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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.
* * *
Haven stood by the kitchen window and gazed out into the driveway, her eyes fixated on the Mazda, the passenger side windshield buckled from Carmine’s fist. Even from where she stood she could see the streak of blood from his knuckles.
“I woke up alone.”
The gritty voice rang out behind Haven, drawing her from her thoughts. She turned to see Carmine in the doorway. “You looked peaceful,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
She glanced at his hand, the bruising on his knuckles dark this morning.
“It’s fine,” he said, noticing the attention. He flexed his fingers to prove his point, his jaw rigid as he fought back a grimace. His hand was clearly not fine, but she didn’t argue with him.
They stared at each other in silence. There was so much that needed to be said, but Haven had no idea where to start. All of it was overwhelming. Her eyes filled with tears as she blurted out, “I’m sorry,” the same time Carmine spoke, echoing her words and distress.
He frowned. “Why are you sorry?”
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“I told you, Haven. My hand’s fine.”
“Not your hand,” she said. “You. I hurt you, and I didn’t mean to.”
“You did,” he said, “but I did the same thing. I’d be a hypocrite to blame you. I could’ve stopped this before it started, and that’s why I’m sorry.”
She turned around, his apology making her feel worse. He was trying to reassure her when he was the one who needed to be comforted. He deserved to have the burden lifted from his shoulders, but she selfishly stood in silence, unable to find the words to ease his pain.
His bare feet slapped against the cold, hard floor as he shuffled over to her, pausing at the window. “Christ, look at my car.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“You have to stop apologizing,” he said, startling her as he grabbed her hips. “It happened, it was fucked up, but it’s over now. Dwelling on who hurt who isn’t gonna make the shit go away. You can’t hold grudges and expect anything to get better, because it won’t.”
“Is that what you’ve done?”
“I’ve been doing it for years, all the while wondering why my life was shitty. I’m tired of repeating the same mistakes over and over again. It’s time to accept what happened and forgive.”
She was amazed by his sudden burst of maturity when less than twelve hours before he had been volatile. It was as if he’d been completely crushed, defeated to the point that he had no will left to fight.
“Does that mean forgiving Nicholas too?”
