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I blink. “No!”
“Look.” He shoves the article toward me before scooting his chair away.
I read the article with a frown. According to the reporter, Gerald died from a bacterial infection and was survived by his two dogs. Town sources close to Gerald mentioned how he refused to go to the hospital because he wanted to die in the comfort of his half-finished home.
My eyes itch. “That’s so freaking sad.”
“Stories like this make me glad I was born after penicillin was invented.”
I check out the grainy image of Gerald holding a shovel in front of a plot of land. “He never lived long enough to see his house get completed.”
“It appears not.”
“Or marry his true love.”
“Not many do.” There is a slight edge to his voice.
“She must have been heartbroken when she got the newsabout his death.”
“Why?”
I rear back. “What do you meanwhy? Because they were in love.”
“If she truly loved him, she would have stuck by his side from the beginning.”
“He was the one who told her not to come until the town was finished.”
“Then it was her mistake to listen to him.”
I can’t help feeling defensive over Francesca and her choices, especially when I see a bit of her in myself. “She waited for him, wrote him letters, and held on to a dream that one day they would get married despite the odds stacked against them. That’s what people do when they’re in love.”
“So you say.”
The audacity of this man.“For someone who has never been in love, you sure have a lot of opinions on the matter.”
The vein in his neck pulses with each erratic beat of his heart.
I continue, “What ifhewas the one who didn’t want to take the risk onher? What if she begged to join him, but he shut her down time and time again? He could have asked her to marry him at any time, and perhaps her father would have agreed because he wanted what was best for his daughter.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“You’re the one jumping to conclusions here by judgingherfor not being brave enough to join him, when maybehewas the one too afraid of the risks. Maybe he should have built a life with her rather than erecting a wall to keep her out.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
His fist clenches and unclenches against the table. “Dahlia—”
My gaze dips back to the newspaper in the worst attempt to hide my flushed face. “Anyway, Gerald is probably the ghost, so the case is solved.”
“I never judged you.” Despite his whispering, he might as well have shouted the words.
“I was talking about Francesca.” I stand.
He does the same. “Funny, because for a moment, it felt like you were talking aboutus.”
My throat feels like he wrapped both hands around it and squeezed. “That’s quite the narcissistic assumption of you.”
“No mames. Háblame.”
