Page 174 of Ricardo

“Sit.”

For one second, I think he will argue.

Then, perhaps wisely, he sits in the leather chair near the window.

I stand in front of him and press the ice gently to his mouth. His hand rises as if to take it from me, but I glare at him, and he lets it fall back to the arm of the chair.

“Dante will come around,” he says.

My throat tightens.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my son.”

“So do I.”

“Yes,” he says. “You do.”

The quiet agreement hurts.

I look down at the towel in my hand, at the way my fingers are curled around it too tightly.

“I already lost him once,” I say.

“No, you didn’t,” he says quietly.

Ricardo’s expression stills.

“I disappeared from his life when I was with Harrison,” I insist. “I let that happen. I let myself become someone who stopped answering messages, stopped calling back, stopped being available. And Dante let me come back anyway. He opened the door like I hadn’t left him standing on the other side of it for years.”

My eyes sting again.

“I don’t know if he’ll forgive me twice.”

Ricardo’s hand closes lightly around my wrist.

“He loves you.”

“Please don’t.”

His thumb stills.

“I cannot talk about that anymore,” I say. “I can’t. If I do, I’m going to start crying again, and I am so tired of crying tonight.”

He studies me for a moment, then releases my wrist.

“All right.”

I breathe in slowly and look at his mouth again.

“I can't believe he hit you.” Then my sadness begins to sharpen into something else. “I can't believe you just let him.”

Ricardo’s gaze does not change, but I feel the shift in him.

“He is my son.”

The answer seems so simple, but I know it's not. He seems to realize that I realize that.