ooked like she wanted to run from him again, so he reached out to stop her. “I already knew it was you. I’ve known for a few months.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I was trying to protect you. I didn’t see the point in telling you.”
“Your mama died because of me, and you didn’t see the point? I destroyed your life, Carmine!”
“Christ, you were just a little girl. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I took your mama from you.”
“No, you didn’t. The person who pulled the trigger took her.”
“You’re wrong.” She wiped her tears away. “How can you look at me? How could you love me after that?”
“How can I not? I’d die for you, so how could I blame you for my mom feeling the same way?”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” she said. “I’m not worth it.”
“Don’t say shit like that. You can’t shut down and pull away from everything.”
“But you said—”
He cut her off before she could repeat the things he had said. “I was angry. We all do shit when we’re upset we don’t mean. I’ve lost too much as it is. I don’t want to lose you too.” She choked back a sob as he pulled her into a hug. “Fuck, tesoro. I don’t know how we’re gonna get over this, but we need to find a way. I’m miserable without you.”
He held her, comforted by having her in his arms again. She pulled from his embrace as her crying slowed and peered at him. “I’m sorry if I hurt you by talking to Nicholas. It’s just . . . no matter his reasons, he went out of his way to try to make me laugh.”
While Carmine questioned Nicholas’s motives, he realized, as he stood there, that everyone had been right. He needed to respect her decisions; he had to let her make mistakes. “You know he fucking hates me.”
“He’s angry, but he doesn’t hate you. I think he misses you.”
He laughed bitterly. “He says bad shit about me.”
“He does, but like you said—we say things we don’t mean when we’re hurt. The two of you used to be close, and now you have me, but who does Nicholas have? I understand why he doesn’t want to accept you’ve changed, because he hasn’t. He doesn’t want to believe you’re not the same, because that means he really is alone. He lost his only friend.”
* * *
Heaps of paperwork surrounded Vincent. He’d been sitting there for hours trying to get it knocked down, but he couldn’t focus. He was exhausted, and everything was falling apart.
The office door thrust open as Vincent read the same paragraph for the fifth time, his son strolling into the room. “You’re making my night hell, Carmine. You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested.”
“I have something that’ll make it all better . . . or it’s just gonna make your life worse.”
Carmine dropped a book on top of the paperwork, knocking the pen right out of his hand. Vincent sighed. “What’s this?”
“You don’t recognize my mom’s diary?” he asked. “Haven found it in the library.”
He slumped into his chair, staring at the book in a daze. “I suspected your mother kept one, but it never struck me it might’ve been with the other books when Celia packed everything up in Chicago for me. I must’ve stuck it on the shelf without realizing what it was.”
“Well, that’s where it was, so there you go.”
After Carmine walked out, Vincent ran his hand over the worn cover before opening the book, his curiosity fueling him as he flipped to the last page. The familiar handwriting made him feel like someone had plunged a hand into his chest and gripped his heart, squeezing it.
He scanned the passage, seeing the date. October 12, 1997. She’d written it the day she died.
The closet door in Carmine’s room was stuck this morning. I had to break the knob to open the door. Another thing to add to the list . . . the bottom step is loose, the kitchen window won’t budge most days, the tire swing fell down, and the front door is in desperate need of new paint. Such small things, one after another, all easily fixed but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like everything is falling apart around me, the world crumbling as I stand here, still. I think time has run out—not for her, but for me. I’ve hit a wall and it’s too late to turn back. Not that I would, even if I could. Vincent doesn’t understand right now, but someday he’ll see what I see. Someday he’ll realize why I couldn’t give up on her. Maybe when that happens, he’ll hang the tire swing again. Maybe the window will be replaced, the step nailed down, and maybe the door will be repainted. Blue this time, instead of red. I’m tired of seeing so much red. Maybe then it’ll be our time to have peace. And maybe then she’ll finally be free. I think when that happens the world will stop crumbling.
Vincent closed the book. His world was still crumbling.