Total pages in book: 197
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 996(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Would it have made a difference?
Might he have helped?
What if it made it worse?
These were things he didn’t know.
Not knowing killed Dante.
Sitting behind his large oak desk, Dante listened to the voice yammering on through the speak of his phone. He didn’t reply back with more than a grunt, or the occasional agreement, but he certainly wasn’t all in with the conversation. And yet, he continued picking up that phone to call someone else each time another conversation ended.
His mother.
Father.
Lucian.
And now, Gio.
They knew, of course, what happened because he told them. Because he needed someone to talk to lest the silence become too much, and swallow him entirely.
“Man, go talk to your wife,” he heard his brother say.
Dante’s gaze shifted away from the window to the phone on the desk that he had on speaker. “What?”
“I’ve been singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for thirty seconds, and you just stayed quiet the entire time.”
Had he?
Jesus.
“I have talked to Cat,” Dante said.
“Have you?”
Well, not really.
Not because he didn’t want to, either.
He just ... hadn’t figured out what to say. Or even, how to say it.
“What do I say?” Dante asked.
“To who?”
“Catherine. Catrina.”
“You say sorry to Catty,” Gio murmured, “because that’s probably all she needs and wants to hear, and if she, by chance, needs something else, trust that she’ll let you know. You don’t push—not for details, or answers, or anything else because it wasn’t your rape, Dante. It’s her trauma, and she is allowed to deal with it in whatever way best suits her.”
“Yes, and for years that was in destructive ways.”
Partying.
Drugs.
Self-harm.
Dante could list more, but he didn’t. And God ... he felt so fucking stupid because it all seemed clear now. People said hindsight was twenty-twenty, and they were right. Looking back, it all made sense, and he was punishing himself for missing it.
Except this wasn’t about him.
And he wouldn’t make it that way.
“But not now.”
He had a point.
“Anyway,” Gio said quickly, “what I mean is ... I just never understood why society felt like when a woman was raped, she needs to justify. Explain why she was a victim, or why it happened. Why do they have to work to explain why we should understand and sympathize? What happened, happened—that should always be enough. Full stop. Someone hurt them? I’m sorry, that’s it, let me help to fix it, if they want that, and it’s never their fault, no matter how many times they or someone else says otherwise. It’s never their fault, and sometimes, just the way people say things can make it seem like it is. Just be careful with your words, you know? Don’t ask her for more.”
“Okay.”
“As for your wife ...”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t think you owe her shit except to ask her how she is. Silence is deafening, man, and it’s louder than even the screams.”
He wasn’t wrong.
*
Dante found his wife later. Given the time of night—a surprise to him, considering the time that seemed to come before he realized it—he was unsurprised to find Catrina sitting at her makeup vanity. A normal nightly routine for her.
She sat there.
Washed away the makeup.
Cared for her skin.
Waited for him.
Tonight wasn’t any different, it seemed.
Well, it was.
He felt the difference in his bones as he stepped into their massive bedroom, and her gaze drifted to him as she pulled the pins keeping her striking red hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck. She said nothing, but that had basically been their life in a nutshell for the last couple of days, and he still wasn’t sure if he was ready to ... handle all of this.
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t ask questions.
Dante crossed the bedroom, and while he would usually ready for the night while she finished up her business at the vanity, he went to her instead. Sitting down beside the bench she used to rest upon while she cleaned away the evidence of the day, the side of his face found his wife’s thigh, and that’s where he stayed.
While she worked.
While he hurt.
But she hurt, too—he knew that better than anyone in their life ever would. Because it was him Catrina came to when she spilled her secrets. Him that she told things that gave her nightmares, and truths she didn’t share with the rest of the world from a time in her life before she found him, and he had her.
“Is an apology really good enough?”
Catrina said nothing.
He was grateful.
After Catherine had been there ... they had a moment. All that anger he felt came spilling out, and Catrina let him rage. And then when that rage left, all that was left was the silence. And a part of him knew that he was handling this differently than his wife because he couldn’t share the experience his daughter had.
But his wife could.
Catrina’s fingers found Dante’s hairline, drifting through the strands, and for the first time, he dared to ask his wife, “How many times?”