Page 16 of Dante

Even though I’m hurt and confused, I can’t stand to hear Dante’s tortured voice. Closing the distance between us, I turn the knob and open the door, stunned to see the broken man standing before me.

“Jesus,” he whispers, his hands automatically coming up to cup my face. “I made you cry.” He says it more to himself than to me, and a look of self-loathing and regret fills his face.

Dante wipes my tears away, then gently walks us backward inside the cottage. I’m so stunned and overwhelmed by his tender touch that I don’t protest.

“I’m so sorry,” Dante says again as he leads me over to the bed. He guides me to sit down, then backs away as if he might hurt me or make me cry again if he’s not careful.

He’s so broken at this moment, so raw and vulnerable. I’ve never seen this emotion from him, and I have a feeling he hasn’t shown it to anyone in a long time, if ever.

Dante paces in front of me, running his hands through his hair one moment, then shoving them in his pocket the next. He’s agitated and angry at himself, flustered that he can’t find the words. I watch as he struggles to put his thoughts together, my tears slowly drying the longer I wait.

“My mom,” he eventually starts, shaking his head as he tries to get the words out. “She was incredible. This bright, carefree spirit who wanted to bring joy and color to the world around her. Not unlike someone else I know.”

He pauses, his brown eyes finding mine. He gives me a tentative smile, and my broken heart starts to mend itself.

“But her light was snuffed out. She was on her way to pick me up from school when she was scraped off the road by an eighteen-wheeler. The driver was over double the legal limit for blood-alcohol levels.”

“Oh my god,” I murmur, bringing my hand up to cover my mouth. I knew she died when Dante was just a kid, but I didn’t know how.

“I was nine,” he continues. I get the sense that he needs to get this all out now that he’s started. “Imagine my disgust when I found my father passed out with two empty whiskey bottles next to him a few months later. I don’t remember him ever touching alcohol before then, but once he had that first drop… I don’t know. It took hold of him and never let him go.”

Dante shrugs and looks down at his feet. I stand, not realizing I’m moving until I’m right in front of Dante. He lifts his head, those dark eyes latching onto mine and begging me to see his truth.

Resting my hand over his heart, I feel it hammering against my palm. He inhales deeply, then places his hand over mine, the warmth grounding me and tying me to him even more.

“Breathe,” I whisper, inhaling deeply as he does the same. I exhale slowly, my eyes never leaving his as we take another deep breath together.

After a moment of silence, Dante continues. “He could have been a workaholic or a hoarder or hell, even done hard drugs, and I would have understood. But poisoning himself with the same shit responsible for my mother’s death is extra fucked up.”

I nod, validating his experience and hopefully taking on some of his burden.

“The rest of my childhood and teen years consisted of covering for my dad or making excuses for his drinking, dragging him back home when he became too intoxicated to remember where he lived and absorbing his depression and grief while trying to make ends meet. Today, when he used my mother’s death as an excuse for his addiction… I lost it. I fucking saw red.”

Dante closes his eyes and tilts his head back, his tormented soul on display.

“Breathe,” I say softly, pressing my hand against his chest and feeling his heartbeat. “Inhale for a count of four, and exhale for eight.” We take another breath together, surrounded by this fragile moment.

When he opens his eyes again, I don’t see any trace of the man who yelled at me. In his place is someone filled with genuine regret. He cut himself open and showed me the raw pain he keeps hidden. That means something to me.

“Anyway, I… I guess I wanted you to know. You deserve to hear the whole story, though none of that excuses the way I treated you. Jesus, I know I screwed up, and I–”

“My mom died when I was eighteen,” I blurt.

“I’m so sorry, sunshine,” he murmurs as he reaches out to cup the side of my neck.

Hearing his endearment for me fills me with warmth. The whispered, almost reverent way he says it ties my heart closer to his. “I knew she was sick. I thought it was a rare but curable immune disease. That’s what she told me,” I whisper. Dante doesn’t say anything, he just rubs his thumb across my jaw in light, calming strokes. “We went through a lot of different in-home care people as well as a few lengthy stays in the hospital, but I guess I just didn’t… I don’t know. I didn’t want to see all the other warning signs.”

Dante furrows his brow, and I shake my head, trying to get on track.

“I’m getting ahead of myself. I was inspired to become a nurse because of my mom’s struggles. I was away for my first year of college when… when it happened.” Swallowing thickly, I blink back a few tears. “She didn’t have a rare immune disease,” I whisper. “She had Hodgkin's lymphoma. Some people can live five, ten, or even fifteen years after the initial diagnosis. From what I’ve pieced together, she was waiting to tell me until I graduated. But…”

I close my eyes and whimper against the flood of emotions welling up, still unable to say it out loud.

“But she didn’t make it five or ten or fifteen years,” Dante finishes for me.

“And I never got a chance to say goodbye,” I murmur. I’m not sure he even heard me, but then he freezes. I open my eyes and see that he’s completely stricken by my words. “That’s why I was so insistent on you coming to visit. I realize now that I just wanted closure for myself. I didn’t get to have a last conversation with my parent, but you can. It’s not too late.”

“Cambria,” Dante whispers.

---