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When Carly is out of earshot, I narrow my eyes. “Let me handle my own affairs and leave Carly out of the business.” Giving my mother my back, I walk from the room, feeling the tension in my leg.
“Softness will get you killed, Gabriel,” she calls after me.
Dorothy waits in the reading room.
I close the door and take a seat. “How did it go?”
She wipes her fingers over her brow. “She’s tough to talk to. Of course, I need to win her trust first.” She looks at me from under her lashes. “I pick up a need for approval and acceptance. Are you spending enough time with her?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
“Busy job?”
“It’s not that. Carly would rather spend time with her friends than her father.”
“It’s normal. Try to strengthen her self-esteem by complimenting her for homework well done or good deeds, anything positive, but be authentic. Make sure she knows you’re noticing her and taking an interest in her life.”
“I assure you, I am.”
“I don’t doubt that, or I wouldn’t be here. Just make sure you show her as well as tell her. It will help, of course, if I can have a joint session with you and your ex-wife to agree on a consistent strategy that will reinforce your daughter’s self-image.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find much cooperation from my ex-wife.”
“Ah, well.” She wipes her hands on her thighs and straightens. “Let’s see how it goes after a couple of sessions. Try to maintain the status quo at home. Don’t introduce any new or stressful situations if you can avoid it, at least not for a while.”
“Such as?”
“A stepmom.”
“Carly’s worried about that?”
“She mentioned it. I know this is a personal question, but are you seeing anyone, maybe a lady friend your daughter doesn’t get on with?”
“No.” Not that Carly knows of, at least.
“Then Carly’s fear is unfounded. It’s not uncommon for children to feel lost after a divorce. Carly’s frightened of losing you or her mother to someone else. Reassure her of your affection whenever you can.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll see you next week, same time.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
Even as I speak, my mind is drifting to a reoccurring thought. How will Carly react if she ever finds out about Valentina?
* * *
Valentina
Regret is not a conducive sentiment. Still, I can’t help from feeling it when I read the letter addressed to me that Gabriel brings to the kitchen on Monday morning. Reading it with my back to him, I curl my fingers in a fist until my nails cut into my skin. I want to cry, but he’s hovering at the coffee machine.
“Good news?”
I glance at him from over my shoulder. He’s dressed in a dark suit with a blue shirt and yellow tie. He makes the ensemble look perfect. The tailored pants stretch over his narrow hips, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest. His unique fragrance beckons me, but I need to be alone to deal with the news.
I shrug.
“All right.” He says it like a threat, making me understand he’ll let me get away with my disobedience of not giving him a reply for now, but maybe not later.
I hold my breath until he has left the room. Only when I’m alone do I allow the emotions to explode inside of me. I grab the edges of the counter so hard my arms shake from the strain. The letter crumples in my fist. I scrunch it up until it’s a tiny ball. Of all the sick jokes in the world, this one must have the best timing. I bang my fists on the counter, setting the bowls and knives and spoons clanging. For all of three seconds, I allow myself every single destructive emotion that lances into my heart, and then I lift the lid of the trashcan and dump the letter informing me of my all-inclusive scholarship inside. When the lid falls back with a clang, something inside of me ceases to exist. What’s left is the hollow echo of a dream and nothing more than the will to survive.
* * *
Gabriel
The letter that arrived from the university this morning should’ve made Valentina ecstatic. There’s a change in her I don’t understand. After doing my morning rounds at our franchises in town, I head to her friend’s place where Charlie lives. The woman waiting in reception with a Miniature Doberman shrinks back when she looks up at my face. Walking past her with practiced ignorance, I venture to the food section and lift my sunglasses to read the labels. I pull a bag of the urinary diet brand Valentina bought for Oscar from the shelf and carry it to the till. A few minutes pass before a peroxide blonde in a white overcoat exits. Hard lines mar her weathered face, and her fingernails are broken. Her eyes give away nothing as she assesses me. They flitter from me to the bag of food standing on the counter.
