Page 142 of Enzo

His shirt.

He didn’t dress casual today.

Is it because he’s leaving? Because it’s business as usual again?

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, everything in his expression gentle and supportive.

“I’m sorry.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the couch. Then he pulls out a few tissues from the tissue box and hands them to me. When I’ve blown my nose a few times, and wiped my face, he asks, “Sorry for what?”

“For not telling you the truth, about my father, about my childhood.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “I understand, and it’s okay.”

His words give me the courage to finally tell him what I wanted to tell him when the time was right.

“My childhood … is nothing like how you thought it was. I never corrected you because I didn’t want you to know the truth. No one knew, until now. My father’s alcoholism, and the physical and emotional abuse of my mom, is something I’ve tried hard to forget.”

He holds my hands, and listens. He watches me. Hands me another tissue when I need it. He doesn’t ask anything. And to me that’s the most freeing thing of all. I tell him the story I’ve kept buried deep inside me for all these years.

I tell him about my father, and how I’d see him hit my mother. How I’d go over to her and hug her, and do my best to comfort her, as only a seven year could. I tell him how I learned to take care of her, and cook for her, when she was so badly bruised she couldn’t get out of bed. I tell him how we learned to read his moods by the sound of his footsteps, and the way he shut the door. How we knew what type of evening it was way before we saw his face.

Every so often, a muscle in Enzo’s jaw jumps. I can tell that he’s biting down on his teeth. I can tell by the way his other hand is fisted so hard that his knuckles are white. I can tell how he fights to stay composed, even as he gently strokes my hands and is there for me.

I wipe my nose again, sounding sniffly. “Eventually, he got involved with some bad people. He was arrested for armed burglary and went to prison.”

I swallow.

“I was fifteen when Mom and I finally knew what peace felt like.”

I lower my head, the memory of those days sitting heavy inside me. Memories I’d managed to push out of my mind for the longest time as I worked to make a life for myself.

“Where is your mom now?” Enzo asks.

“She eventually got back on her feet and found steady work. She’s moved somewhere that’s not busy, and she’s doing okay. I visit her occasionally.”

He slides an arm around me, pulling me against his side and making me feel like I’m in a safe and snug cocoon. One I never want to leave.

“Coming to Oakleigh, working with my children, and having Miss T as my headmistress … it was a new start for me. Then I got my own apartment. My own little piece of paradise.”

I wipe my nose again, and stare at my hands. “I finally had the life I wanted.”

Enzo places his hand under my chin and brings my gaze back to him.

“Hey.” He shifts on the couch and turns to face me. I twist towards him. It seems like an eon has passed between this morning and now.

“You didn't do anything wrong, Molly.” He watches me. “You were a child. What your father did isn't yours to carry. None of it changes who you are.”

His thumb brushes my lower lashes, wiping the tears that threaten to spill.

“The press don't care about that,” he continues. “They want a story. This will die down eventually, and they'll move on to something else.”

I desperately want to believe him.

“It’s not just the news about my father,” I say, feeling ashamed. “There’s something else. Journalists were waiting at the school gates.”

“Were they?”