Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“They look nice." We're sitting here talking about manicures, and time, and I have to tell her that I accidentally killed her husband. The father of her child.
I think I might throw up. I don't remember the last time I felt so nervous.
"There's a lot on my mind," I tell her. "But mostly, Dani, I want you to know who I really am. What I’ve really done. I love you, and you've told me that you love me. But I can't do casual. I won't do it."
She's quiet for a minute as we drive through Boston. The streets are thick with traffic, people in work clothes strolling along, busy and distracted as usual. People chat on their cell phones, and a few glide by on Rollerblades. But here we are, in our own little world, right here in the interior of this car. It’s just me and Dani, while the world passes by us.
"You know, that's one thing I love best about you," she says thoughtfully. "You speak the truth. And I like that you're truthful. That matters a lot to me."
Well, if that doesn't drive a knife in my heart. Fuck.
"It's time for me to be more honest with you," I tell her. She gives me a curious look, and nervously fidgets in her seat again. We pull up to valet parking in front of the restaurant that I picked for tonight. It's a high-end steakhouse, known for their million-dollar steak and potatoes, their salad bar, and most notably, a dessert tray straight from the North End. But I have no appetite.
"Let's go inside," she says, reaching for my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I can tell that you don't wanna do this, but it's important. And I want to hear it. But I'm starving, and that valet guy looks pretty impatient."
Her friend Jason has Emmy, and I know that Marco is safe with Vivia. But it feels as if there's a threat looming over us today. I don't feel that we're safe. Most especially, I don't feel that she is.
"Why do you keep checking your phone?" she asks as we stroll hand in hand to the entrance of the restaurant. It smells like steak and onions, garlic, and basil. My mouth waters. I shrug.
"I don't like what happened today. It wasn't an accident. That police officer wanted me to know that he knew who you were. And I'm not sure why yet.”
"I can't believe I'm saying this," she says, giving me a funny look. "Because it feels like I'm in a clip of The Godfather or something? But… can't you, like, ask him? And I don't mean ask him, ask him like in a threatening way per se…But… don't the men in your group have ways of asking…um, questions?”
"Yes and no. I could ask him. I could locate him in minutes. But it seems to me that that's exactly what he wants from me. He wanted me to see him. He wanted me to know he was there. And I don't want to play into that hand."
“Oooh. I get it. So if you pretend that you didn't know he was there, then he wonders if you knew."
“Exactly.”
We stand by the front desk. The hostess greets us politely.
"Can I help you?"
I nod.
"Reservation for two. Montavio."
"Right this way, sir." I put my hand gently on Dani’s back, guiding her in front of me. And when we arrive at the table, I pull out the seat for her. She smiles bashfully. "Thank you."
I like taking care of her. I like making sure that she's safe. I like doing things like pulling the chair out for her, holding her, tucking her into bed. A part of who I am, the part of me that loves to protect and care for the people I love, relishes taking care of Dani. Even though I know she doesn't need me to, even though I know she's fully capable of taking care of herself, I love that she gives me this peace.
We feast on shrimp cocktail and split a bottle of house wine. She laughs when she tells me about Emmy’s latest escapades, and I tell her about Marco deciding that he was going to draw on the bathroom wall. Her eyes twinkle at me. "Did you get mad at him?"
I shake my head. "My parents would've killed me if I’d ever done that when I was his age. But I don't wanna be that kind of dad."
She squeezes my hand. "You're an awesome dad."
"Thanks. I mean, I made him clean it up. And I told him that he can't do that. And I told him he better not do it again," I admit, with a little bit of a grimace. "But I have to admit, it was damn good. For a three-year-old."
She laughs out loud.