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‘This is my daughter.’ He ground the words out.
‘I know.’ She shivered, but not from the cool evening air. ‘I get that. But this isn’t about us right now.’
‘No, it’s about her. It’s about the fact she has a father she knows—Cristo,I have no idea what you’ve told her about me.’
Tears welled in Alicia’s eyes as she stalked towards him, needing him to understand.
‘She’s my family,’ he said firmly, and her heart squished, because she understood, better than anyone, what that meant to him. He’d been robbed of his family already, and now Alicia had done the same thing. Guilt was an unavoidable wave, crashing over her.
‘I must see her.’
‘I... I’m worried it will upset her.’
‘You think I can’t control myself?’ His nostrils flared angrily.
She knew the opposite was likely true, but that didn’t change a thing.
‘I can’t...stand here and argue with you. I need to go to her.’ She lifted a hand to his chest but he flinched, pulling away from her. ‘Just, please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t do anything to upset her. She has to be our priority.’
The look of anger in his eyes turned her heart to ice, but she couldn’t stay there and dwell, nor could she try to fix this. Annie needed her.
She checked her phone as she swept into the hospital, approaching the triage nurse’s desk.
‘My daughter’s here, with Dr Wallace.’
‘Ah, yes. They’ve just gone up to orthopaedics. Third floor, turn left at the elevators.’
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t wait for Graciano but knew he was right there with her, and even though she’d fought this, even though she could feel his fury, she was glad he was there. There was strength in his presence, and she needed that strength in that moment, more than ever.
‘Di?’ A tear slid down her cheek at the familiar sight of her dearest friend. Alicia sped up, moving down the corridor to where Di was waiting, glasses around her neck, clipboard in hand.
‘There you are, darling,’ Di reached in for a hug, eyes flicking to the handsome stranger in Alicia’s wake. ‘Now, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Her arm’s not broken?’ Alicia pulled away to look in Di’s face.
‘Oh, it sure is, in two places. She did a real good job of it.’ Di tsked. ‘Then again, that’s our Annie. Doesn’t do anything by halves.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Sure. She’s just with Dr Wallace, but you can go in.’
Diane’s gaze lingered on Graciano, but Alicia couldn’t worry about anything besides Annie. She slipped into the hospital room, pushing past all of her tangled emotions to offer Annie a smile.
He was moving slowly, dread and disbelief half paralysing his limbs, but eventually, short of stopping completely, it was no longer possible to push this moment back, even for a second.
He stepped to the open door and hovered on the edge of it, eyes flicking into the room, ignoring the silver haired woman who’d just been locked in conversation with Alicia.
A young girl sat propped in bed, head bent forward so her dark, silky hair formed a curtain around her features. Music was playing from a nearby iPhone. She wore a shiny blue-and-yellow football shirt and her nails were painted fluorescent green. When she moved slightly, he saw that her cheek was bruised, and then she lifted her head, looking around the room idly, as if bored, until her eyes landed on him.
It was like being punched, hard, in the solar plexus.
This was his daughter.
Fierce, out-of-control paternal pride burst to life. She was a part of him, a part of his brother and mother and father—a part of his family, unmistakably. She was a dead ringer for his mother, except her eyes, which reminded Graciano of his brother. Her skin was brown like his, but then she smiled a little curiously and he saw Alicia, and felt his heart buckle. Every idea of not wanting children burst into flames at the sight of this little person who was, unmistakably, of him.
‘Hi.’
He couldn’t look at Alicia, standing beside the bed. Anger was rushing through him, a tsunami of blame and recrimination meaning he wanted to exclude her from this moment. This was about Graciano and his daughter, about the connection he deserved to have felt from this child’s birth—not now, nine years later.
