Page 67 of Chasing Storm
I step back and shut the door, following him to the sofa where he seats himself and sits forward, elbows on his knees.
I sit on the armchair and pull my legs up, curling up as I wait. He has gone nervous, and that is rather interesting.
“Wine?” I ask eventually, indicating the open bottle of Rosé on the table.
“Yes, thank you.”
I get up to fetch another glass and pour some wine into it. I slide the glass over the coffee table to him and curl back into my chair.
“Please know that I’m desperate, or I wouldn’t have come here.”
“How did you even know where I live?” I blurt out.
He looks up and meets my gaze. “I’m Franco. I know everything around here.”
I snicker at the arrogance but concede he is probably right.
His face creases with worry, and his voice is soft with emotion as he says his next words. “My grandmother. She is not well. Her heart. I wanted to ask you to talk to your father.”
I go still.
I have absolutelynoidea what to say.
“Uhm…”
“I know this is a lot to ask you. We have the money, but they say we have to pay through insurance, which we cannot get for her.”
“What do you need from him?”
“An appointment to see if he can help. That’s all.”
I gulp. He is obviously very close to his grandmother, or he wouldn’t be here asking me this. “I honestly don’t know if I can help.”
“Please, just ask him to see us. We will pay him for his time.”
We stare at each other for a few more moments, but then I make a decision. If Dad says no, he says no. But if he says yes, a woman’s life might be prolonged, and a family’s suffering will be eased.
“Okay,” I say with a nod, my high ponytail bobbing.
He swoops at me, giving me a crushing hug. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“I’ll just ask,” I say, pushing him away. “I have zero influence over anything.”
“I understand. That is all I ask.”
I smile and lean forward to pick up my glass as he sits back down and picks up his as well.
We both take a sip, and then, a noise cuts through the silence. It sounds like something hitting the window of my balcony. I stand up, startled, and Franco follows.
“Wait here,” he says, holding up his hand and placing his wine back on the table. He crosses over to the balcony and opens the doors as I stand there, hovering between waiting and going to investigate.
“Was it a bird?” I call out.
He sticks his head back inside with a broad grin. “Not a bird.”
“What was it then?” I stride forward, drink still in hand, to discover that my balcony is covered in rose petals of all different shades, having been thrown up in a bag which exploded in a burst of gorgeousness.
“What the fuck?” I ask, moving to the railing to peer over. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
