It’s all I can do to hold back tears.
“Your visit saved my life back then,” I tell them. “And you’re definitely doing the same thing tonight.”
Hours later, after watching a rom-com and polishing off the brownies, Livvie has fallen asleep curled up in an oversized chair and Charlie and I are cleaning up.
As I rinse dishes in the kitchen sink, I tell Charlie in a low voice, “There’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Dad.”
“What about Dad?” she asks, her expression turned sour. “I know it can’t be good.”
I proceed to tell her what happened last night, how he’d cornered me in the dark and threatened me. Charlie seems shocked, which is surprising considering the fact that nothing about our father really shocks us anymore.
“He’s unstable, and he’s getting worse,” I conclude. “We can’t let Livvie stay there with him anymore.”
“Agreed. I’ll move her to Nob Hill with me, indefinitely. Except the horses—”
“Maybe Delores’s grandson could come and take care of them until we can find a place to move them,” I say, thinking out loud. “And we’ll have to come up with something to explain it to Livvie. I don’t want her to know what Dad did to me.”
Charlie nods. Honestly, I’m tired of lying to our baby sister. Charlie and I both know that Livvie understands more about our father than she lets on. She may be young, but she’s not stupid.
“You know, one of these days we’re going to have to tell her the whole story,” I say.
“Yeah. Let’s just let her be a kid for a little while longer, though. Life will get painful for her soon enough as it is.”
I can’t help but agree.
5
Frankie
The keysto the little red Jaguar are still in my purse. I hold their weight in my palm and consider for the hundredth time what I’m about to do.
Without the car, this wouldn’t be possible. I’m going to take the keys as a sign that I should proceed.
Rico has been blowing up my cell nonstop for the past few days. I haven’t picked up a single call, but I listened to the first few voicemails before I started deleting them automatically—so I know exactly where he’s staying.
I dress casually in jeans and a loose blouse, put my hair in a simple ponytail, and forgo makeup. I don’t want to give off the wrong impression to Rico or anyone else. The last thing I need right now is to come across like I’m up to something that I’m not.
Driving to the outskirts of Vallejo, I play my music way too loud in an attempt to keep from overthinking what I’m about to do. Forty minutes later, I double-check the address on my GPS as I pull into a small, shitty motel with water-stained aluminum siding, trash littering the parking area, and a few broken-down, rusted-out cars parked beside the building. Why am I surprised? Leave it to Rico to be as cheap and inconvenient as possible.
A sarcastic scoff dies in my throat. He once promised me a honeymoon fit for a queen. Instead, he ditched me in Roccette, the Fort Lauderdale of Italy, with no money, a bunch of pretty lies, and half a bottle of the cheapest wine available in the entire country.
Looks like nothing has changed.
After carefully locking my car, I swallow my nerves, square my shoulders, and head to the door that matches the number Rico mentioned—43. I’m getting more nauseous with every step, as the mistake I made hangs heavier over my head, but I just want this problem gone. I know it’s my fault—my responsibility. At the same time, it’s Rico’s fault too, and since he had the wonderful idea to just pop back into my life out of nowhere, he’s going to help me fix it.
Time to resolve this disaster once and for all. If he’s still here, that is.
I smooth the front of my shirt, toss back my ponytail, and knock on the door. It comes out as an aggressivebang, bang, bang. Well, whatever. Let the whole building come running, I don’t care. A few seconds later, there’s the sound of a chain sliding on the other side of the door, followed by the turn of the handle. I swallow hard as the door cracks open and Rico’s dark eyes look out at me from inside the room. His expression immediately lights up and he swings the door wide.
“Frankie,” he says, in that overly confident way of his. “I knew you would come.”
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung board shorts. Of course. His sculpted torso and deep olive skin are on full display, a landscape of smooth muscle that I used to constantly thrill in running my hands over. At the moment, though, looking at him bare chested fills me with distaste. I’m about to tell him to put a shirt on when he waves me inside.
I don’t move. I’m taking him in, taking a moment to just look at the man who once caused me so much pain. Recalling the things I found attractive about him so long ago.
To be fair, Rico is objectively a very handsome man. Dark, mysterious, suave. He’s just as underwear-model-perfect now as he was then, if your opinion hasn’t been clouded by what a piece of shit he is. I can’t help but notice the little trail of hair making a path down his abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his shorts—I used to love to trace the trail and wrap my hand around the sizeable cock he’s got at the end.
It’s funny. I remember enjoying his body, enjoying his company, enjoying the way he took control of our relationship so that I didn’t have to worry about a thing. But I remember these things the way I remember learning calculus in high school. The information is buried in my brain, but it’s not worth anything to me now. It certainly doesn’t affect me emotionally or physically, and it’s not anything I’m going to use again. I’m a completely different person now.
