Chapter 10 - The Question I Was Finally Free to Answer
Vincent had no idea how to live normally.
That became obvious within a week.
He woke at five.
Inspected locks.
Distrusted delivery drivers.
Refused online banking.
And terrified a teenage employee named Cody simply by asking why he had arrived twelve minutes late.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“He’s seventeen.”
“He made a commitment.”
“He missed a bus.”
“He should leave earlier.”
“You are no longer running a criminal organization.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then stop managing the dishwasher like he owes you gambling money.”
Vincent frowned.
“I never ran gambling.”
“That is what you took from that sentence?”
Maria laughed so hard she nearly dropped a plate.
Slowly, Vincent adjusted.
He started helping at Rebecca’s Room.
Not directly with clients.
Nobody needed Vincent Moretti giving relationship advice.
Instead, he handled building repairs.
Funding.
Security systems.
Paperwork.
The first time I found him assembling donated furniture, I took a photograph.
“If that reaches the internet, I will deny it.”
“Former mafia boss defeated by IKEA.”
“Lena.”
“Too late.”
Daniel proposed on a Tuesday.
Of course he did.
No restaurant.
No crowd.
No photographer hiding nearby.
We were upstairs in my apartment.
Rain tapped the windows.
I was wearing sweatpants.
He was making pasta.
Badly.
Then he turned off the stove.
“Lena.”
Something in his voice made me nervous.
“What?”
“I need to ask you something.”
My entire body stiffened.
He saw it.
Immediately.
And instead of continuing, he sat down.
“Hey.”
“I’m okay.”
“We don’t have to do this.”
I stared at him.
“You haven’t done anything.”
“I was going to.”
He reached into his pocket.
A small box.
My heart started racing.
Not excitement.
Not entirely.
Memory.
Eric.
Marriage.
The locked bathroom.
My arm.
Five years.
Daniel put the box on the table without opening it.
“You don’t have to answer tonight.”
I looked at him.
“You bought a ring.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Four months.”
“Four months?”
“I’ve been terrified.”
I laughed.
That helped.
Daniel took my hands.
“I don’t want marriage if marriage makes you feel trapped.”
My eyes filled.
“I want you.”
He continued.
“If that means we live above this diner for fifty years without paperwork, I’m okay with that.”
“You hate the pipes.”
“I deeply hate the pipes.”
I laughed through tears.
“But I love you more than plumbing.”
“Beautiful.”
“I practiced.”
“Clearly.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I want to marry you, Lena. But I need you to know something before I ask.”
“What?”
“If the answer is no, nothing bad happens.”
That sentence broke me.
I started crying.
Daniel looked alarmed.
“Was that wrong?”
“No.”
“I can stop.”
“No.”
“I’m very confused.”
I wiped my face.
“My entire first marriage was built around what would happen if I said no.”
He squeezed my hands.
“So this one won’t be.”
I looked at the box.
“Ask.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He opened it.
A simple ring.
Beautiful.
Nothing extravagant.
Daniel lowered himself onto one knee.
“Lena Brooks, will you marry me?”
I breathed.
Once.
Twice.
I listened to my body.
No fear.
Only memory.
Memory did not get to decide.
“Yes.”
Daniel stared.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He stood so quickly he hit his knee on the table.
I laughed.
He swore.
Then laughed too.
We kissed.
A pounding came from downstairs.
“Everything all right?” Vincent shouted.
I closed my eyes.
Daniel whispered, “Did he just happen to be downstairs?”
“No.”
“Does he have cameras?”
“Probably.”
Vincent shouted again.
“Lena?”
I opened the door.
“We’re fine!”
Silence.
Then:
“What did he ask?”
Daniel stared at me.
“He knew?”
“Maria probably knew.”
Another voice came from downstairs.
Maria.
“Did she say yes?”
I laughed.
“Yes!”
Maria screamed.
Vincent shouted something in Italian.
Within ten minutes, our private proposal had become a party.
I should have been annoyed.
I wasn’t.
Vincent examined the ring.
Daniel stared at him.
“Are you appraising it?”
“No.”
“You’re absolutely appraising it.”
Vincent handed my hand back.
“It’s acceptable.”
“Thank God,” Daniel said.
I hit his arm.
Six months later, I received a letter.
Eric.
His first attempt to contact me in years.
Prison officials had screened it.
Rachel asked whether I wanted to read it.
I did.
Lena,
I know you probably hate me.
I stopped.
I didn’t.
That surprised me.
Hate required energy.
Eric no longer deserved mine.
I continued.
He apologized.
Then explained.
Then apologized again.
Some parts sounded sincere.
Others still blamed alcohol.
Pressure.
Carbone.
His childhood.
Me.
At the end, he wrote:
I hope someday you can forgive me.
I folded the letter.
Daniel sat beside me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you forgive him?”
I thought about it.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“I used to think forgiveness meant saying what happened didn’t matter.”
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe it means what happened doesn’t get to control what happens next.”
Daniel kissed my forehead.
“What are you going to do with the letter?”
I carried it downstairs.
Vincent was drinking coffee.
He looked at it.
“Eric?”
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
“Forgiveness.”
Vincent became silent.
I smiled.
“Don’t worry. I’m not asking for your opinion.”
“Good.”
I dropped the letter into the trash.
Vincent looked at me.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You don’t want to respond?”
“No.”
I poured myself coffee.
“I spent five years answering him.”
May you like
Then I looked toward the stairs, where Daniel was waiting.
“I’m done.”
