Page 5 of Franco
To my surprise, Franco answers anyway. "Never found the right person."
Tommy absorbs this with the seriousness of a philosopher. "My dad didn't want me. He left before I was born."
The car suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I want to sink through the floor with embarrassment. But Franco just nods, his expression unchanged.
"His loss," he says simply.
Two simple syllables, yet they hang in the air between us. I swallow hard against the sudden lump in my throat.
We reach my building far too quickly. Franco parks directly in front, the Audi looking like an alien spacecraft among the beat-up cars and overflowing dumpsters. Before I can reach for the door handle, he's out and coming around to my side, opening the door with unexpected courtesy.
He helps Tommy out first, then offers me his arm again. As we approach the building's entrance, I'm conscious of how shabby it must look to someone like him. The green paint on the door is peeling, revealing layers of previous colors beneath. The security buzzer has been broken for months, and someone has spray-painted an obscenity on the brick beside the entrance.
Franco doesn't comment, just holds the door open for us. Inside, the fluorescent light in the lobby flickers erratically, casting strange shadows across the dingy linoleum.
"The elevator's broken," I say, gesturing toward the out-of-order sign that's been taped there since summer.
"Which floor?" Franco asks.
"Third," I reply, dreading the climb with my throbbing ankle.
Without warning, Franco scoops me up into his arms. I gasp, instinctively grabbing his shoulders. He's carrying me like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back.
"Tommy, lead the way," he says to my wide-eyed son.
Tommy grins and bounds up the stairs ahead of us. "This way! We're in 3C!"
"You don't have to carry me," I protest weakly, aware of how close his face is to mine, how solid his chest feels against my side. It's been so long since a man has touched me with anything but casual indifference that I hardly know how to react.
"Your ankle needs rest," he says, as he begins climbing the stairs. "And we'll get there faster this way."
He's not even breathing hard as we reach the second-floor landing. I'm suddenly, painfully conscious of my extra weight, the fifteen pounds I've never lost after Tommy was born, now pressed against this man's muscular frame. I want to squirmaway, to insist on walking, but the pain in my ankle reminds me why that's a bad idea.
Tommy reaches our door first and bounces impatiently as we catch up. "This is us!" he announces proudly.
Franco sets me down gently, keeping one hand on my arm until he's sure I'm stable. I fumble with my keys, noticing how shabby our door looks with its peeling paint and the childish drawings Tommy has taped at his eye level.
"Thank you," I say as I finally get the door open. "For everything."
Franco nods. Tommy tugs at his pant leg.
"Do you want to see my ninja turtle collection? I have all four, but Raphael is my favorite 'cause he's red and that's the best color."
Franco looks down at Tommy, and for a brief moment, something almost like a smile crosses his face. "Not tonight, kid. It's past your bedtime."
Tommy sighs dramatically. "That's what everyone always says."
"Because it's true." I ruffle his hair. "Go brush your teeth, okay? I'll be right in."
Tommy gives Franco one last curious look before disappearing into our small apartment, leaving me alone with my mysterious rescuer.
"Ice your ankle," Franco says. "And elevate it while you sleep."
I nod, suddenly awkward. "I will. Thank you again. I don't know how to repay you."
"You don't." His answer is immediate and firm.
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He checks it, his expression hardening as he reads the message.
