recently. The swivel chair is facing sideways and the computer screen is on, though locked. There’s a torn envelope and a folded letter on the desk.
Curiosity killed the cat, sure, but I find myself sneaking over to the desk like a ninja feline anyway. I can’t help myself. Or maybe I can. Maybe I don’t want to. Whatever my justifications, the result is that I unfold the letter and read the note.
Dear Mr. De Maggio,
We would like to express, once again, our sincere and heartfelt thanks for your biannual donation of one million US dollars. We would also like to reiterate our desire for you to allow us to reveal your name in our monthly newsletter and on our website. We understand that some of our benefactors wish to remain anonymous for a variety of reasons, but your dedication and loyalty over the years has been truly appreciated by all of us here at the Wheelchair Foundation. With your donations, we have been able to supply over one hundred thousand wheelchairs to those who would otherwise have to go without. We hope you understand what an invaluable gift this is.
With our sincere and eternal gratitude,
Markus H. Foley
The Wheelchair Foundation
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I look up to find Carlo filling the doorway. He’s not wearing a shirt, since we’ve been having a heatwave recently and he’s got the window cracked open. Sweat slides down his scar, tracing it. His hair is all mussed. His bandages are thinner, his wounds almost healed. His eyes sear into me.
“Why won’t you let them use your name?” I blurt.
He stalks into the room, stopping just short of the desk. “I asked you first.”
“I’m reading this letter,” I admit. There’s no point lying now. “Your turn.”
I realize I’m blinking back a tear. This letter hit me hard. Does he realize how difficult he’s making it to remind myself that he’s a criminal, that he represents everything I’ve been trying to get away from my whole life?
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t go through my things.”
“Of course you wouldn’t give your name. It’s your business, right?”
“Hazel, you need to promise me that you won’t go through my things again. I’m not joking.”
I throw my hands up. “Jesus Christ, I didn’t go through your things. The letter was open on your desk. I come in here all the time. You know that.”
“Oh, so we’re splitting hairs now.”
“Be careful or we’ll be splitting skulls next.”
He storms around the desk and takes the letter from my hand. He smells like summer, like freshly cut grass. I wonder if he’s been outside. His bare chest is hot as he stands close to me, his touch surprisingly gentle when he wipes away my tear.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because of the letter, obviously,” I mumble through the tears. “It’s just … You’re a contradiction, Carlo. Everything about you. It’s like, I know these donations don’t rule out that other side of your life. But then it sort of does, too.” I shake my head. I almost say: these pregnancy hormones are messing with me. “Why not let them use your name?”
“Sometimes doing the right thing is enough.” His hands are on my shoulders. I rest my cheek against his rock-hard chest, listening to his familiar heartbeat. He moves his hand through my hair. “Even a man like me understands the difference between right and wrong.”
“Maybe especially a man like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe because you see so much of the wrong, it makes the right stuff shine all the brighter, y’know? Or maybe I’ve just been painting too much. It’s making me all la-dee-da.”
“Don’t do that,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Don’t apologize for being intelligent.”
I lean back in his embrace, stunned at just how different he is from Dad, just how wrong my first impression of him was. Dad is a controlling man down to his core. Every molecule in him is geared towards putting me down, to making me malleable. But Carlo, though circumstance brought out the controlling in him, is the opposite.
He wants me to be free.
I stand on my tiptoes. We kiss. I know the taste of him so well now, the texture of his lips. The roughness makes me think of other places he could drag those lips across. I grab onto his firm shoulders, wondering if this is the right time to tell him about the baby.
But then his cell phone rings, breaking the moment. I’m almost glad.
He gives me a look as he answers. Business never stops