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Fuck my heart. It would recover.
The smile on Saoirse’s face made whatever I had in store worth it.
I knew that because when I looked at her and our previously unwanted cat, I was calm. My urge to destroy and maim had quieted. The future might be painful. I might regret these decisions down the line. But for now, everything was right.
My parents came for lunch on Sunday. Saoirse and my mother cooked together. Clementine sat in my father’s lap while we watched the game in the den.
He looked good. Miles better than he had a few months ago. But I’d never forget he wasn’t invincible. My big, strong, capable father had nearly been brought down by his own body.
The four of us sat down to eat together while Clem checked out her new climbing tower.
My mother shook her head. “A cat. I never pictured you having a cat, Luc.”
Dad wiped his pants off. “You’ll have to invest in lint rollers by the case.”
Saoirse lit up as she told them how Clementine had chosen me. “She climbed him like a tree. And when the woman in charge of the shelter implied there was something wrong with Clem, you should have seen Luca. It was like she was talking about his child.”
My dad grunted. “I’d hardly call a missing ear something wrong. Who are these people who said that?”
My mother laughed. “Do you see where he gets it from?”
Saoirse’s cheeks were rosy when she grinned at me. “I do. Who knew Luca had such a mushy heart?”
“I did,” Mom declared. “You can’t be a beautiful artist without feeling things deeply. When he was a little boy, he once came to me with tears in his eyes. When I asked him why he was upset, he said he wasn’t sad. He told me he’d been thinking about me, Clara, and Dad, and his heart got so big it felt like his chest was going to burst. As he got older, he disguised that side of him behind his cool-guy front, but I know what lies beneath.”
“I do too. Aren’t we lucky?”
Saoirse squeezed my leg under the table, keeping her focus on my mom. Thank Christ, because I remembered the incident she was talking about. My mother undersold the dramatics of eight-year-old Luca. I’d been sobbing, almost hysterical, over how much I loved my family.
Weird kid.
At least I hid it better now.
Dad wiped his mouth. “Are you finding time for that these days?”
“That?” I leaned back in my chair. “You mean my art?”
“Mmm. From what Clara says, you’re at Rossi later than her most days.”
“You’re checking up on me?” It came out harsher than intended, but this was a sore line of questioning. While my mother had cultivated my little artist heart, my father had never quite understood me. He was all facts and numbers. It made him a great CEO, but I didn’t work the same way and never would.
His brow winged. “I had a conversation with my daughter, Luca. You came up in conversation. I’m not spying on you. I’m interested in both you and my company.”
“Mycompany,” I corrected.
“Not because you want it.”
My arms folded over my chest. “Does it matter why it’s mine? The fact is it is. And since you’re checking up on me, I presume you’re watching our stock prices.”
“Of course I am. I have a vested interest in Rossi. That’s my retirement. My legacy.”
“Mine too,” I replied.
“There’s no need for you to get your back up, Luca. I’m not telling you how to run things. I’m not going to wedge my way back in. Rossi is yours. I should be able to ask questions without it being viewed as an attack on you.” Dad folded his arms too, mirroring my pose.
“Then ask me.”
He cocked his head. “I would. If our conversations didn’t devolve into you feeling like I don’t trust your decision-making abilities.”
