Page 27 of Love and Other Lost Things

Matteo’s hand slid beneath her shirt, slipping under the lace of her bra. He thrust his hips forward, his erection straining against his pants and pressing toward the center of her. He was the most attractive man she’d ever met, and he wanted her. Her head spun from the tequila and his nearness. She was so tired of feeling alone. “Okay,” she whispered.

He took her hand and led her up the steps to his apartment.

ELEVEN

PRESENT DAY

“Mommy, did you love Daddy?” Scarlett repeated.

Jane’s heart squeezed at the hope shining on her daughter’s face. Matteo was Scarlett’s father, and Scarlett loved him. And at the same time, Matteo was a violent man, and she and Scarlett weren’t safe with him. Jane understood that both things could be true at the same time, but Scarlett was only nine: it was hard to see the world in shades of gray.

Mom turned away to straighten the coats hanging in the hallway. Jane reached for her daughter’s shoulder, steering her to the couch in the living room. They sank down into the cushions and Jane turned to look at Scarlett. “I cared about your daddy a lot. When I met him, he was handsome and charming, and I thought we’d be happy together.”

“Was he always so mad?”

“No, he wasn’t always so mad.” If he had been in those early days, Jane wanted to believe she would have left. “I was all by myself in LA, and he gave me a job.”

Scarlett nodded. Jane had shared a little about how she’d left Linden Falls to pursue a music career in LA.

“At first, your dad made me feel safe.”

That apartment above the club had been a sanctuary in those early days. Sure, there’d been noise from the club, but that had been nothing compared to the loud sex, the fights, the screaming babies at the motel. That first morning after she’d slept with Matteo, he’d woken her up with coffee and a croissant from the café down the street. When she’d reluctantly climbed out of his bed to go back to the motel to shower, he’d drawn her a bath in his oversized tub and then climbed in beside her.

A couple of weeks later, Matteo had surprised her with a guitar. With tears welling in her eyes, Jane had picked it up. Her left hand had automatically formed the shape of a chord as her right hand reached for the strings. She’d tentatively strummed a few times, getting used to the feel of the instrument in her hands, savoring the notes vibrating in her chest. The guitar had been heavier, the body smoother than the vintage one Nik had gifted her.

“I have a couple of friends whose bars book live music,” Matteo had told her.

Jane had looked up from the shining maple of the brand-new instrument, unmarred by bumps or scratches or band stickers.

“I can talk to them about getting you on the schedule,” he’d said.

“Really?” Jane had asked breathlessly.

“Sure.” Matteo had given her a half-shrug like it was no big deal. And then he’d leaned closer. “Play me something.” His voice had dipped low and raspy, as if hearing her sing would be the most erotic thing in the world.

Jane had chosen a folk ballad with a complicated chord progression and finger picking pattern. She’d wanted to impress him. To show him she was worthy of playing his friends’ clubs.

At the end of the intro, she’d taken a deep breath and opened her mouth to sing. But the words had died in her throat as her gaze had locked on Matteo’s whiskey-colored eyes, hot and full of desire. He’d leaned in to kiss her then, taking the guitar out of her hand and setting it on the floor. As he’d slowly eased her back on the couch cushions, the possibility had hovered at the edge of her consciousness.

Maybe I could be happy with him.

But Matteo’s temper had unraveled slowly, like a sweater with loose threads that gradually become a hole.

Jane remembered that first day when his jaw had tightened, and the annoyance had flashed in his eyes. But then he’d reined in his anger, and Jane had believed everything was fine. Growing up in this house with Dad, Jane hadn’t learned how to gauge a normal, healthy reaction to an inconvenient problem. She’d had no experience with following her instincts. When Matteo had snapped at a clumsy server at the club, his tone was mild compared to what she was used to. When he’d punched a bartender for stealing from the cash drawer, she told herself he was under a lot of pressure.

And it wasn’t like he’d hit her.

Maybe she’d been too desperate and too alone to expect much more than what she’d ended up with. Maybe it had seemed better than where she’d come from.

Jane focused on her daughter. “It’s been hard for you to leave Los Angeles and know we won’t be going back, hasn’t it?” she asked. “I’m sorry that we were so busy before we left that I didn’t have a chance to explain it all to you as well as I should have.”

Scarlett held Ken and Barbie in one hand, and she picked up her stuffed elephant from the couch and clutched it in the other. “Are we really never going to see Daddy again? Because he hits you sometimes?”

Jane hesitated. She’d always tried to be as open with Scarlett as was age-appropriate. But the questions were getting harder. “Yes. Nobody should ever hit someone. And we shouldn’t live like that anymore. Do you understand that?”

Scarlett nodded. “I’m glad we left. I’m tired of being scared. But…” Scarlett’s eyes darted to Jane’s, and then back down to the toys in her hand, as if she didn’t want her mother to see the doubt there. “… won’t Daddy be lonely without us?”

Jane’s chest squeezed. So many of the stories and messages aimed at children were told in such simple terms. There were good guys and there were bad guys. Parents were supposed to love you. Families didn’t hurt each other. But what were you supposed to do when real life didn’t look anything like that? When you were nine years old and you loved your father, and you also wished he would go away so he could never hurt your mom again? Nobody was stocking the library with books about the kids whose childhoods were spent hiding in a closet while their father sent their mother to the ER.

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