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Her father fell silent again, his gaze veering like maybe he was beginning to see how deep the pain of his decisions ran. “You have to understand, at the time, I knew who Anthony was. He was a punk, yes, but I figured he’d mature. I didn’t know Blaine. To me, he was some outsider kid who came out of nowhere and caused all this trouble in my family. I got defensive. I know that. But Anthony, he played me like a fiddle, told me untrue things, including that Blaine only wanted you for your money. I thought I was protecting you. It’s taken me all these years to get over the embarrassment that I wasn’t and to admit I got everything so completely wrong.”
“I didn’t need you to protect me. I needed you to get out of my way. Instead, you sent me to be with family who hated me, only to bring me back to marry the ‘punk’ you made excuses for.” Her face grew tight, and she figured she glared, a growing burn of anger filling up space in her tummy. “All these years, and I couldn’t talk to you. You had no idea what I dealt with every day. Alone. And look at what happened.”
She flicked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing to Blaine’s room, her voice cracking before she could utter another word. Once more, years of holding back exacted their revenge, this time in plain sight of her father.
“Please.” He lashed out his hand, catching hers. She wanted to throw him off, moved to do just that, only to stop. “Tell me what I need to do to make it up to you.”
“There’s no making up for this.” She stared down at her dad’s hand over hers. Why wasn’t she recoiling? “It’s something I’ll never forgive you for, do you understand?”
His hand gave a gentle squeeze over hers, and it was then she figured why she didn’t move. It was the first gentle gesture he’d given her in years. Not since her mother had been ripped from their lives.
“And I’ll never forgive myself.” He held her stare, a line of moisture balancing along the edge of his lower eyelids.
He looked broken. Truly broken. So much like the day he’d learned his wife had died, but instead, now he’d lost his daughter.
And because of that brokenness, she had the first sign that the feelings she’d assumed were missing actually did exist, and now she knew that this relationship would go one of two ways.
Vittorio Bonacci would leave today, a lonely man, destined to live out his life minus any family. Or his words now, his burgeoning tears, all of which had been missing all those years, were a sign that he was less broken and more “broken open”—that recent events had dragged him from the apathetic fog he’d insisted on living in. That maybe, just maybe, he’d learned and could change.
“But there are things you can do for me.” She paused, inspecting his reaction, the quick release of his facial muscles denoting hope. “You can start by accepting that I’m never going back to LA.”
He dropped his gaze, seeming defeated. “I already have.”
She cleared her throat and sat a bit taller. She’d been strong throughout all those years she’d thought herself weak. Sometimes just surviving one day at a time took immense character. If she’d been strong before, then she could do it again. “And if you love me, if you’ve ever loved me, you’ll promise to never again make decisions about my future.”
“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted—”
She gave him a squinted expression, one that said, Just promise me.
“Okay. Yes, I promise.”
“Lastly—” She huffed out a breath, deciding to test the waters with her next admission. “I haven’t been well for a while and my mental health is in a bad state, but there’s a doctor in Harlow, Dr. Richards, I think I can trust him. If I’m allowed to stay in Harlow, if I don’t get arrested over what happened last night, then I want to be there for Blaine, and I want to work on myself. I want you to help me get the help I need.”
The anxiety running through her since last night was her last straw. She couldn’t keep putting off dealing with her years of trauma. She wanted to be able to trust herself. That she wouldn’t pass out in fits of panic. That she could make decisions and mistakes, and that everything would be okay. And maybe the person to get her the help she needed should be someone who’d contributed to her problems in the first place.
“I’ll do whatever you need.” The way her father held her gaze, the softened edge to his voice, and his hand over hers… for a moment there, she felt she might be able to trust him one day. It would be years before that trust would be anything she’d truly rely on, but maybe this was a start.
“If you need money, you’ll have it.” Her father patted her hand now. “But I want to do more than that. If you’ll let me, I'll stay in town and help you get back on your feet.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’ll stay as far away and as uninvolved as you need.” He shifted his body, a sense of seriousness tightening his features, the tightness infiltrating his voice and adding a level of desperation too. “I won’t meddle, I promise. I just want to reconnect with you. I want to help. Please, just let me help. And If I’m getting on your nerves, you can tell me to leave.”
Years of distrust made it hard for her to respond, but he’d given her more today than she could remember, and saying no seemed wrong too. Granted, she owed him less than nothing, but another part of her didn’t want to send her father away. Perhaps because she still remembered who he’d had been, back when they’d been poor but rich in other ways.
She still hadn’t spoken, and he leaned in, his gaze poring over her face in a look of worry. “Honey, have you eaten?”
Her throat clogged, and new tears prickled her eyes but for a whole new reason. To any outsider, his question would seem insignificant, but to her, it was the most heartfelt concern he’d expressed for as long as she could remember. Since when did Vittorio Bonacci look, much less sound, concerned?
She gave a weak shake of her head and a short, wobbling laugh.
He patted her knee and stood, an unsteady smile dragging the corners of his mouth upward. “Okay. Let’s start with that.”
