“I have no holes in me today, Valentina.” When he says my name, it’s the most beautiful my name has sounded in nearly ten years.
“I see that,” I manage to say.
I stand still, waiting for him to move toward me.
“I won’t go down as easily as your man.”
Man is said in disgust, which gives me a little hope.
“I’m not her man,” Vincent says, coming up from behind me. “I’m her protector.”
Franco lifts his sunglasses and cocks his head, giving Vincent a look of inquisition.
Vincent huffs. “Are you—”
“Please leave us,” I cut him off.
When Vincent walks away, Franco watches him.
“Whatever you have to say, please do so now.”
He still doesn’t look at me, and I am still waiting for him to.
“I know it was you, or your family, who had me released a day early.”
“I had no knowledge.”
He finally looks at me as he pulls up his sleeves then leans against the car. “I don’t believe you.”
“My word is my word, Franco,” I assure him as I look over his arms, seeing scars. I reach out to touch them.
A growl leaves his chest. “Don’t.”
I step back.
Neither of us say a word.
He looks at me again. “Whatever you have to say—”
“Where does one start after all these years, Franco? Do I begin with: how could you have done that to me? Should I ask how you could have all but thrown me out of the hospital? Should I ask how you could forbid me, and then my family, from seeing you, helping you? Should I ask why you never wrote?”
“All those questions were answered nine years ago. All but one question was answered already. I wanted you to leave and never look back.”
“And you thought I would walk away from the man I loved?”
“He died when he betrayed you. He died—”
“To protect me! To avenge his sister’s death!” I step forward now, ignoring the growl meant to warn. I grab his arm, my hand covering the scars on it. “Tell me, Franco, who did this to you? You tell me now so I can lose nearly ten years of my life, our lives, to make them pay for what they have done to you.”
He nods toward the house. “You’ve moved on. You have a family, Valentine. I’ll tell you the same thing I did then. Walk away and never look back.”
“Is that what you intend on doing?” I ask, and he nods. “You intend to walk away from your family and never look back?”
“I have a one-way ticket to my family.”
“So, you’ll walk away from me, from your daughters?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, his knees buckle, but he quickly recovers.
“You still deny them when you’ve been face to face with them? Seen your own eyes, your own smile staring back at you?”
He looks up at the sky, averting eye contact with me, and his chest rises and falls rapidly.
When he says nothing, my blood boils for me, but more for them.
With both fists balled, I strike his chest. “You’ll continue to deny the fact you’re a father, Franco?”
When he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t answer, I strike him again harder this time as the burn of tears fills my eyes.
“I waited all my life for what was right before me. I then waited nine more years and three months for you. I have swallowed back the hurt”—again, I strike him, and this time, he encircles my wrists—“the hurt caused by you for not writing me back after I told you I was carrying your child. Then again after I wrote and told you it wasn’t one but two.” I pull my hands back and push them against his chest again. A painful groan escapes him now, but the tears in my eyes shield me from seeing his face. “Two little ladies, Franco. Two damn yous.”
I feel him press his forehead against mine and whimper at the connection, the gesture, the warmth of a man, my love’s skin against mine. Then I feel his lips against the bridge of my nose.
In his kiss, I feel hope and love and family. And I feel like, once again, I will feel that I no longer have to bear the weight of the world on my shoulders alone. I feel like I have my true partner back. The man who knows me better than anyone. I feel the kiss of my mother, my father, my brother. I feel that all I have lost has returned.
When he steps back, I wipe my eyes and look up at him, realizing he didn’t know they were his.
“I wrote you. I sent letters. I sent pictures.”
I stop rambling when he reaches through the car window and pulls out a bag. When he holds it out to me, I take it and open it.
Inside are hundreds of letters, all unopened.
He didn’t know.
I hand him back the bag, and he puts it in the car before turning and looking at me. He takes a deep breath, and I ready myself to hear the words I have longed to hear.
Instead, I hear the door slam behind me and little feet.
I look up at him as his eyes widen when he sees what he knows now are the flesh of his flesh.
“Don’t do this, Valentina.” He pulls his sunglasses down, covering his eyes, unable to mask his emotions.
“We have plenty of time for you to get used to the idea,” I assure him.
“Hey, mister!” Cesca yells as her little feet carry her quickly toward us. “Mamma Joe wants to know if you’re staying for dinner.”
“She’s making sauce, and we’re helping,” Toinette adds.
“Please let her know I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be able to stay.”
They are now beside me. I smile at them as I put a hand on each of their shoulders, comforting them, even though I’m not sure they recognize their own father.
Cesca walks up and hands him a cookie. “They’re delicious.”
“They appear to be so,” he says as he takes it. “Thank you.”
When she smiles at him, I am sure she knows who he is.
“Better with milk,” Toinette tells him.
He nods to her. “I bet they are.”
“You could come inside,” she says, swinging her foot against the driveway and kicking a stone toward him.
“I wish I could, but I have somewhere I need to go. Could you ladies ask Vincent if he’d come out and give me a ride?”
“Sure,” they say together. “Nice to meet you.” Then they turn and walk toward the house.
I don’t stop them. I told him we have time, and we do.
“Do they know about me?” he asks.
I nod my reply.
“They know I killed a man?”
“Francesca and Antoinette …” I pause when he sucks in a sharp breath. “They know their father did what he had to do to ensure our safety.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I hear the door to the house shut.
“They’ll love you so much, Franco.”
His jaw twitches as he works the muscles in them.
“I can imagine this is a lot to process,” I begin.
“You fucking think? You …” He stops then turns his back to me.
I try my best to let all the love I have for him wash away all the anger and the rage building up inside that he didn’t open the letters. That he didn’t even bother to worry about me. Eight years of practice in putting others first, coupled with eight years of dreaming how this situation would one day play out into a beautiful life, allows me to do that.
I swallow back the hurt feelings that could cause this to turn toxic quickly and wrap my arms around him from behind