Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,53

than I remember.

But that’s probably just the difference in my own head.

I was in love last time I was here. Everything looked beautiful to me then. I didn’t notice the ugly parts.

Now that I’m older, I see things realistically.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Henry asks me. He’s sitting next to me in the cab, reading one of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books. He’s read them all a dozen times, but he likes to look through his favorite ones again and show me the best cartoon panels.

“Nothing,” I say. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“Your face looks mad.”

“No, not mad.”

“Are you sad?”

“Maybe a little tired, baby.”

“I was tired on the plane. So I went to sleep for a while.”

“I should have done that, too.”

I pull Henry against my shoulder and rest my chin on the top of his head. His curls are so soft. He’s a beautiful boy—big, dark eyes. Lashes that any girl would envy. A long, narrow face. His hands and feet are already as big as mine, and still growing. Like a puppy, it just shows how tall he’ll be once he grows into them.

“When are we gonna see Grandma and Grandpa?”

“Right now. We’re meeting them for dinner.”

“Good. I can show them my book.”

As we drive, we pass The Drake hotel. I didn’t book my room there, for obvious reasons. But there’s no avoiding the places I saw on my first stay in Chicago.

I can see exactly the spot where the chauffeured car was parked when I was sobbing in the back and Dante wrenched open the driver’s side door and jumped in.

It’s funny to think how I cried over Parsons. How childish of me. My biggest problem then was not attending the school I wanted. I had no idea how much worse things were about to get.

I lost the love of my life.

I lost my child.

Then I lost my sister.

At least I got Henry back. The rest of it is like dust in the wind . . . scattered too far to ever gather it up again.

The cab pulls up in front of the restaurant. I pay the driver while Henry hops out onto the curb, eager to see my parents. He loves them. And they adore him. My father takes Henry to the zoo and teaches him how to make jollof rice. My mother plays cribbage with him and shows him how to paint with watercolor.

I appreciate their relationship with my son. I really do. But if I ever saw them trying to crush his dream like they did to mine . . . I’d cut them out of our lives without a moment’s hesitation. I will never let my son be bent to someone else’s will. I’m going to do for him what I couldn’t do for myself. I’m going to let him choose his own path.

The hostess leads us to the table where my parents are already sitting, sipping a glass of wine each. They stand up as we approach so they can kiss us on both cheeks.

“You’re looking strong,” my father says to Henry.

“I was playing basketball at the international school in Madrid,” he says.

“You should play golf. That’s the sport of finance and business,” my father says.

“He likes basketball,” I say, a little too sharply.

“Well, he’ll have the height for it,” my father says. “He’s tall like his grandfather.”

Tall like his father, too. But we never mention that.

Perhaps in the silence that follows, my parents are thinking of Dante. I doubt they ever do under normal circumstances, but it’s impossible to miss that particular elephant in the room on our first night back in Chicago.

Tata quickly switches to something else. “How’s your schoolwork going, Henry?”

While Henry tells Tata all about it, Mama asks me about his tutor.

“She’s back at the hotel right now,” I say. “She didn’t want to come to dinner with us.”

“She must enjoy flying all over the world with you two.”

“Probably. Though I’m sure it gets lonely. She starts grad school in the fall, so I’ll have to find someone new. There’s no rush, though—Henry is ahead in school. He could easily take a year off without falling behind.”

“He’s very bright,” Mama says, looking over at him proudly. “Does he like seafood? We could order the clams to start . . .”

The meal is pleasant. I’m happy to see my parents again. But that old anger is simmering inside me, deep below the surface. It was a mistake to come back here, even for a week. I should have turned