Page 196 of Always: A Legacy Novel

He wasn’t giving those details out.

Calisto nodded once. “So why does Dante Marcello think you two were at a party?”

Cross’s gaze shifted away. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“What Catherine tells her father is her business,” Cross said, shrugging, “even if I don’t agree with it.”

“You shouldn’t lie to him,” Calisto said.

“I don’t.”

Calisto sighed, staring up at the white hospital ceiling. “What did your mother tell you the other night? She does seem slightly less … anxious.”

Cross let the memory fill his thoughts, instead of answering.

Emma wouldn’t quit moving. She kept fretting. He didn’t want his mother to worry about him; he would be just fine. He knew she had talked to Catherine, Calisto, the doctors … everyone. But nothing made it better for his mother. He needed her to understand that he would do this very thing a million times over if it meant the same result: Catherine alive.

“I’m sorry for scaring you, Ma,” Cross said quietly.

“Say it a few more times, and a little louder for the people in the back.”

“Milk it up, Ma.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

“But I would do it again, and I’m not sorry for that, Ma.”

His mother stilled.

“I know you would,” she said.

“Do you?”

“L'amore é forte come la morte. Love is strong—like death,” Emma murmured. “It almost makes love sound grim, or morbid even, but …”

“That’s because it’s true.”

And a first love was even fucking stronger.

Emma shrugged, as though there was nothing else for her to do. “They are the only two things in life that have nearly the same profound effect on us all. Like without love, death is near. And with love, we might not mind death for love. I just didn’t realize it until the other night that perhaps you did love Catherine. You’re always so quiet about her, and that.”

“Of course I love her, Ma. I have always loved her. I always will, even if she doesn’t love me.”

Cross came out of his thoughts, and decided on saying, “She bitched me out a bit, and then it was good.”

That wasn’t a lie.

“She does love you,” Cal replied.

“Still not recovering at your house.”

Three pairs of chuckles filled the room.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” said a soft, familiar voice.

Cross found a freshly-dressed, yet still tired-looking Catherine in the doorway. In one arm, she held one of his small duffle bags, likely with clothes for him, and a takeout bag from his favorite pizza place. In her other arm, she held the folded up afghan blanket from their bed.