Christopher follows next. “Well, I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Can we please talk for a moment?”
He glances at his wristwatch. “I have another appointment.”
“Five minutes?”
He can’t refuse me without being rude, but the corners of his mouth turn down. “All right.” He puts his briefcase down and takes the tea I offer.
“Charlie’s been irritable of late. To be exact, since your last four sessions.”
“I told you it’s normal. We hit a barrier in his development, and breaking through it is hard work, but once we’re through he’ll be fine. Better than fine.”
“What are you working on?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. It may compromise our goal if you interfere.” I open my mouth to object, but he stills me with a hand in the air. “Trust me, all caring relatives interfere. It’s human nature. We can’t stand seeing our loved ones suffer. Just remember that all great results come with hard work.”
I’m not reassured, but he downs his drink and leaves the glass on the table. “Great iced tea. It reminds me of my grandmother.”
“Thank you,” I mumble as he sees himself out.
I’ll give it two more sessions, and if Charlie is still worked up, I’ll stop the treatment. Sometimes Charlie gets impatient, especially when he can’t express his feelings, but mostly, he’s just a big, huggable bear. I don’t want him to be unhappy, ever.
Gabriel
Days weave into nights and nights into days. Time is one, slow, never-ending, torturous cycle. Most days, I pour over photo albums with pictures of Carly from when she was born up to her death. I study each picture, hunting for details and information I may have missed before, like on how many photos she wore her blue T-shirt with the red heart. I never realized how much she liked it. Had I known, I would’ve packed it in a box and kept it with her first baby shoes, her favorite rattle, and the doll she slept with until she was five, the one whose hair she cut off, believing it would grow back. My life is a box of memories. Full, yet empty.
I’m making an effort to carry on with my life. The money in my bank account won’t last forever. I accepted a management job at one of Michael’s firms, which is nothing but charity from his side. He’s turned out to be a good friend, and no matter how hard it is to pull my head out of the sand, I refuse to disappoint him.
Magda and I are still not on speaking terms. She sent me an email stating whatever happened between us, her grandchild will always be welcome in her house, and she hopes I’ll change my mind.
Tough luck. I’m on my way to a new future that doesn’t involve loan sharks or breaking bones. I need to do this for me, but also for the people who depend on me to take care of them.
I’m about to leave for my first day on the new job when Quincy steps into my study.
Adjusting my tie, I say, “I’m running late.”
The wide stance he takes makes me look, really look, at him. His fists are balled at his sides and his jaw is flexed. He is mad. Furious.
“We’re going to talk, Gabriel. Now. This has gone on for long enough.”
“Talk about what?”
“You want me to spell it out for you?”
What the fuck is eating him? “Why don’t you?”
“Your neglect of Valentina.”
It takes a moment for his words to register. “My neglect of––” And then they sink in. “What?” I glare at him. “It’s none of your business.”
His stance becomes wider. “Is she your wife or isn’t she?”
My temper starts to slip. “Of course she’s my wife.”
“Then act like a husband, and if you can’t, let someone else.”
I see fucking red. Burnt black with orange, melted edges. “Keep out of my business,” I growl, “and out of my wife.”
“She deserves better. You got her pregnant. Now treat her right.”
Grabbing his lapels, I lift him off his feet. “If you’re wise, you’ll shut your mouth.”
He doesn’t look scared in the slightest. “Can’t face the truth? Not man enough to hear it?”
Before I can stop myself, I slam my fist into his jaw. He goes flying, hitting the floor with a thump. At that very moment, the object of our discussion walks through the door. Valentina freezes, looking from me to Quincy who is sprawled out on the tiles. It’s him she rushes to.
“Quincy! Are you all right?” She gives me a startled look. “Gabriel, what’s wrong with you?”
The jealousy I had tapered down to an art during the last few months bubbles back to the surface, ugly and acidic in my throat. She’s mine, and she’s carrying my child. Nobody gets her, no matter how much better a man he is.
Before I say or do something I’ll regret, I leave Quincy in her concerned hands and set off for work. I’m not going to tell her about it until the time is right, until I know it’s working out. She doesn’t need to worry about where the money is going to come from.