Z

By November, Sophia was two months old.

My incision had healed.

My marriage had not.

Vincent and I settled into a routine that would have seemed impossible in September.

He visited Sophia four days a week.

Sometimes at Mom's house.

Sometimes at a neutral apartment Rebecca had helped me lease closer to the Strip.

Eventually I allowed him to take Sophia for afternoons, always with a nanny present at first.

Not because I believed he'd hurt her.

Because trust rebuilt itself in inches.

Vincent never complained.

The first time he took Sophia alone for three hours, he returned her fourteen minutes early.

“She sneezed twice,” he informed me.

I stared.

“Babies sneeze.”

“I Googled it.”

“You own hospitals.”

“And Google was faster.”

I laughed.

He smiled.

Then the familiar awkward silence arrived.

Our divorce remained pending.

Neither of us mentioned reconciliation.

Then one Friday evening, Sophia developed a fever.

It was only 100.8, but after everything we'd experienced, panic overruled logic.

I called the pediatrician.

Then my mother.

Then, without thinking, Vincent.

He answered on the first ring.

“What happened?”

No hello.

My voice shook.

“Sophia has a fever.”

“I'm coming.”

Twenty minutes later he was at the apartment.

No suit.

No security procession.

Jeans and a black sweater, hair still damp as if he'd left in the middle of a shower.

He crouched beside me.

“What did the doctor say?”

“To monitor her. If it reaches 100.4 rectally they want her evaluated because she's still young.”

Vincent looked confused.

“You said 100.8.”

“Forehead thermometer. The pediatrician said to confirm it.”

“I'll get the other one.”

“You know where it is?”

“Second drawer beside the changing table.”

I stared at him.

He stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

We checked.

99.9.

Normal.

The relief hit so hard I started crying.

Vincent sat beside me on the floor.

He didn't touch me.

That mattered.

Old Vincent would have pulled me into his arms because comforting me made him feel useful.

New Vincent waited.

“I thought something was wrong.”

“I know.”

“I can't do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Neither do I.”

I laughed through tears.

“You have an entire notebook.”

“It hasn't helped as much as I'd hoped.”

For a while, we sat on the nursery floor while Sophia slept.

At midnight, Vincent said, “I should go.”

I looked toward the crib.

“Stay until her next feeding.”

He froze.

“Okay.”

We moved to the living room.

I made tea.

Vincent sat on the couch where I'd slept many nights during late pregnancy.

For the first time in months, we were alone after midnight.

Dangerous territory.

“Tell me about Victoria,” I said.

His eyes lifted.

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything you never told me.”

He leaned back.

Then he did something Vincent Moretti almost never did.

He answered without editing himself.

He had met Victoria at twenty.

They dated for nearly four years.

She was spontaneous where he was controlled.

Reckless where he was responsible.

She made him feel like someone other than the heir to an empire.

He proposed when he was twenty-four.

She said yes.

Then three weeks later, she disappeared.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Nothing.

“I spent two years trying to find out why,” he said.

“You told me she moved abroad.”

“She did.”

“That wasn't the whole story.”

“No.”

“Why keep it from me?”

“Pride.”

I waited.

“When Victoria left, I felt stupid.”

Vincent stared at his hands.

“Everyone had warned me she was unreliable. My father. Marco. Even my mother.”

“But you loved her.”

“Yes.”

“So when she disappeared…”

“I convinced myself I'd failed to protect her.”

There it was.

The wound under the arrogance.

“She came back and gave you a chance to rewrite the story.”

“Yes.”

I swallowed.

“And you took it.”

“Yes.”

“Even though it meant leaving me.”

His face tightened.

“I didn't think of it that way.”

“That doesn't help.”

“I know.”

“Vincent.”

He looked at me.

“Why didn't you tell me this years ago?”

“I wanted to be the man who was over it.”

“But you weren't.”

“I was over Victoria.”

I frowned.

“Then what weren't you over?”

“Being abandoned.”

The answer stunned me.

He gave a humorless laugh.

“Which is ironic.”

“No.”

He looked at me.

“It isn't?”

“You weren't afraid of me leaving.”

“No.”

“That was the problem.”

His expression changed.

“You thought I was permanent.”

“Yes.”

“Safe.”

“Yes.”

“So safe you didn't have to protect the marriage.”

He looked down.

“Yes.”

For once, I didn't feel victorious hearing him admit it.

I felt sad.

At one in the morning, Sophia woke.

We went into the nursery together.

I changed her diaper while Vincent warmed a bottle.

He handed it to me.

“Do you want to feed her?”

“You called me because you're scared.”

“That doesn't mean you can't feed your daughter.”

He took Sophia carefully.

I sat in the rocking chair opposite him.

Watching Vincent feed our baby should have been ordinary.

Instead it felt like witnessing an alternate life.

The life we might have had if he had never answered Victoria's call.

After Sophia finished, she fell asleep on his chest.

Vincent looked down.

“She has your mouth.”

“You said that last week.”

“Still true.”

“Her eyebrows are yours.”

“Poor kid.”

I smiled.

Then his eyes met mine.

“I miss you.”

The words landed softly.

No demand.

No strategy.

“I know.”

“I miss our house when you were in it.”

I looked away.

“I miss coffee with you in the morning.”

“Vincent.”

“I know you're divorcing me.”

My throat tightened.

“Then why say this?”

“Because you asked for everything I never told you.”

He stroked Sophia's tiny back.

“And the truth is I miss my wife.”

Tears burned my eyes.

“You should have thought of that before.”

“Yes.”

“You can't keep agreeing with me.”

“Would you prefer I lie?”

“No.”

“Then I don't know what else to do.”

Neither did I.

At two thirty, Sophia was sleeping normally.

Vincent stood at the door.

“Thank you for calling me.”

I nodded.

He started to leave.

“Vincent.”

He turned.

“I didn't call my mother first.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Yes, you did.”

I blinked.

“How do you know?”

“You said you called her.”

“Right.”

Sleep deprivation.

His mouth twitched.

“But you called me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I considered the question.

“Because you're her father.”

Something hopeful appeared in his face.

I extinguished it gently.

“That's all I can give you right now.”

Vincent nodded.

“Then that's enough.”

He left.

I closed the door.

And for the first time since filing for divorce, I leaned against it and admitted something terrifying.

I still loved him too.