Page 156 of Unlock My Heart

“In that case, no more tears for me,” he says softly, adjusting his tie. It’s crooked, but my feet remain rooted firmly in place. “I have some business I need to handle this evening, so don’t expect me home for dinner.”

“You’ve made it clear what you think of my food.” And me.

“Still love your food, and the woman who made it. Always.” He winks at me, sauntering out.

A part of me wants to chase after him, to make sure he knows he’s walking into a trap. But what kind of villain would I be if I took the easy route?

I fall to the floor and do something I claimed I wouldn’t, and that’s shed a tear for him.

For me.

For our son.

For what might have been, if we were different.

If I were different, not so broken and hollow and empty.

My hand falls to my empty womb, and it all comes out in violent sobs until there’s nothing left except rawness and regret.

And isn’t that what a tragedy is?

Collapsed on the hardwood, I don’t know how long I lay there, but something warm and slobbery touches my cheek, and I open my eyes to find Lacey. “What am I doing? A shit job at being the villain.”

I scramble from the floor and grab my phone, sending Fabien a message.

You’re walking into a trap, you know that, right?

Aww, my wife is worried about me. That’s sweet.

Fabien, I’m serious!

I know, baby, but thanks for the heads up. When I get this Kirksey business settled, you and I are going to have a proper funeral for our son.

Afraid that I wouldn’t be able to speak the next words, I’m grateful we’re texting.

Fabien Oliver Calvani, Jr. I’d already named him in my mind.

A proper funeral for Fabien Oliver Calvani, Jr.

Just when I think I couldn’t possibly cry another tear, my eyes become bleary.

I never stopped loving you.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired of being the villain. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of being a coward. My thumbs hover over my reply, and before I can chicken out, I hit send.

I never stopped loving you. So where does that leave us?

Don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. Together.

Nodding to the phone, I toss it down and carefully change out of my school project back into my work clothes.

With sketch pad and pencil in hand, I get to work on our son’s funeral gown. A symbolic gesture; I don’t have possession of his tiny remains, but I want this gown buried with his memory.

And maybe, just maybe, I can finally bury the past and allow myself to be happy.

Fabien

The present