I smiled through my tears. “This is Jacques Martin, Papa,” I said.
My father’s eyes widened in surprise. “The Beast!” he said. “I remember him. He was quite the wrestler, back in the day.”
“I’ve been writing a piece on him,” I explained. “Luis got the wrong idea about the whole thing, and he —” my voice cut out on a sob. Papa squeezed my hand.
“I heard the whole story,” he said. “Although looking at you, I’m not so sure Luis’ idea was so wrong, after all, was it?”
My lip trembled. “Oh Papa,” I said, and sank back into the chair, sobbing.
Papa stroked my hair. “Shh,” he soothed. “There, there.” He didn’t offer hollow words of comfort, didn’t tell me it would all turn out all right, because we both knew that it might not.
“I’m just so confused,” I sobbed. “Everything is all muddled up, and I don’t know what to do.”
My father’s hand kept up its rhythmic stroking as he spoke. “I can’t say that I know exactly what’s going on,” he said. “But I know my daughter, and I know that there’s nothing she can’t do if she puts her mind to it. Things may seem muddled now, but I believe you can untangle them.”
I sniffled. “Thank you, Papa.”
“Now, I’m off to find some terrible hospital coffee. Can I bring you back anything?”
I shook my head, knowing that he was making up an excuse to leave me alone with Jacques, and grateful for it. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, pausing on his way out. “And Isabel? I hope this one treats you better than the last one did.”
I smiled despite myself, growing serious again when I turned back to Jacques. “You heard him,” I said, stroking his hand again. “You’re not allowed to die, because that would make me very unhappy. Do you want to make me unhappy, Jacques?” I paused as if waiting for an answer. “I didn’t think so.” I laid my head on his broad chest, allowing my despair to roll over me in waves. “Oh Jacques,” I sobbed, “what am I going to do?”
There was no denying it now, to myself or anyone else. My father had guessed correctly: I was in love with Jacques, had been, really, since the first time we met out on that patio. That I might lose him now, when I could finally see the truth, was unthinkable. I knew that losing him would devastate not only me, but the six men who had dedicated their lives to helping the man in front of me.
The truth was, I was in love with all of them: Jacques, Étienne, Vincent, Bernard, Raphael, Isiah, Alexandre. They were each so different, but bound together by their love and respect for each other. This had begun as harmless for as long as I stayed in Castle Villeneuve, but it wasn’t that any longer. It was deeper, now. It was real.
My father thought my distress was purely because Jacques might die, but that wasn’t the case. Even if Jacques lived — and he must live, I thought fiercely — I knew that I would lose them, all of them. I couldn’t come between them. Not now, when they needed each other more than ever. My leaving had already fractured the bond between them; if it broke because of me, I couldn’t live with myself.
I came to a decision: I would stay as long as it took Jacques to wake up. Once I knew he would recover, I would leave him to his men, his brothers. I would never tell a soul the truth, that I loved all of them. I couldn’t burden them with that knowledge. “I’m sorry, Jacques,” I whispered, praying that the doctor was right, that Jacques was still in there somewhere, that he could hear me. “I never meant for this to happen, any of it.”
My father returned a little while later, bringing a few of my things, my phone and laptop, as well as a basket full of snacks from the vending machine. “I know you said you didn’t want anything,” he said unapologetically. “But I’m your father, and I’m ordering you to eat this junk food.”
My stomach rumbled, and I realized suddenly that I hadn’t eaten since the night before. I had been too worried about getting to my father as soon as possible, and then — well. I pounced on a bag of chips and practically inhaled them.
“Thanks, Papa,” I said, brushing crumbs off my lap. “I really needed that.”
My father nodded, watching me eat. “I haven’t been a very good father to you,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I regret that. But I’m here now, and I intend to do better from here on out.”
“Papa, no,” I protested. “You’ve been sick.”
“When your mother died, I couldn’t cope,” he said. He cast a glance towards Jacques. “I never want you to have to go through anything like that.” I nodded, squeezing his hand in silent thanks. No more words needed to be said.