Page 17 of Franco
"You don't know me," he says, his voice low.
"I know you're dangerous enough that my boss nearly had a heart attack when you spoke to her, but you bring ice packs and proper pain relievers to a woman you barely know." I meet his gaze steadily. "Maybe I don't know all of you, Franco, but I see more than you think."
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stands abruptly, moving to the window to look out at the street below. His back to me, hands clasped behind him, he presents the perfect picture of control. But something in the set of his shoulders tells me he's anything but calm.
"What about you?" he asks without turning around. "How does a woman like you end up working two jobs, raising a child alone, in an apartment building with broken security and stairs that violate at least three building codes?"
The question stings a little, though I know he's just deflecting attention from himself. Still, I owe him some honesty after pushing for his.
"The same way most single mothers do," I say, adjusting the ice pack on my ankle. "One small disaster at a time."
He turns to face me, waiting for me to continue.
I sigh. "I got pregnant at twenty-two. I was in my final year of nursing school. Tommy's father decided fatherhood wasn't for him before I was even showing. I thought I could manage—finish school, have the baby, get a job with decent hours." I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "Then Tommy came two months early."
Franco's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "The NICU."
I blink in surprise. "How did you—"
"I can do basic math," he says. "A premature birth, medical bills, interrupted education. It's a common story."
"Common, maybe. Still felt like the end of the world at the time." I look down at my hands, remembering those terrifying weeks of watching my tiny son fight for his life, the mounting bills, the desperate calls to the financial aid office at my school. "Tommy spent six weeks in the NICU. I tried to keep up with classes, but between hospital visits and trying to make rent... something had to give."
"So you left nursing school."
I nod. "With student loans and no degree to show for it. By the time Tommy was strong enough to come home, I was so far behind in my coursework that catching up seemed impossible. I took a job at the diner because the hours let me be with him during the day, and my mom could watch him at night while I worked a second job."
"And you've been doing that ever since."
"Five years, two months, and sixteen days," I say with a wry smile. "But who's counting?"
Franco moves away from the window, returning to sit across from me. "You never thought about going back? Finishing your degree?"
"Every day," I admit. "But the timing never works out. When Tommy was smaller, he needed more of my attention. Now that he's in school, I need both jobs just to keep us afloat. The medical debt from his birth, my student loans, rent that keeps increasing..." I gesture vaguely around the apartment. "This is the best I can do right now."
"What about Tommy's father? Child support?"
I shake my head. "He left the state before Tommy was born. Last I heard, he was in California. He's never met his son, never paid a cent."
Franco's expression darkens. "He could be found."
Something in his tone sends a chill down my spine. "That sounds ominous."
"Just factual."
I glance at him, realizing he's serious. "Are you offering to track down Tommy's father and... what? Force him to pay child support? Break his wrists?"
"If necessary."
The casual way he says it, like finding and potentially harming my ex is as simple as picking up milk from the store, should frighten me. Instead, I find myself fighting back a bizarre urge to laugh.
"Thank you, but no. Tommy and I have managed five years without him. We don't need him now."
Franco nods, accepting my decision without argument. "What about your family? Besides your mother?"
"It's just her. My dad left when I was four. No siblings." I shift the ice pack, which is starting to melt. "What about you? Any family?"
His face becomes completely impassive. "No."
