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I hope that sleep will come soon. I hope that I won’t stay up all night, tortured by memories of things that shouldn’t have happened. I’m not that lucky though.
* * *
Most of my night involves being half awake even during my dreams, twisting and turning trying to find comfort. I lie awake for long hours, counting those spiraling shadows on my ceiling, until I finally give up on sleep in the early hours of the morning.
It’s two hours before Adrian usually wakes up, and I leave my room to find a letter on the table, something that was likely there last night but I just didn’t see in my flustered state when it was obscured in the shadows. It’s addressed to me, and I slit it open with the help of a ridiculously ostentatious silver letter opener near the mail dish.
I read the words twice before it finally sinks in.
“Papa,” I whisper.
The words ‘Your father has fallen gravely ill,’ written in French, glow on the back of my eyelids as I blink and try to control my rising tempest of emotions. Fuck… this is going to be a problem now, isn’t it?
CHAPTER 13
ADRIAN
I come out of the bedroom alone, the dogs still fast asleep on my bed. They likely won’t wake up until I grab their leashes. What surprises me is Amelia sitting at the table, an empty cup of coffee in front of her as she stares at a letter in her hands. She has dark circles under her eyes and looks like she didn’t sleep. How long has she been up?
Her expression is darkened with emotional confusion, and she doesn’t seem to register my presence. I frown and instead of saying anything I put on another pot of coffee and start some breakfast for the both of us. She looks like she needs it. I don’t know what that letter says, but whatever it is, it has torn her into pieces.
It’s only about ten minutes before I’m freshening her cup and setting a plate in front of her. I want to talk about what happened last night, desperately so, the words are nearly clawing their way off my tongue. But when Amelia finally lifts her gaze and I see the stain of tears from hours of crying tracking down her cheeks, I wait for her to speak first.
“Adrian,” she croaks before clearing her throat and shaking her head. “There’s a problem.”
Her voice drops so low and her lower lip trembles, threatening tears again. I reach across and rub my thumb roughly across the salt lingering on her skin. She leans into the touch, biting down hard on her still-shivering lip.
“I…My—" she stumbles over her words, and I shush her.
“Shh...” I murmur and point at her food. “Eat. We can talk later.”
It’s more of a command but she follows it with a grateful smile. Once she takes her first bite, I move the letter away from her and off to the side of the table. I don’t look at it, I will wait for her to tell me what’s happening in her own words. Whatever that piece of paper holds, we will face it together.
I sit across from her and join her in a silent breakfast. The girls join us sooner than I expect, considering they are usually lazy in the mornings. I assume they are lured out by their noses and the scent of crisped ham and melted cheese. I don’t offer them anything from my plate, but I do get up to feed them and fold into their kibble the little bit of eggs I set aside.
Normally I’d come back to find Amelia watching the girls, but she is still staring at her plate as she finishes her last bite. There’s something eerie about her demeanor. She seems despondent or lost; it’s hard for me to gauge her mood.
I finish as well and wait a few moments before I clear her plate and push the letter in front of her again, signaling silently that it is time to talk once more. She sighs, and I come back to the table to see her eyes darting over the words as she finds the beginning of her story.
“My father and I don’t get along,” she says. “I haven’t talked to him or my mother since I left France.”
I nod and she looks up just in time to see me acknowledge her words. Her eyes wander back down to where her hands clench on top of the table.
“I learned today, in this,” she waves the letter in her hand limply, before staring at it again. “That he is sick. It doesn’t say with what. I don’t even know if they know….”
She trails off and looks down uncertainly at her hands clamped together.
“Do you want to go see him?” I ask.
Amelia shrugs. “I’m not sure. Things are complicated.”
“More than just, ‘we don’t get along,’ complicated?” I prod.
She nods. “A lot more. I didn’t just leave home. I ran away. I left to get away from him. I hated, still hate, his controlling nature. But he’s….”
Her voice wobbles and another tear falls. She cries softly, unable to find words in her language or mine to express the range of emotions she must be feeling. I reach up and rub a thumb across her cheek gently and catch the water dripping down her face. It doesn’t stop though, not that I expect it to.
“He’s still your father. You’re allowed to love him despite your differences,” I tell her.
