Page 252 of Ricardo

Ricardo reaches the bed and looks down at his son.

His hand lifts.

Stops.

Then settles gently on Dante’s hair.

The gesture is so tender that I have to press my fist to my mouth.

“Figlio mio,” he whispers.

I look away because it feels private, but there is nowhere else to look. The machines. The blanket. The pale hand resting outside it. The bandage beneath the gown that I cannot see but know is there.

My fault.

The thought rises before I can stop it.

Ricardo turns his head, as if he heard it.

“Come here.”

I shake my head.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Julia, quit being so stubborn.”

His voice is gentle, but there is steel beneath it. He holds out his hand again.

I take one step.

Then another.

The room feels too small. The air feels too thick. My legs carry me to the other side of the bed, though I do not remember telling them to.

Up close, Dante looks even paler.

There is a faint scrape near his jaw. A bruise beginning near his shoulder. His mouth is relaxed in a way I have never seen.

Tears slide down my face.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Ricardo’s eyes lift to mine over the bed.

He does not correct me this time.

Maybe because he knows I am not ready to stop saying it.

Maybe because this room is not for arguments.

Dante does not move.

The monitor continues its steady rhythm.