Page 45 of Let Me
Mr. Virani is wearing plaid lounge pants and a red, long sleeve pajama shirt, his feet in slippers. But he doesn’t look as if I’ve just woke him up, even though it’s probably after one in the morning.
“I’m so sorry—” I manage to say.
And then it hits me, what just happened. What I might have just escaped from. I start to cry, silent tears leaking down my face.
His brows knit together, his dark blue eyes soften. “Come in, come in,” he says, and he holds out his hand. I see he’s taken off his wedding band for the night. See his short, trim nails.
For a moment, I don’t want to take his hand. I can still feel Mom’s boyfriend-of-the-night all over me. And I remember Mr. Virani’s lingering eyes whenever I’d walk in from working out with Jack in the backyard, practicing basketball drills that I sucked at but did to keep him happy. I remember wanting to cover up, to pull on sweats over the ratty shorts I wore to exercise in.
I remember, too, hearing the Viranis argue about Mr. Virani’s latest tryst. About how she was half his age. But I wasn’t supposed to hear that. And at eighteen, I’m less than half his age.
Besides, where the fuck else am I going to go?
I take his hand, take a breath, trying to pull myself together.
I’m safe here.
He closes the door behind me, and when I hear it click, I hope someone else is here. Even though Mrs. Virani has always seemed cold to me, I could use a woman’s ear.
But as I step out of my shoes and place them carefully on the shoe rack by the door, I hear nothing in the big house. Nothing but an oppressive silence.
I straighten, meet Mr. Virani’s gaze, cross my arms back over my chest. I’m all too aware I’m not wearing a bra under my white t-shirt.
“Is anyone home?” I blurt out. Mr. Virani arches a brow and my face heats.
He slips his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. His hair is just a shade darker than Caden’s, but thinner. And his lips aren’t as full as either of his sons’.
“Well, I don’t know if Jack told you, but—”
I nod. “University tour,” I interrupt. My legs feel shaky. I don’t know if it’s from running or what happened or being here alone with Mr. Virani, but suddenly, I want to be by myself. I bite my lip, wincing at interrupting him. My mother would have slapped me for that shit.
But my mother, I remind myself, is a piece of shit. And Mr. Virani doesn’t look like he wants to slap me. He looks like he’s concerned.
“Yes, and Caden is at school and Maria is off with her friends.” I’m not sure if it’s my imagination that hears the last word wrench free of his tongue, as if he doesn’t quite believe it himself. But whatever. That’s their business.
I nod, rub my hands over my arms.
There’s a stretch of silence between us and I look down at the gleaming marble floors, lit by the dim setting of the chandelier overhead.
“Riley,” Mr. Virani begins, “what happened?”
The tears are dry on my face but as he asks the question, his voice so gentle, my lip starts to tremble.
I don’t cry.
I’m not a crier. Even if a moment ago I slipped. I take a shaky breath and swallow past the lump in my throat.
“I don’t—I’m not...” I can’t get the words out.
Mr. Virani crosses the space between us and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go sit down?”
Gratefully, I nod. Because I need to fucking sit down before I pass out.
He steers me, gently, down the hall and past the cavernous kitchen, into one of the two sitting rooms on the main floor. Lights flick on as we enter, dimming down to what I assume is a preprogrammed, after-midnight setting. This sitting area is the smaller one, with an electric fireplace in the wall, stone mantel, a flat screen TV flush against the wall. The curtains are closed on the floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to the fireplace. The floor is plush, slate grey carpet here, and it’s soft beneath my feet.
Mr. Virani guides me to the end of the couch and gestures for me to sit down. I find I’m thankful he doesn’t sit beside me. Instead, he stands off to the side, hands back in his pockets.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. “Do you want to file charges?”
