“I’m sorry.” Penelope stroked Lucia’s hand. “Go on.”
“She didn’t wanna say. Said we’ll talk once I’m back home.”
“That’s probably a smart move. You need more rest.”
“She sounded tired, though.”
“That I believe.”
“Yeah. Will you stay a bit longer?” Lucia asked.
“Yes.” Penelope leaned back, still holding Lucia’s hand, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. “Of course,” she said again, quieter this time, like a promise.
She hated how brittle life could be—how easily it all could shatter without warning. Penelope preferred not to linger on such thoughts as they only made her mood spiral, and it proved a fact of life she couldn’t change.
She’d seen it with her father, how he’d been ripped from her twice, first by the conviction and then by finding out his true role—hissuspectedtrue role.
Why did she even bother holding onto hope? Wouldn’t that make the crash even harder?
She glanced at Lucia’s slumbering face, at the bruises dotting her skin.
Penelope could have lost her before they’d even begun. The thought stole her breath, pressing down on her like a stone.
What was she even doing? And yet—nothing could make her move. She sat, still and silent, drinking in the sight of Lucia: bruised, hurt, but alive. Anchored by the warmth of her skin against hers.
Chapter 36
Changes
Lucia winced when she stretched to place the last glass into the cupboard. A clean dish towel held a handful of drying utensils near the sink.
“I can’t wait for this to be done,” she muttered, drying her hands, grabbing her bag, and heading to her car.
It had been two weeks since she’d left the hospital, almost three since the warehouse incident and subsequent accident, and certain movements still hurt like a bitch.
The ride over to Francesca’s went by quickly, and before she knew it, she was ringing the doorbell.
“Lucy, you made it.” Francesca hugged her and ushered her inside.
The house was warm, carrying a subtle trace of bergamot and old wood. It was just the two of them—maybe tonight they’d finally talk. Lucia had been patient but so far, all she got were lots of hugs and occasional long stares.
Francesca had been restless lately—and oddly clingy. While the hugs weren’t new, the number of them had significantly increased since Lucia had left the hospital.
“Here you go.” Francesca handed her a cup of espresso and sat down next to her on the couch, holding her own tiny mug.
“Thank you.”
They both just sat there for a moment, Lucia taking a sip of the bitter brew.
“I’m sorry,” Francesca blurted out.
“For what?”
Francesca’s gaze snapped to Lucia. “You got hurt because of me.”
“I got hurt because a car drove into the van. It was an accident.”
“Yes, but without—”
