Page 143 of Enzo

“The parents have complained and the board isn’t happy with the invasion of privacy. I’ve been placed on administrative leave.”

Enzo’s face falls. “Molly.”

I burst into tears all over again, because saying it out loud, to Enzo, makes the truth appear before my eyes again.

“Shush.” He reels me into him, and presses my head against his chest, trying to comfort me, but all I can think of is that the thing I loved the most, and the life I loved, have been taken from me.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “Everything always works out.”

I lift my head away and look up at him through blurry tears. “But it doesn’t. You said it never does.”

Enzo falls quiet.

I rest my head against his chest as he wraps his arms around me. I was so afraid to come through that door and tell him everything.

But it wasn’t so bad, and he's still here.

Still holding me.

Chapter 39

ENZO

We binge watch TV all afternoon.

Father’s calls still come, but I ignore them. I give Molly my full attention, but while she watches TV, my mind is all over the place.

She seems to have lost her optimism and that kills me. She no longer believes that things always work out, and I hate that she’s become so jaded. Like I was.

I finally understand everything about her, why she does what she does, why she’s always so ridiculously upbeat.

She isn’t carefree. She’s careful. Molly isn’t sunshine because her life was easy. She became sunshine because she’d experienced so much darkness in her younger years. She notices everything. I now understand why this cozy little apartment and her job mean so much to her.

Later, I make dinner. Molly offers to help, but I can tell from her somber expression that today has battered her. I tell her to rest. She doesn’t protest. She sinks back onto the couch while I make chicken pasta.

I get out the plates and cutlery as I wait for the pasta to boil, and that’s when Father calls again. This must be the sixth time. He’s probably seething. I pick up.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Making pasta,” I reply, calmly.

“Making what?” Judging by the pitch of his voice, I’m guessing that he’s positively apoplectic. This can’t be too good for his health.

“Spaghetti, if you must know.”

“Where the hell are you? I’ve called you dozens of times. What the hell are you up to?”

“I’m in Chicago—”

“Doing what? Haven’t you seen the headlines? The media wants blood.”

“That’s their choice.”

“Have you gone, mad, boy? I presume you’re with that …that … that—”

“Her name is Molly.”

He loses it at the other end and utters a string of profanities. I hope Emanuel, his nurse, is close by to check his blood pressure.