Page 57 of Iron Heart

He looks down at the table, at his water glass. For a few moments, he’s quiet.

“Yes,” he finally admits. “I did, too. But I think…” He pauses. “I think it was killing her to feel so helpless. I couldn’t take the fear and the worry away from her. But I think it made her feel at least a little better that your illness hadn’t come fromher. That it wasn’therfault.”

Dad looks up and his eyes meet mine.

The meaning of his words hits me all at once.

I’ve always known that Dad loves me unconditionally. And I know he loved Mom unconditionally, too.

He loved both of us so much, he would have doneanythingto take our pain away.

No matter what it cost him in the end.

Suddenly, I think I understand why Dad never fought back when Mom blamed him for my cardiomyopathy diagnosis.

He never fought back because he knew sheneededto blame him. Because she needed someone else to be at fault. Someplace else, to put her anger.

My God. So, he let her do it. He didn’t argue with her. He just accepted it. Because it was whathecould do forher. He could let her take some of her anger at the whole shitty situation, and direct it somewhere else.

Athim.

All at once, the enormity of my father’s love for my mom threatens to overwhelm me.

I want to burst into tears. To yell at him. To hug him. To tell him he’s my hero.

“Dad,” I choke, but then stop, not trusting my voice.

“It’s okay,” he says, smiling, his eyes shining. He sniffles, then lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “The important thing is, we’re all okay.” My father reaches over and pats my hand. “Right?”

“Right. We’re all okay,” I whisper.

* * *

That night,around nine o’clock, I get a text from Dante.

You around? I need to talk to you. It’s important.

No apology. Not a shred of kindness in his words.

There’s not one indication in his text that there has ever been anything intimate between us. Justit’s important. No indication what His Highness wants to talk about. Like I’m just supposed to jump at his words. Be at his beck and call.

A wall of fury wells up inside me. I can’t imagine a single thing that jackass needs to talk to me about. Not one single thing that I care about at all.

Fuck him,I say to myself, choking back a sob. I raise my hand to my face and sweep away my angry tears. Then I delete the text for good measure and shut off my phone.

I don’t want to talk to Dante D’Agostino right now. I might not want to talk to him ever again.

I spend the rest of the weekend with my mom. If she notices I’m quieter than usual, or more subdued, she doesn’t say anything. We go shopping. She takes me to a new chocolate and pastry shop everyone in her circle is raving about. I spend a couple of hours at Sunday brunch being poked and prodded by her friends, who all agree I there is No Good Reason I’m not engaged to be married by now, a Pretty Girl Like Me.

All in all, it’s fine.

When I get back to Ironwood on Sunday night, there’s an envelope and some other papers sticking halfway out of the mailbox next to my front door, in with my mail. I pull out the envelope. It’s a bill from Dante for the electrical work. My stomach lurches at the finality of it, and the impersonal language on the invoice.

Underneath the bill is a note, scrawled in black marker.

Tori.

I need to talk to you about something serious. I don’t wanna do it in writing. Call me.

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