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A heart attack.
That’s what got Eric Rossi in the end.
A motherfucking heart attack on the same day his daughter celebrated her eighteenth birthday. A man who had a heart the size of a basketball suddenly just drops dead on his couch while watching reruns of his favorite sitcoms on television.
What a fucking way to end a life that brought so much joy into the world. It isn’t fair. My own father has been on various dangerous missions, putting his life on the line every time, and has always managed to come back to us whole. Valentina went out with us to a fucking restaurant one night, and when she returned, her father was gone.
It shouldn’t have happened this way.
But it did.
And I’m not sure Val will ever fully recover.
I lean against the front door’s threshold, watching her sit on the porch’s swing, just looking at nowhere in particular. Her blank stare is as empty as she must feel.
“Do you want me to get you something to eat?” I ask her, but like with all my questions, she doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring into the oblivion.
I wipe my face with my hand, not knowing how I can help her, heal her pain. It’s slowly ripping my sanity to shreds.
“I haven’t seen you eat anything all day, Val. You have to keep up your strength.”
Still nothing.
“I’ll get you something to drink at least. Some of that chamomile tea you like so much,” I insist, but this time, I don’t expect a reply. Instead, I look at Carter, who is leaning against the rail in front of her.
“Watch over her,” I order.
“I always do,” he replies, his arms crossed against his chest, eyes locked on the girl who means everything to us.
I go back into the full house, and instantly, I realize why Val prefers to stay outside. Everyone is either sobbing or telling stories about her old man, reminiscing about better days, when he was still with us. Much like his daughter, Eric Rossi was a force of nature. He crept into the heart of so many people, with his gentle, kind eyes and good-natured humor.
He didn’t deserve this.
Val didn’t deserve this.
But then again, we rarely get what we deserve.
My ominous thoughts plague me as I walk into the kitchen to find Quaid putting dishes into the washing machine.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m cleaning. She shouldn’t have to clean up after all these people,” he replies with anger in his tone.
I put the kettle on while Quaid starts scraping food into the garbage disposal with such force, he’s probably going to end up breaking a plate or two before he’s done. When I hear a glass shatter in his hands, I let out a long unsurprised exhale.
“You okay?” I ask, walking towards him to see how big the cut is.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, washing away the blood, his body suddenly trembling.
“Quaid?” I hush out behind him.
When he turns around, his eyes are bloodshot red, silent tears streaming down his face.
Shit.
He’s hurting.
“I loved him, you know?” he chokes out.
