Chapter 11
After the ceremony, Dante asked me to walk with him.
Snow covered the academy grounds.
Students had hung paper stars in the library windows.
We stopped near Marco’s grave.
The stone was simple.
MATTHEW MARCO MORAN
BROTHER • TEACHER • FRIEND
HE CHOSE A LIFE THAT WAS HIS.
Dante stood beside it.
“I was angry when I first read his letters.”
“At Marco?”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s allowed.”
“I know.”
He looked faintly amused.
“You say that often.”
“People need permission to have more than one feeling.”
“So I’ve learned.”
He touched the top of the stone.
“I used to think forgiveness would mean deciding he had done nothing wrong.”
“And now?”
“Now I think it means I no longer need the past to become different before I can live with it.”
I smiled.
“That’s annoyingly wise.”
“I paid a counselor.”
“Good investment.”
He laughed.
Then his expression grew thoughtful.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you choosing?”
The question caught me off guard.
“I have the promotion.”
“I know.”
“Jamie says I might move to a better apartment.”
“Radical.”
“The radiator works.”
“Luxury.”
I smiled.
Then understood he was asking something else.
For years my decisions had been reactions.
Dad died, so I helped Mom.
Jamie went to college, so I worked extra shifts.
Rent increased, so I picked up weekends.
Someone needed something, so I provided it.
Even the night of the crash, I had run because another person’s emergency appeared in front of me.
I did not regret any of it.
But there was a difference between being needed and choosing a life.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted.
Dante nodded.
“That’s an answer.”
We walked back toward the library.
Halfway there he said, “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“I’m practicing.”
He shook his head.
“Dinner.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“You eat at Bellini’s constantly.”
“Not there.”
Understanding arrived slowly.
“Oh.”
His composure slipped for the first time in months.
“If the answer is no, that is fine.”
I looked at him.
The intimidating businessman.
The grieving brother.
The stubborn man hanging from a wrecked car telling me to leave him behind.
The person who had learned that control was not the same as care.
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Does Luca know?”
“He has opinions.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“He knows.”
“And Vanessa?”
That mattered.
Dante understood why.
“Our marriage ended legally last month.”
I stared.
“I didn’t know.”
“We didn’t make an announcement.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward the library where Vanessa was standing beside Eleanor.
“She is too.”
I looked again.
Vanessa caught my eye.
Then Dante’s.
She smiled.
Not sadly.
Not pointedly.
Simply with affection for two people whose lives had become tangled with hers in unexpected ways.
Dante continued.
“We tried honestly. That was important.”
“But it ended.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because fixing trust does not always mean restoring the relationship that existed before.”
He put his hands in his coat pockets.
“Sometimes forgiveness lets two people release each other without turning love into failure.”
That sounded like Vanessa too.
I exhaled.
“And now you’re asking your former waitress witness rescuer to dinner.”
“When you describe it that way, I admit the timing sounds questionable.”
I laughed.
“How long have you been considering this?”
“Long enough to know I wasn’t going to ask until both our lives stopped being emergencies.”
That answer decided more than anything else.
“One dinner.”
His expression softened.
“One dinner.”
“No private booths.”
“Agreed.”
“No mountain roads.”
“Strong preference.”
“And I’m paying for myself.”
He considered objecting.
May you like
I raised an eyebrow.
“Agreed,” he said.
