Page 223 of By A Thread
I loved him. So damn much. And he’d hurt me so damn badly. And I didn’t know what I needed from him.
I took a self-preserving step backward. “It’s so good to see you,” I said, addressing my sneakers. “I’ll put your order in.”
He was looking at me with so muchfeelingit was making me dizzy. His thumb tapped out a silent beat on the table. And the familiarity of it took my breath away. My heart squeezed like it did on days when my dad recognized me.
Maybe it was as simple as that. Loving someone, forgiving someone. Maybe it was about showing up and being strong enough to take the hurt.
He nodded and looked down at the table. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
I flew into the kitchen.
“Jorge, I need a pepperoni on the fly, and I need to put the toppings on myself,” I announced.
My boss shrugged and shoved a naked pie at me. “Suit yourself, Als.”
It was the longest three minutes of my life, waiting for the pizza oven to work its magic.
I almost burnt the shit out of my hand getting the pizza out of the oven and onto a tray.
“Calm down before you get hurt,” Jorge admonished.
“I already got hurt. But it’s okay because I love him!”
Jorge said something about “crazy women” under his breath. But I was too busy sprinting for the dining room.
Once again, I stopped in my tracks when I saw Table Three.
He was gone.
I did a quick scan of the restaurant, but my body already knew Dominic Russo was gone. In his place was a thick manilla envelope under a crisp twenty-dollar bill. I dumped the pizza on the table, sat, and tore open the envelope.
A certified check from one Dr. Claudia Morales fluttered out and onto my lap. My mother had written my father a check for the exact amount that she’d snuck out of his savings. There was a second check to me for an amount that made me blink. In the memo field, it said “for expenses incurred.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Honey, are you okay over there?” A woman across the restaurant asked. “You look like you’re having a fit.”
I shook my head silently.
“You’re not okay, or you’re not having a fit?” she pressed. More customers were turning to stare at me.
“I’m not okay. It’s not a fit. It’s love.”
She nodded sagely. “You’re in love with that fine man who was sitting there all broody and beautiful?”
“Yeah.”
Next on the stack was the deed for dad’s house. Attached to it was a handwritten note.
Ally,
It’s yours. No one can ever take your memories from you.
Love, Dom.
“Damn you, Dom,” I whispered on a half sob.
Next came a report from what looked like some kind of private investigator.
