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“That’s fine, sir. We’ll look forward to seeing you.”
The Ambassador Suite is perfectly acceptable. It has a living room, with a corner couch, dining table, and kitchen area. From there you can walk out through the glass doors, onto a balcony that overlooks the city. The bedroom, which is where I am now, has a king-sized bed, a dressing area, and…
“This is the bathroom.” The bellboy who carried up my bag, opens the door in the left-hand wall, and switches on the light, although I don’t go over and look. A bathroom is a bathroom, after all. And, in any case, I’m feeling pre-occupied.
Obviously, my mind is absorbed by Livia, and how I’m going to get her to talk to me, but on the way over here, I realized that, in my haste to stay and try to work things out with her, I’d forgotten that I didn’t have a change of clothes. I was just wondering if the hotel had a laundry service when I suddenly remembered that I didn’t need to worry. In the trunk of my car was the bag I’d packed yesterday morning to take to Newport. At least one minor crisis seemed to have been averted… until I opened the trunk, and saw Livia’s bag, nestling beside my own. I don’t know why I hadn’t remembered it would be there, but I hadn’t, and it hurt, removing my bag, and leaving hers behind. It might sound silly, but it felt like another disconnection between us, and I wasn’t ready to face that. I’m still not, and I wish this bellboy would leave, so I can stop pretending I’m okay.
Chapter Thirteen
Livia
Mom closes the door and turns to me, raising her eyebrows.
“You said I didn’t have to speak to him.” I blurt out my words before she can tell me I got that all wrong.
“I know… and you said he wouldn’t call.”
“He didn’t.”
“No. He drove all the way up here.” She folds her arms across her chest. “He loves you, Livia. Even if he hadn’t just admitted it, it was as clear as the nose on his face.”
“Maybe he does. But I’m not ready to talk to him yet.”
She lets her hands fall to her sides and comes over, standing in front of me. “That’s okay. Just remember what I said.”
“About love being fragile, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I’m feeling pretty fragile myself.”
“Oh… come here.” She pulls me into a hug, and I let her, only turning when I hear footsteps behind me, coming from the back of the house. Dad’s still in his pajamas, even though it’s lunchtime, and he’s put on a bathrobe, although he hasn’t done it up.
“Did I hear voices?” he says.
“Yes, but don’t worry about it.” Mom goes to him and pulls his bathrobe closed. “Shall we get you dressed?”
He gazes down at her and nods his head. “I fell asleep again.”
“I know, but it’s okay.”
She leads him back toward their bedroom, and I lean against the wall behind me, letting out a long sigh. I never expected Hunter to come here. If I’m being honest, I never expected to hear from him again.
When I realized it was him at the door, though, I hid. That might sound childish, and maybe it was, but I knew if I went and spoke to him, I’d end up yelling… and probably crying. And I don’t want to do either of those things. I want to do what he suggested. I want to talk… to work things out.
Except I’m not ready.
I know I should be heartened by him coming here, and by all the things he said, but if anything, it’s just fueled my anger. Why did he have to hurt me so much, if he didn’t mean it? Why did he have to push me away, if he was just going to pull me back again? It was confusing, and hearing him say he loves me hasn’t helped. Part of me wanted to run out and throw myself into his arms… to kiss him and tell him I love him too. And part of me wanted to scream at him. His actions had hardly been those of a man in love… at least, they didn’t seem that way to me.
Standing here won’t achieve anything, though, and it’s certainly won’t help me work out how I feel. It’s nearly lunchtime, and while Mom helps Dad to get dressed, I can make myself useful and fix us something to eat.
I push myself off of the wall and wander through to the kitchen, where I make some sandwiches and coffee, getting everything ready just in time for Mom and Dad to reappear.
“You sit at the table,” she says, helping him into a chair. She sits beside him, looking exhausted, although he does too, and I carry the lunch over, setting it down in front of them.
“This looks l—lovely,” Dad says, with a smile, although he struggles to pick up the sandwich, and Mom gets up and fetches a knife, cutting it into smaller pieces, which he finds a little easier. Mom has to hold his cup and help him drink, and I watch them, my heart aching. Dad was worse than this at the beginning, when he first came home from the hospital, but I was living here then. I could help more, and it’s been years since I’ve seen him need this level of assistance. I left home because I thought he was better, but looking at him now, I wonder – yet again – how selfish I was.
Lunch takes a lot longer than usual because of Dad, but once he’s had enough, I clear away so Mom can help him into the living room. She returns within minutes and sits back down at the table, her head in her hands.
