Cuff Me(67)

“They move fast,” Jill said with a smile.

“They certainly do. They misconstrued his hesitancy for lack of interest and stopped trying to include him. He was left out of things more than my others. It became more noticeable in high school. Eventually I suspect it became a vicious cycle. He would be quiet because he was excluded—he was excluded because he was quiet.”

Jill’s throat hurt at the picture Maria was painting. Vincent had always been an outsider, but Jill’d always figured it was because he wanted to be. The thought that she could have been wrong—that he was guarded because he’d never learned to be different…

“I guess what I’m saying,” Maria said, sounding tired, “is that I don’t know that Vincent knows how to accept love—or even affection. But what really breaks my heart—I don’t know that it’s ever been offered. I don’t know that anyone’s ever tried to love him.”

Jill ignored the tear in her heart at that last sentence. “But… he’s had girlfriends…”

Maria waved this away. “I know my son. If he felt strongly about any of them, he’d have brought her home to meet me. Meet the family.”

“Wait, you’ve never met a single one of his women?”

Maria’s smile was gentle. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Jill shook her head, confused.

“You, Jill. You’re the only one he’s ever brought home.”

Jill’s first instinct was denial. “Yeah, but not as a girlfriend. As a partner.”

Maria’s eyebrow went up. “All of my sons have had partners at some point in their career. How many of them do you see as part of the family like you?”

Jill warmed a little at the mention of being part of the family, even as panic settled a little as what Maria was saying was starting to set in.

She was still trying to process it as Maria washed and dried her water glass and then put it away as though she owned the place.

Vincent’s mother then gave a self-satisfied nod as if to say, “my work here is done,” and then headed toward the front door.

Jill scampered after her. “Wait—Maria. If what you’re saying… if he does think of me as more than a partner. Why did he say otherwise when I asked him?”

Maria took a step closer, placed her warm wrinkled hands on Jill’s cheeks. “Sweetie, if you’d spent your entire life silently wanting—desperately wanting—someone to love you, and never having that gift even offered—would you know how to give it?”

Jill closed her eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”

Maria patted her cheek softly. “I think, if you want him… I think you’ll have to be the brave one.”





CHAPTER THIRTY


As it turned out, Jill’s chance to be brave came around that very evening.

After Maria left, Jill had sat on the couch for a good forty minutes replaying the entire conversation in her head, trying to figure out what Maria Moretti expected her to do.

Trying to figure out if she even wanted to do it.

In the end, she’d binge-watched old episodes of CSI before taking a long-overdue, scalding-hot shower.

She’d barely wrapped herself in her warm fuzzy robe when a knock sounded at the door.

Jill ignored it.

It wasn’t like her to be antisocial, but one unexpected guest was about all she could handle for the day.

Honestly, didn’t people call anymore? What if she was at the grocery store? Or a movie. Or having sex. As far as everyone in her life knew she was engaged, for God’s sake.

The knocks grew louder as she towel-dried her hair.

She was about to flick on the hair dryer when she heard his voice.

“I swear to God, Henley, if you don’t open this damn door I’m armed and I will—”

Vincent.

Of anyone standing on her front porch he was perhaps the one she was the least ready to see.

And also the only one she’d open the door for.

It was a decision she regretted the second she saw his face.

She’d seen Vincent angry, oh, about a million times. The man had a short fuse, and it burned hot and fast and often.

But she wasn’t quite sure she’d ever seen him like this.

“Hey,” she said as he brushed past her into the house. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” he mimicked.

He spun around in her direction just as she started to follow him into the kitchen. The abrupt change brought them face-to-face before he thrust out his right hand in front of her.

His knuckles were bleeding.

Instinctively she reached for his hand, about to insist that they put something on it, but he jerked back and put several feet behind him.

“What happened?” she asked.

He continued to stare at her. “You’re a f*cking cop. You’re supposed to deduce. What do you think happened?”

Okay so he was mad and cranky.

“You got in a fight,” she said patiently.

“I did.”

“With Anth?” she guessed. The two of them were constantly going at it, although rarely with fists.

“Nope.”

“Luc?”

“Let me tell you about my night,” he said, his voice deceptively calm now. “See, I went over to Anth and Maggie’s for dinner. Had a nice time, got to look at the latest sonogram, all of that—”