There are two places to pick from to sit, a big squashy overstuffed chair or long roll-back couch. Usually I pick the couch. I move toward the chair, but Dante grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls me onto the couch beside him.
“Dante, why do you feel the need to control where Bethany wants to sit?”
“Because she’s pissed at me right now for bringing her here. She doesn’t really want to get away from me. The only time she’s felt better is when I’ve held her, but she keeps trying to put space between us. I’m not okay with that.”
“Bethany, why do you keep trying to put space between you and Dante?”
“Oh god, I don’t want to do this. I want to be left alone.”
“I understand. I also don’t think it’s what is good for you right now. Answer my question.”
I blink fast. Jennifer has never ignored something I said or been short with me before. “Fuck you.” I spit the word out. I try to get up, but Dante’s hand is on my arm and won’t let me go.
She’s unfazed. “Bethany, answer my question. Why are you putting space between you and Dante?”
“Because I don’t deserve him being nice to me.”
“Why do you believe that?”
I’m so sick of this. “Because I screwed up. I screwed up everything. I’m the one who couldn’t get the birth control right. Then I’m the one who couldn’t keep our baby safe. This is all my fault. Dante did everything right, he always does everything right, but I couldn’t do one thing right. I don’t deserve him being nice to me; I don’t deserve it after hurting him so badly.”
Fuck. I hate these tears, I hate them so damn much. Dante pulls me tight into his arms. I cling to him, desperate for his strength, for the peace I can only find in his arms.
20
Dante
I run my hands over my eyes. Fuck I’m tired. It doesn’t matter I woke up only an hour ago after spending almost ten hours in bed; actual time spent sleeping was maybe five hours. During the day it’s been easier to pull Bethany out of the bedroom, but the minute it got dark she was in bed. It’s been three days since the therapy visit from hell. Bethany kept her usual appointment yesterday, alone. Her smile when she got home, the first since the miscarriage, gave me hope for a better rest of the day. Except the second it got dark she disappeared into bed. At least she’s no longer talking of leaving, but she refuses to talk of pretty much anything else. We’re down to discussing the weather, our pets, and the shows we aren’t really watching.
This is the first time I’ve come in here since everything happened. I’m not sure why exactly. Normally, sitting here at my piano is the place I’ve found my center. Over this last week it’s been when Bethany crawled into my lap, or asked me to hold her and my arms were around her. Today, though, there’s fear running through me. I would never try to impose a time limit on grief—I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forget the loss—but I don’t know how long we can keep the silence up. One of us needs to start talking, but I think we’re both too afraid whatever we say will be the wrong thing. Which is crazy. For months we could talk about everything and nothing for hours, and now we fumble over the smallest thing.
I open the keyboard, close my eyes and exhale. The music flows, filled with all the sadness, the longing, and the pain over the last week. On and on it goes. I lose track of time as one piece melts into another, then another. It’s my back aching that brings me to a halt.
A hand goes over mine. It’s Bethany’s, and she’s wearing her ring. Every night when she fell asleep I put it on her finger. When she woke up she would take it off; this morning it’s still there. “I’d like to get my tattoo now. Can you take me please?”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. I nod. Anything she wants. It’s the first time she’s dressed herself. She’s wearing a loose pink T-shirt and jeans.
Checking my watch, I see it’s a little after eleven. Damn, I’ve been playing for two hours. Shaking my head to clear it, I get up and follow Bethany out of the room. Down on the street I hail a cab and give him the address. It doesn’t take long to get to the tattoo parlor. Inside my usual guy is reading a book. The place is empty aside from another
artist cleaning up his area.
“Dante, hey man, been awhile. You came to get more ink?”
“Yeah, my wife is up first though. Bethany, this is Max.”
“Wow, married? Awesome, congratulations. What can I do for you today, Mrs. Sabatini?”
Bethany blushes then pulls out her phone. She shows him what’s on the screen. It’s a heart with a smaller heart inside at the base. Huh, I’ve never seen anything like it before. Apparently Max has—his eyes dim.
“I’m sorry for your loss, the both of you.”
She blinks back tears. “Thank you.”
“Where would you like the tattoo?”
“Under my left breast.” I stiffen at the idea of her taking her shirt off in front of any man.
Max nods at me. “We can go into the back where it’s private.”