Her hand lifted away from the armrest, and he assumed she was grabbing at her ear. His gaze followed the wake of her movement until he was looking at her thick, wavy hair. It glowed almost red in the reflection of the bright light streaming through the porthole of the plane. Her fingers curled around her ear, and when he moved his eyes to look at her face, he could see it contorted with pain.
“Come here.” He pulled her head against his, threading his fingers through her hair. He massaged her scalp in a long forgotten rhythm, feeling her relax against him as he continued to caress.
She was still crying. Her tears were falling onto his shirt, moistening it where her cheeks touched him. The heel of his palm touched her other cheek, wiping it dry as he moved his hand against her.
“Thank you.” Her voice was muffled by his chest. He wasn’t sure what she was grateful for—the human decency of trying to quell her pain, the fact he’d finally touched her, or maybe the hope they could find a way through this mess and come out on the other side with a level of amicability.
Once off the plane, they separated at passport control; Hanna having to go through the European side, while he remained with the herd of people trying to make their way through “rest of the world.” She waited for him by baggage reclaim; she’d even picked his bags from the carousel and placed them on a waiting trolley. Their interactions reverted to being excruciatingly polite.
The journey to the villa took under an hour. It was a bright spring day; the fields were full of greenery and the roads were full of small, noisy cars, barely obeying the rules of driving. Every now and then a tiny car, usually a Renault or Citroen, would swerve around their taxi and Hanna would flinch.
When they pulled up to Tom’s house, Richard felt his mouth drop open. When Hanna had called it a “villa,” he had imagined a quaint country cottage, maybe two or three bedrooms complete with peeling white paint and rotting wooden shutters. Instead it was more of a palace. Even for someone like Richard, who was used to wealth and property, it was large. It kicked him in the stomach to know his son was growing up within these walls.
The driver climbed out and unloaded Richard’s suitcases from the trunk, passing Hanna her small carry-on with a wry smile. Richard lifted all three bags and they walked together toward the front door, both silent, drowning under the weight of their own thoughts. It wasn’t until they reached the entrance that Hanna broke the silence.
“How do you want to do this?” She sounded more confident again, as if being on home turf was giving her the advantage. “Shall I introduce you as a friend? Not that Matty will understand, he’s only little, but I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m his father, Hanna,” Richard replied, the anger returning. “Perhaps we can start as we mean to go on?”
Hanna swallowed and nodded. “Okay. But he doesn’t always warm up to strangers immediately. You need to give him a bit of time. Don’t get upset if he doesn’t come to you right away.”
Before he had a chance to respond, the door was pulled open in front of them. Richard looked up to see Tom standing there, a huge grin on his face and a small child in his arms, wriggling with desperate excitement.
“He couldn’t wait any longer, Hanna. He was running for the door.”
Richard tried to bite back the jealousy as Matty reached his arms out for his mother, babbling wildly. Hanna grabbed him and held him tight, burying her face in his hair, telling him how much she missed him.
She missed him?
How the hell did she think Richard felt?
As if she could hear his thoughts, Hanna lifted her head up and looked at Richard, her lips curling into a smile. She turned slightly, so he could see Matty’s face, and every ounce of anger brewing in his body disappeared.
His son was beautiful.
His dark brown eyes were deep and expressive. He stared at Richard with interest, lifting his hand up and sucking on his thumb as he appraised him. Light brown hair flopped over his forehead; a color Richard had seen in enough photographs of his own childhood to know it would eventually darken into a deeper brown, making Matty resemble his father.
Matty’s scant eyebrows pulled down into a frown, not in sadness so much as concentration. He pulled his hand away from his mouth—his thumb still glistening from being sucked—and pointed at Richard.
“That?”
Hanna caught Richard’s eye again, her features reassuring. “That’s Daddy, darling.”
Matty shrugged, unperturbed by the news, the words meaning nothing to him. Richard wasn’t sure if he was relieved he was being accepted so easily, or angry he was robbed of a tearful reunion.
His heart rate sped when he saw his son staring up at him. He was so beautiful. It was like the best parts of both of them had been molded into something perfect and new. Richard tried to regulate his breathing, to calm his reaction so he didn’t frighten his child. Matty reached out and touched Richard’s face, the tiny frown lines between his brows disappearing as his lips curled into a delighted smile.
“Dat.”
The touch of his son’s soft hand on his own face was indescribable. He wanted to close his eyes and suck in the emotions, grab his hand and hold him closer. He wanted to snatch Matty from Hanna’s arms and swing him around, show him how happy he was to see him.
His son.
His.
“Hi, Matthew.” The corners of his lips threatened to reach his ears, his grin was so wide. “How are you doing?”
Matty nodded, as if he understood, and reached out to Richard, squirming in Hanna’s arms until she lifted him across. It took Richard a moment to realize what was happening, his body reacting before his mind. Before he knew it, he was holding his son in his arms, their faces so close he could feel Matthew’s rapid breaths bathing his skin.