Page 4 of Franco
I'm stunned by this approach—asking my five-year-old's permission instead of just telling me what to do. Tommyconsiders the question with all the gravity a kindergartener can muster before nodding solemnly.
"Yes, because Mommy's really tired. She works two jobs," he informs Franco importantly. "And sometimes her feet get all puffy."
I feel heat rush to my face. Nothing like having your child announce your swollen ankles to a complete stranger. But Franco just nods as if this is valuable intelligence.
"I see." He stands and turns to me. "May I?" he asks, gesturing toward Tommy.
Understanding his intention, I nod, and he lifts Tommy effortlessly with one arm. My son, usually shy with strangers, settles against Franco's broad shoulder without protest, apparently having decided that ninja status trumps stranger danger.
Franco offers me his other arm for support. "Sarah, right?"
I blink in surprise. "Yes"
I take his offered arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his jacket. Up close, I can smell his cologne, something subtle and probably worth more than my monthly rent. What kind of man wears designer suits to walk through this neighborhood at night? The dangerous kind, obviously.
We move slowly down the alley and back onto the street. Franco's vigilance never wavers, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings as we walk. A sleek black Audi is parked half a block away, looking ridiculously out of place in this neighborhood.
"That's your car?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
Franco doesn't respond, just guides me toward it. He clicks a key fob, and the car unlocks with a soft beep. The interior lightsilluminate plush leather seats and a dashboard full of technology I'd never understand. He opens the back door first and settles Tommy inside.
"No car seat," he notes, helping Tommy with the seatbelt.
"No problem. This is already more than enough.”
Franco nods, then helps me into the passenger seat. The leather feels buttery soft beneath my worn jeans, and the car smells like expensive cologne. When Franco slides into the driver's seat, the whole space seems to shrink around his presence.
Tommy leans forward between the seats, eyes wide. "This car is fancy! Is it a spy car?"
Franco's mouth quirks slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. "No. Just a car."
"It looks like a spy car," Tommy insists. "Does it have secret buttons? Can it fly?"
"Tommy," I say, embarrassed by his questions, "let Mr. Franco drive."
"Just Franco," he corrects, starting the engine. It purrs to life, barely audible compared to the rattling bus I usually take. "And no, it can't fly. Address?"
I give him directions to our apartment building, and he pulls smoothly into traffic. His hands on the steering wheel are large and scarred, with prominent veins and thick fingers that handle the car with ease. They're hands that have seen violence, that have dealt violence, yet they're now safely delivering my son and me home.
Tommy continues his interrogation from the back seat. "Are you a superhero? Is that why you saved us?"
"Tommy," I hiss, mortified.
Franco's eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the road. "No. Not a hero."
"But you beat up those bad guys like one!" Tommy argues. "And you have a cool car like Batman."
"Batman has cooler cars," Franco replies, surprising me with his knowledge of superheroes.
"Yeah, but yours is still nice," Tommy concedes generously. "Do you have kids?"
I turn in my seat. "Tommy! That's enough questions."
Franco doesn't seem bothered. "No."
"Why not?" Tommy asks, ignoring my warning.
"Tommy Mitchell," I say in my sternest mom voice, "that's enough."
