from Milan.
He explained that if I told Mom, I would be ruining our family. That if I kept his secret, we’d all stay together. He promised that he’d make amends and he’d never make that mistake again. At the time, I thought he meant he wouldn’t cheat again. I didn’t realize it then, but he meant he’d never make the mistake of getting caught again.
If I had gone to Mom when it happened the first time, my father wouldn’t have been at Label to harass and assault those women. If I had told his secret, none of this would have happened. I’ve never told anyone that, Ally. You’re the first. I wish it was a happier, healthier secret. But a wise, angry woman told me that sharing the good stuff is worthless if you’re not willing to share the bad.
So here’s the bad: I am the reason my father was in a position to prey on and violate women. And I can’t forgive myself for that.
Love,
Dom
71
Ally
As March gave way to April, as winter mellowed into spring, Dominic’s emails kept coming. Every night there was a new one despite the fact that I’d never once responded. And every night I read them all over again from the couch I’d moved back into my dad’s house from storage.
Call me a glutton for punishment. A masochist. A broken-hearted idiot. Take your pick.
My shattered heart bled for the boy who’d been charged with keeping a family together. But the man he’d grown into had done the aforementioned shattering. And while Dominic didn’t know much about sharing, I didn’t know much about forgiving.
I certainly hadn’t forgiven my mother for abandoning us, not to mention taking away my father’s financial security. I hadn’t forgiven the contractor for stealing my money. I hadn’t forgiven Front Desk Deena for taking joy in threatening me with my father’s eviction.
I didn’t know how to forgive. I knew how to move on. And that’s what I was doing.
The only communication Dominic received from me was a weekly check of whatever I could spare to go toward my debt to him. The bastard never cashed them.
Everything sucked. Every single thing.
In so many ways, I was back to the beginning. Back to BD: Before Dominic. I was back to waitressing and bartending gigs and avoiding Front Desk Deena. The only thing different was now I knew what it felt like to have Dominic Russo smile at me. Fuck me. Hold me.
It was a colossal, cosmic joke.
The nursing home came into view ahead, and I did my best to shove down my negativity. Dad didn’t deserve a visit from Gloomy Gail, spreader of depression and angst.
The side door was open—thank the gods of debt collector avoidance and health care workers who sneak outside for smoke breaks—so I let myself in and headed toward the memory ward.
Braden was on the phone at the desk and buzzed me in.
I waved and made a move for the hallway, but he stopped me with a finger in the air. “Yeah, she just walked in.”
Crap. Had Front Desk Deena spotted my surreptitious building breach? I made a frantic slashing motion over my throat. I didn’t have the money owed or the energy required for the woman.
Braden’s toothy grin confused me. “Yep. No problem,” he said, before hanging up.
“What?” I asked, grimly girding my loins for whatever shoe was about to drop on me.
“Relax,” he said. “It’s good. Really good.”
Yeah. I wasn’t falling for that.
“Oh, gee. Look at the time. I have to go,” I said, pantomiming a watch check on my naked wrist. My neck flared up as I pivoted for the door.
But there was a small crowd of people in scrubs coming through the door and blocking my exit. I already knew my dad’s window didn’t open far enough for a body—safety feature—plus it opened to the inside courtyard, and these were not my wall-scaling shoes.
I was trapped.
A nurse in pink heart scrubs handed me a Congratulations balloon. One with a French braid and librarian glasses shoved a cheery bunch of carnations at me. They were all smiling.
Clearly they had mistaken me for someone else.
“Ally Morales,” nursing supervisor Sandy said, stepping to the front of the little smile mob.
Okay. That was definitely my name.
“On behalf of everyone at Goodwin Childers Nursing Home—”
“Except for Deena,” someone coughed from the back.
“We’d like to congratulate you on being the first recipient of the Lady George Administration Memory Care Grant.”
She handed me a letter, and over the excited buzz, I managed to