Page 65 of Kiss Away Your Pain (Wounded Hearts 2)

She squeezes my hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I take a deep breath, disquiet rattling me. It trembles out of me, shaking my skin.

“I’ll be right here.” Her softness, her care, are stones grounding me.

As I release her hand and begin to move, I see a woman step onto the patio. My blood freezes in my veins. Fear stakes my heart in panic and I almost turn and run. Candi’s by my side again holding my arm, she must’ve sensed it.

The sun dances on her facial features, delicate, pretty, like how I remember my mom. Grayish-white hair is pulled back into a braid that falls below her shoulders. She’s carrying a tray of drinks and a black apron is tied around her waist. She looks like the woman in the pictures the private investigator sent me.

Candi rubs her hand across my back. “Go to her,” she says softly, encouragement nudging me.

Hyper-aware of every step I take toward her, trembling in my core, I move at a leaden pace. Dense air steals my breath.Am I ready for this?The closer to her I get, the heavier my steps. A high-pitched ringing echoes in my ears. I watch her as I move closer.

With a soft smile on her face, she serves drinks to the couple sitting at a table and engages in a pleasant exchange. Looking up from them as I approach, she sees me, and searches my face for a second. When recognition hits, her eyes widen. Dropping the tray with a clatter to the ground, one hand flies to her chest and the other around her stomach as she gasps and steps back.

Electric bumps scatter across my skin. I pick up the tray. “Do you — know who I am?” I ask quietly, searching her eyes. Green eyes I remember so vividly from our talks on the rickety wooden bench, eating black raspberry ice cream with chocolate sprinkles at Nelson’s Ice Cream Shoppe when she’d take me for mother-son dates. Eyes that are now weathered by time and begin filling with tears.

“Yes.” Her voice barely above a whisper, she pauses, taking a shallow breath. “You’re my son…Lorenzo,” she chokes out as her brows squeeze together, forming deeper creases.

A rash of chills swarm me. “Yes, I’m Lorenzo. I, I came here to find you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” My stomach churns, turbulence unsettles me.

“You did, but it’s okay,” she says, moving one hand to cover her mouth. She looks at my face like she’s studying me. Then she extends her hand and cups my cheek. So gentle. Unexpected.

My eyes squeeze shut and my pulse hammers. When I open my eyes, she withdraws her hand, curling it into her body.

“Would it be all right if we talked?” I ask, terrified I’ll be rejected once again.

“Yes, I would like that very much.” She takes the tray from me and looks at her watch as her hand shivers. “My shift is over in ten minutes. You can sit at one of the tables.” She points to several open tables. “Can I bring you anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you. I’ll wait for you.”

As she turns away from me, she holds the tray to her chest and lifts her hand to her mouth, walking with labored steps back into the café. I go back to Candi who’s seated on an iron bench beneath bright pink flowering trees.

She stands when I approach. “How did it go?”

I strain a sigh. “She’s finishing up her shift in about ten minutes and then we’re going to sit and talk.” I rub my callouses with my thumb, nerves pulsing at me.

“That’s great.” She pauses. “She’s pretty.”

“She is. She’s just how I remember her, except with gray hair and wrinkles.” I weakly smile. “I’m going to go sit and wait for her and try to think about what to say.” My mind — blank.

“Okay. I’ll go find some shops and keep myself occupied. Call me whenever you’re done. I won’t be far.”

“Okay.” I blow a puff of air and give her a quick kiss then sit at a small bistro table on the patio. Given the time of day, it’s pretty empty. Each minute that passes doesn’t bring words, only heightens my tension.

About ten minutes later, my mom comes out to the patio. As she walks toward me, she tucks a few hairs that have come loose from her braid back behind her ear. Sitting down across from me, her movements are hesitant.

“It’s nice to see you.” She strains a smile, her posture stiff. “I, I watched you grow up on your social media.” The statement knocks me.

“You did?”Why?

“Yes, I follow you on Instagram.” She lifts her shoulder as the corner of her mouth tilts up. “Anastasia too.” Her eyes roam my face. “You’ve done well for yourself. And you’re so handsome.” She pauses, with a proud, but weak smile. “I know it’s not my place to say…” Tears form in the wells of her eyes. “I’m so proud of you.” She leans slightly toward me as her eyes squint.

I process her words.She’s been watching me? She’s proud of me?My heart pounds, confusion throngs, adrenaline gusts.

“I — have a question I hope you’ll answer.” A lump swells in my throat, practically closing off the air.

“Okay.” Hands cupped together in her lap, knees together, and ankles crossed, she quietly waits for my question.

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