Home Again

Then it hit her, so hard it wiped everything else from her mind. “DeMarco,” she said.

He nodded, giving her a softer smile, more intimate than anything she’d seen on film. “I’m Francis’s brother.”

For a second she couldn’t breathe right. “They never told me.”

Something passed through his eyes at that, a darkness that made her think she’d hurt him.

“I never read that you were from Seattle, or that you had a brother. I … I thought I read somewhere that you were from the Midwest.”

A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Tactical maneuvers to muddy the trail. I didn’t want anyone to know where I’d grown up. Sorry.” He came toward her, moving in the shuffling gait of all post-op patients. Instinctively she reached out for him, and he took both of her hands in his.

Lina looked up into his legendary green eyes, and for a heartbeat, she couldn’t catch her breath. He had Francis’s eyes—even though they were green instead of blue, they were Francis’s beautiful eyes. And he had Francis’s way of looking at you, really looking the way so few people did.

“You’re more beautiful than I imagined,” he said in a husky voice, his eyes filled with the same wonder she felt.

Tears stung her eyes and she didn’t care. “Thank you.”

“I … I don’t know anything about being a father, you know.”

“That’s okay.”

“Maybe we could start slow, just start out being friends.”

Friends. The words caused a dizzying rush of excitement. It was what she’d always wanted—a father who was her best friend. She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud again. He was going to be everything she ever wanted in a dad; she could tell. He was going to take all the pain and grief and fear in her life and make it go away. From now on, she’d always have a safe place to be.

He let go of her hand and touched her face, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Don’t look at me that way, Angelina.”

She drew in a sudden, surprised breath. For a disorienting second, she’d thought he was going to call her Angelina-ballerina. But he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t.

“What is it?” he said, eyeing her.

“Nothing … just that Francis used to call me Angelina…. No one else does.”

“It’s your name,” he said, then his voice fell to a whisper. “I mean it, Lina. Don’t think I’m a god or something. I’ll only let you down….”

It was such a ridiculous thing to say, she ignored it. Instead she just kept staring up at him, memorizing everything about his face, about this moment, about how it felt when he held her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll love—”

He pressed a finger to her lips suddenly, silencing her.

She blinked up at him in confusion. When he withdrew his hand, she said, “But—”

“Make me earn it,” he said harshly, staring into her eyes with a seriousness that frightened her. Suddenly they weren’t Francis’s eyes at all. “It’s the only chance we have.”

Angel looked down at the piece of paper on the clipboard. All it required was his signature and he was as free as a bird.

He was strangely reluctant to sign it.

He glanced around at the cheesy little hospital room he’d inhabited for the last few weeks, and suddenly it felt like home. He recognized the birds that huddled along his windowsill, and the way the sun crept through his yellowed curtain at sunset. He’d started to like the smell of disinfectant and mashed potatoes and gravy. Even Sarah the Hun had become a friend.

“You okay?” Madelaine asked.

He didn’t know what to say. He felt like an idiot, and yet he was suddenly afraid that he couldn’t make it on the outside, that the heart that felt so strong and new in his chest would weaken out there, give out on him. Or that he’d fall into his old boozing, irresponsible lifestyle and be lost again.

“I don’t know. I thought I was ready, but…”

“Lina and I will be here for you, Angel. You’re not going to be alone out there.”

“Thanks, Mad.” He touched her face, a fleeting, tender caress that reassured him. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you during all this.”