Cristiano’s gaze lifts to mine, and for a moment we just look at each other across the small room.
There’s no gold ring on his left hand. He should be married by now, to some stunningly beautiful and rich Italian girl. The desperate thought nearly overwhelms me. Why isn’t he married yet?
He swallows, his throat working, and a harsh emotion flickers in his amber eyes.
“A lucky little man,” he says finally, his voice hoarse with effort, “to have you.”
A red blush creeps over my face, and I press the cold backs of my fingers against my cheeks, hating that he’s made me feel anything for him but icy disdain.
“I do my best,” I mutter. “It’s not much.”
“Don’t do that,” Cristiano says, his brows drawing fiercely together. “You always used to do that to yourself.”
“Do what?”
“Minimize. Self-deprecate.”
And you always used to scare the living daylights out of me.
Well, not always, because Leon is evidence that I once…
My vision fills with a sharp-focus, Technicolor memory, complete with sounds and sensations, of my hands splayed across nineteen-year-old Cristiano’s glorious, muscular chest. He’s pressing me down into the mattress, working himself in and out of me in a fierce rhythm that makes me weep and shatter.
While I’m overwhelmed by the memory, Cristiano does something unexpected.
Leon has approached him with an armload of toys, and he lowers himself down from his great height, sinking slowly onto his heels until he’s at Leon’s eye level. My son chatters happily and passes Cristiano one toy after another that he accepts with interest.
I stand frozen, pressing my sweaty palms to my polyester pants, heart slamming against my ribs as I stare at Cristiano holding a truck in one large hand and a dinosaur in the other. Leon is drawn to him like a magnet. He’s always like this around men. Rosa’s husband Kevin, the fathers at the playground, even the mailman. Starved for something he doesn’t have. Hegravitates toward any man who’ll give him five minutes of attention, and it breaks my heart every time.
As my eyes move from Cristiano’s face to Leon’s and back again, I realize something that I’ve tried to block out for a long time. Leon gets his rich brown hair from me, but otherwise my baby looks just like his father.
And if I can see it—
A gasp tears from my throat as I lunge for Leon and snatch him up, holding him tightly against me and backing away like Cristiano was threatening my child, not playing with him.
“You have to go,” I say in a shaky voice, tears blurring my vision. “Please, just go.”
Cristiano rises slowly to his feet, still holding the plastic dinosaur Leon gave him.
“His father,” he says, turning the toy over in his large hands. “Is he in the picture?”
The question catches me off guard. I blink hard and brace for the judgment that always comes. “Leon’s father has never been part of his life. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
I wait for the pity. The slight curl of the lip. The assumptions about the kind of woman who raises a child alone.
Cristiano’s expression doesn’t change. But there’s a flicker in his amber eyes. Something that looks almost like satisfaction.
“I see.”
He sets the dinosaur down on the bookshelf carefully, like it’s precious, and moves toward the door, collecting his coat and umbrella as he goes. He pauses with his hand on the knob, his back to me.
“I frightened you.” It’s not a question. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”
He turns his head just enough that I can see his profile.
“Good night, Mina. It was good to see you again.”
The door closes behind him.
