The Fall(55)

“Do you know who your father is?” I winced, wondering if I’d pushed it too far.

“Nope.” He answered easily, missing the explosive none-of-your-business I expected. “Some * who liked to f*ck nuns at Saint Margaret’s would be my guess.”

“Huh?” My head snapped in his direction. “What?” My mouth was polite enough to leave off “the f*ck?” that my mind was thinking.

Michael laughed. “Yeah, didn’t see that one coming either.”

I held my breath as he told me what he knew, honestly expecting at any moment to open my eyes and have dreamt the whole thing. But it wasn’t an illusion, his voice steady. How he’d learned years ago the church had hidden her existence, and if not for a well-meaning maintenance man, he would probably have never learned the truth.

It was hard not to feel a connection, knowing that he probably hadn’t shared the information with anyone, and yet he was telling me.

He continued to talk, like a seal had been lifted as he purged parts of his past. It was safe in the dark for both of us. Suspended in a state of semi reality, like we were isolated by the moment.

My heart ached as he recounted stories of abuse, his foster father burning his skin with cigarettes. How he’d been beaten and robbed on the streets until he’d found the sanctuary of the library. Never once had he been loved or protected, and I doubt very much he’d even been hugged.

I wanted to put my arms around him, to hold him. To show him what it could feel like, but instead I wrapped my arms around myself, tears prickling my eyes.

When he was done, he asked me about my childhood and I wanted to throw up. How could I tell him I’d lived in a house so big I could ride a bicycle in its interior and not hit furniture? Or that I had been sent to the best private schools money could buy? Or that despite my father being a cold-hearted killer and my mother being a submissive enabler, I’d never been treated badly?

“I’m sorry.” It was all I could say, the tears I’d been trying to keep at bay spilling over my cheeks. Ah, crap. I didn’t want him to see me cry.

“For what?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Are you crying?”

“Yes,” I choked back, unable to say more. My will to stop wasn’t working so there was no point hiding it.

It was so subtle I almost hadn’t felt it.

His fingers reached and lightly touched my hand. It felt so unnatural; his body rigid beside me while his fingers gently swept the length of my hand. In his own way, he was trying to comfort me.

That’s right, him trying to comfort me.

And my heart broke all over again.

“I’m not worth your tears, Sofia,” he said softly as his hand tightened around my hand. “Don’t cry for me.”

I didn’t ask, probably because I knew he would say no, but I reached out into the darkness and curled as much of my body as I could around his. He stiffened, his breathing becoming more rapid as I moved closer, but he didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to hug me back, okay.” I sobbed into his chest, the fabric of his T-shirt underneath my cheeks getting wet. “But please don’t tell me what you’re worth. I still get a say on what I get to cry over.”

His hands awkwardly closed around me, absorbing my weight. I knew this was strange for him, he was not used to being held—feeling affection even less—but he didn’t turn me away.

My feelings were a mess; my head completely scrambled but there was something there. And as ridiculous as it sounded I cared for him, and for maybe the first time in his life, I wanted him to feel that.

It was insanity.

We were in the eye of the storm, neither of us knowing where or when this was going to end but I needed to hold him, and I needed for him to hold me back.

His breathing deepened, his hand moving slowly against my back. “I thought I’d seen it all,” he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “But if some * told me two weeks ago I’d be lying in bed with Jimmy Amaro’s daughter and she’d be crying over me, I’d have told them to lay off the crack.”

“Yeah, I’d have probably said the same thing.” My head rested against his chest. “That first night, in my head I’d shot you at least three times. Not killed you, somewhere less fatal like your knee caps.”

“Well that’s disappointing.” His fingers continued to trace circles along my back. “When shooting someone, it should always be fatal.”

“We should sleep.” I yawned, unsure of whether or not I should let go.

I didn’t want to, needing all the comfort I could get.

“So sleep,” he said, his hand staying where it was.

I forced my eyes shut and concentrated on my breathing. Morning would come soon enough and bring with it reality. I wasn’t sure if we’d ever have this moment again, or if I wasn’t dreaming it in the first place but for now we were both alive and safe.

“If you need to leave, please wake me,” I mumbled, wondering if the minute I fell asleep he would disappear.

“Haven’t got anywhere to be until tomorrow night. Go to sleep.”

“Where are you going tomorrow night?” I fought against fatigue, my eyelids falling shut while I tried to stay awake and listen.

“Something I need to do, it will help with your dad.”