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“With a baby on the way, and given how she felt, it made sense to get engaged. I proposed, she said yes.”
“How come I’ve never heard any of this?”
His expression was haunted, and she wondered if he was going to stop talking. She shouldn’t have said anything!
But a moment later, he continued, though the words were drawn from him with obvious remorse. “It wasn’t widely known. And only a week after we got engaged I – we argued. I –,” he focussed his gaze on the wall opposite, his expression like steel. “I went out. Got drunk. Went home with a woman I’d hooked up with a few times in the past.”
Bronte couldn’t help her surprised gasp. She tried to muffle it, but saw the way he reacted: the tightening of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth.
“I didn’t sleep with her Bronte. I came to my senses, but it was close.” He ran his fingers over the sheet, pulling at it between his forefinger and thumb. “I wanted to. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t getting married, wasn’t having a baby.” He dropped his head forward. “As the child of an unhappy marriage, a child who wasn’t wanted by his parents, I think I panicked at the idea of bringing a baby into that environment. Like it was history repeating itself.”
“Oh, Luca,” she shook her head. “You were trying to do the right thing. And you did. You didn’t sleep with her. You didn’t cheat.”
“That’s a matter of semantics. I went home and told Katie what had happened. We argued. Two days later, she went into labour. Our baby was born. The most perfect little boy, Bronte, with these tiny little hands and feet, and a nose just like Katie’s, and a chin like mine.” He shook his head, his voice thickened by emotion. “But he wasn’t breathing, and he wouldn’t breathe. The doctors tried so hard, but there was nothing they could do.”
Bronte’s ribs sawed as she sucked in a breath over the forming of a sob.
“I wanted to support Katie. I wanted to be with her, even if just so we could remember our son together, but she left.” His eyes briefly dropped to Bronte’s face. “I can’t say I blame her.”
Bronte’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“She went off the rails. Drinking. Drugs. For a couple of years I looked out for her, checking her into rehab a few times, but she’d always check herself out again as soon as I left the country. And now I have no fucking idea where she is, Bronte. No idea. And do you know why?”
“Why?” She mouthed.
“Because I let her think I was the kind of guy who could give her some fairy tale happily ever after crap. Because I let her fall in love with me. Because I made her think I loved her. A sweet, innocent, beautiful waitress, for God’s sake, because I couldn’t just keep it simple.”
“She was pregnant,” Bronte whispered. “You wanted to look after her.”
“Right. So I could have moved her into her own place, not my spare room. I don’t know jack about relationships, but I’ve always known I hated the very idea of love and marriage, so why the hell did I propose to her?”
A single tear spilled from the corner of Bronte’s e
ye. “You wanted to make her happy. That’s a good impulse, Luca.”
“Happy? I didn’t even come close.”
“It sounds to me like losing the baby is what drove her over the edge.”
His eyes shifted to Bronte’s for a second then he turned away, reaching for the bedside table. To turn off the light?
No, he reached for his wallet instead, opening it and pulling out a small envelope. She frowned, watching as he slid his finger under the triangular flap and unfolded it, before pulling out a small photo. “This is him.”
Her heart hammered as she reached for the photo, a lump of grief hard in her throat. The baby in the photo looked like any other newborn. Sweet and pink with a shock of black hair, eyes closed as though he were simply sleeping. She ran her finger over his cheek, sadness gripping her. “I’m so sorry, Luca.”
He dipped his head in a silent nod.
“He’s beautiful.”
“We named him Mattia.” He cleared his throat. “It means gift from God.”
Another tear slipped down her cheek.
“It’s perfect.”
He put his hand out and she passed the photograph back, watching as he tucked it into the envelope and replaced it in his wallet, the action easy, as though it was one he did often. Her stomach squeezed at the thought of that – the knowledge that he must look at this photo often and think of his poor son.
“Katie was a mistake. I thought it often, like I was living a lie, but I went on with it, and I hurt her. I swore I would never lie to another woman about how I felt. I’d never pretend I was capable of love and all that stuff people seem to want, because that’s just not me.”
