Page 158 of Ricardo
“I’m fine.”
“Clearly.”
“I am.”
He takes a step closer, concern overtaking suspicion. “Did Harrison contact you?”
“No.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I turn toward the living room because standing in the entryway feels unbearable. “Come sit down.”
“Julia, tell me what's going on.”
“Dante, please.”
He stops.
My voice must tell him something, because the irritation leaves his face, and something more guarded takes its place.
He follows me into the living room but does not sit. He stands near the end of the couch, waiting.
The same couch he slept in my first night in the city when I was too embarrassed to tell him I didn't want to be alone, but he knew it anyway.
I sit because my knees feel weak.
He watches me for two seconds, then sits across from me in the armchair.
I press my hands together in my lap.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
“No kidding.”
My mouth trembles.
His expression softens immediately. “Sorry. Tell me.”
I look down at my hands.
There are careful ways to say this.
There are polished ways.
I cannot do that to him.
I have to just say it.
“I’m seeing your father.”
Utter and complete silence.
I lift my gaze.
