,” I whispered back.
I hated to speak, to let him hear the sorrow in my voice. He kissed Matteo because he was his son, but more than that, he kissed a vital part of himself because he was feeling utterly lonely, as if that night had come back to him, clinging like a cold wind.
Scooting up in the bed, I patted the spot next to me. “Come to my bed, my husband,” I said in Italian.
As he turned toward me, I removed the cashmere sleep dress, throwing it toward the hamper. Juliette hadn’t brought me any undergarments, so it was all I had beside the cardigan,which I’d shed long ago.
