So have I, though I’ll never admit that out loud.
Dante carries her to bed, and I hover in the doorway as he tucks her in. I can’t see Camille—Dante’s shoulders block my view—but I picture her pleading expression when he reads her needs without a word spoken.
“A story?” He scratches at his beard, fluffing up a scent that shouldn’t be familiar but is. “It’s already late…” I bite my lower lip to hide my grin when he caves only a second later. “But I think we can squeeze inonebedtime story.” He holds his index finger in the air to emphasize his reply.
Camille beams, and the knot in my stomach loosens. This is whenI’d usually slip away, taught not to intrude on moments like this. But today, my feet refuse to budge. Don’t ask me why. I doubt I could give you an honest answer.
I should have left.
It would have hurt less.
Without looking up, Dante says, “Thanks for watching her. I left a schedule on the kitchen counter. If anything clashes, let me know.”
No invitation to stay.
No “This story is as much for you as it is for Camille.”
Nothing but practicality.
His rejection shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Badly.
I don’t know why I’m shocked. You can’t repeatedly push someone away and expect them to still reach out to you. I just figured he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Even though he isn’t looking at me anymore, I swallow the hard lump in my throat and nod. Camille is already absorbed in the book she picked from a hundred, her fingers tracing the illustrations to memorize them for future drawing endeavors, so I slip out relatively unnoticed.
The apartment immediately feels colder without the false illusion that I belong.
In the kitchen, I find the schedule Dante mentioned. It was printed recently and assembled by someone highly organized. I’ve never seen a color-coded schedule before.
My throat grows scratchy when I lift the multiple-page document off the counter. Three bundles of cash are stacked underneath it. Each bundle is clipped and labeled.
Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.
He paid me thirty thousand dollars, as he said he would.
I should be relieved, or at the very least grateful, but instead, I feel hollow. It’s like the good parts of me have been scooped out and replaced with greed.
This isn’t who I want to become. I don’t want Dante’s money. Inever have. I want something I refuse to name since it will ruin everything.
Despite my unease, I memorize the schedule. The hours Dante needs me to work won’t affect me when I find a new job. He only needs me during the day, which leaves my nights free to work.
Who needs sleep?
Although tempted to test Edoardo’s offer of biweekly video chats, I leave the money where I found it. I’m desperate to see Gabriele again, but what kind of mother will I be if I compromise my morals to do that? My son deserves better, and it seems Dante has come to understand the same.
I spent the entire day pretending I didn’t miss him, and now I get to spend the night pretending I’m not hurt that I got exactly what was coming to me.
