Page 178 of Ricardo

“I think you have decided he gets to hurt you because he has been hurt.”

For several seconds, I say nothing.

Julia’s expression softens a little, but she does not back down. That is one of the things I admire most about her. Her kindness does not make her weak. Her fear does not make her dishonest.

“It is more complicated than that,” I say.

“It always is.”

I look at her.

She holds my gaze.

“What happened with his mother?” she asks.

My chest tightens. I should've known she would understand.

Under that thick mane of red hair, Julia's brain is always running.

Dante's mother. The thing beneath the thing. The wound under every argument tonight.

I turn away from her and walk to the window again. Outside, the drive is empty now. Dante’s car is gone. The house has settled back into silence, but the silence feels different after he has left it. Angrier. Younger.

“Her name was Liliana Castelli,” I say.

Julia does not move.

I can see her reflection in the glass. She stands very still near the chair, her hands now lowered to her sides.

“I was twenty-one when I met her. She was beautiful. Reckless. At that age, I mistook chaos for courage and charm for character. She was alive in a way I'd not experienced before.”

Julia says nothing.

“I loved her before I understood her,” I continue. “By the time I realized she was using cocaine, I was already in too deep to be sensible or rational.”

Julia’s face changes in the reflection to one of sadness.

“I tried to get her help,” I say. “Doctors. Clinics. Private arrangements. People who could keep things quiet. She laughed at me. Told me I worried too much. Told me she could stop whenever she wished.”

The old anger is still there. The helplessness.

Duller now, but alive.

“But she could not,” Julia says softly.

“No.”

I keep my gaze on the window.

“Eventually, I ended it. Or tried to. I told myself I had done everything I could. Then, a few weeks later, she came to me and told me she was pregnant.”

Julia’s breath catches.

Dante.

The only good thing to come out of that ruin.

“She was still using,” I say. “Still lying. Still disappearing for hours and coming back with powder in her blood and promises in her mouth. And suddenly it was no longer only her life. It was my child’s life.”