“Whoa.”
“Yeah. The story goes that Dad fell in love with her the second she opened her mouth. By intermission, he was fried. Had the conductor—a colleague—introduce them after the show. Two days later, they were planning her move to the U.S.”
“That’s…fast.”
“Right? Mama said she’d never met someone who got her like Dad did. Who knew her inside out. So, maybe it’s…” She huffed out a strangled sound, so out of her element here, with this opening up her soul thing. At the same time, she felt compelled to tell him. “My point is…who’s to say how these things are supposed to happen? Isthisless legitimate than if we’d met in a bar or in some college class?”
“No.” The word dropped into the quiet room between them, solid as the rock floor they stood on.
“I doubted their love for a long time, you know? Doubted everything pretty much, after she died.” Unconsciously, Leo’s eyes rose to the dark ceiling. “After shekilledherself.” The tears were back, only this time, they weren’t the clean, flowing kind. These were sharp, stagnant things that had sat too long inside her.
“Why?”
“Yeah, that’s not something I’ll ever know.”
“Your dad…”
“Destroyed.” She half shrugged. “I figured it was my fault?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She let him move close, didn’t stop him when he put a big arm around her. “Still think that?”
Shaking her head put her face right against his chest, where he smelled good—like smoke and mountains, with a hint of sulfur. “Depression and some of the meds she was on were probably at least partly to blame. My dad pushed her, too, you know? To be this big diva when she’d been talking about retiring for a while. Maybe teaching. Spending time with me. It wasn’t his fault either.”
“Where is your dad? Now, I mean.”
She sighed. “He’s alone. In a…place. A home, I mean. For people with Alzheimer’s.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“She’s still alive as far as he knows, so…silver lining, right?” Elias’s arms went tighter, drew her in until there was no space between them. No chance she could fall. “I’m sorry,” she managed to gulp between sobs.
“Stop it.”
“I…I…can’t.”
“Not crying. I mean apologizing. Don’t apologize for what you feel, Leo.”
“I don’t cry. I never cry.” The next sob was laced with humor. “God, you’ll never believe that.”
“Sure I do.”
“Seriously.” She was giggling now, though the tears and laughter were indistinguishable. A little levity to lighten the pain. “I didn’t cry when she died. Didn’t cry at her funeral or when I…” She gulped back her next words.
“When you what?”
“How about I save some of my”—hiccup—“stories for another day?”
“I want it when you’re ready. All of it. Everything you’ve got to give—good or bad. The hard shit. The sad. I want every little bit of you.” He leaned down, put his lips to the side of her head, and whispered, “You don’t scare me, Leo Eddowes.”
“No?” She sniffled, her voice thick with emotion. “Well, you scare the living hell out of me.”
***
They ate quietly, side by side, bodies touching, feelings too close to the surface to disguise and too new to talk about. Leo was wrung out, shaken, but not weak. Like a person after major surgery, everything ached—including her soul—but under that was a better life, a strength she’d never felt.
After years of shoving the truth deep down, she’d ripped herself open, exposed her innards to the light of day, and now needed to heal.
The scarring process, she figured, would hurt like hell, but this newfound fragility felt precious.
