Leo slams him harder against the wall. The sound is dull and heavy. Daniel is on his feet, running a hand through his hair, looking absolutely horrified before he simply turns and walks out of the room. He’s done.
“I don’t think you heard me properly,” Leo says, his grip tightening.
“Dear God, let him go!” my mother cries, but she’s frozen behind her chair.
“Apologize,” Leo commands. He doesn’t look away from my father’s eyes, but he jerks his head toward me. “Now.”
My father’s expression is pure, venomous hate. But he’s starting to gasp, his feet scrabbling for purchase. “S-sorry,” he squeaks out, the word strangled.
“I didn’t hear you. Louder.”
“I’m…sorry!” my father gasps out, his face mottled.
He stares at him for one more long, agonizing second before he lets go. My father staggers forward, clutching his throat, sucking in ragged, greedy breaths. Angry red marks are already blooming on his skin.
Leo turns and walks back to me, his expression still hard, but his eyes finding mine. He takes my hand. “Let’s go, Annie.”
I look back one last time. My mother is hovering over my father, one hand on his arm as she tries to help him stand up, but her eyes are on me. She looks terrified, heartbroken, and so, so small.
The night air hits me like a slap, cold and wet. It’s started to rain—a fine, misting drizzle that glazes the sidewalk and catches in the glow of the streetlights. I’m shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or the aftershock.
Leo doesn’t say a word. He just lets go of my hand for a second, shrugs out of his suit jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders. The wool is still warm from his body and smells like him—like clean laundry and that faint, spicy scent of his soap. Then he pulls a small, black collapsible umbrella from his pants pocket, flicks it open with a practiced snap, and holds it over us both.
He finds my hand again, his fingers lacing through mine. His grip is firm, grounding.
We start to walk. The only sounds are the soft shush of tires on wet pavement, the distant wail of a siren, and the quiet tap of rain on nylon above us. I don’t know where we’re going. I just let him lead.
A sob rises in my throat, choking and sudden. I try to swallow it, but it comes out as a ragged gasp. The tears I’d been holding back in the restaurant break free, hot and silent, streaming down my face and mingling with the rain.
Leo doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He doesn’t tell me not to cry. He just tightens his grip on my hand and shifts the umbrella, angling it more over me as he guides us toward the glowing entrance of the 86th Street subway station.
We descend into the brighter, grubbier light of the underground. The familiar smells of concrete, stale air, and electrical grease wrap around us. He finds us a spot on the downtown platform, away from the small cluster of late-nightcommuters. He leans his back against a tiled pillar, and without a word, he pulls me into him.
I bury my face in the soft cotton of his dress shirt, right where his shoulder meets his chest. His free arm comes around me, holding me close. The umbrella, now closed, hangs from his other hand.
The train rumbles in, a jarring noise that feels worlds away. We get on. It’s mostly empty. We sit in a two-seater, and I curl into his side, my head on his shoulder. He rests his cheek against the top of my head.
I cry the whole way home.
Chapter 22
LEO
The kettle on my stove starts to whistle—a thin, shrill sound that feels too loud for how quiet this apartment has become. I click the burner off and pour the steaming water over the chamomile tea bag in the mug, watching the pale gold bleed into the water.
I glance over the counter at Annie. She’s tucked into the corner of my couch, my suit jacket swallowing her whole. Her heels are kicked off somewhere near the door, and she’s staring at a fixed point on the wall, her eyes red-rimmed and vacant. The silence coming from her is a physical thing, a heavy, cold blanket smothering the room.
I hate this. I hate seeing her like this.
Annie is a sunbeam. And not just in a corny way; it’s a fact of my universe. She’s light and warmth and noise. She fills spaces. She spreads radiance around like she has an infinite supply. But right now, she’s a folded-up version of herself, and I want to find her father and finish what I started in that restaurant.
What a fucking dick.
I wasn’t supposed to go. That was the deal. She’d told me she needed to do this on her own, that she needed to stand on her own two feet, and I’d respected that. I’d dropped Emma off at Maria’s for the night and figured I’d just sit at the bar on the far side of the restaurant and be a safety net she didn’t have to see.
The plan went to hell about twenty minutes in. Her dick father was loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. I was half a football field away and I could still hear him tearing into her. I told myself I was just going to peek around the corner. Just to make sure she was okay, just to see her face.
She wasn’t okay. And the look on her face—this shattered, silent pain—was something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
