Chapter 6: The Morning After
Leo woke up at six-fifteen demanding pancakes.
It was, in its own way, a mercy.
We found a diner two blocks from the hotel.
Leo sat between us in the booth, which meant Luca and I spent the first forty minutes of the morning talking exclusively to our son about whether airplane pancakes would taste different from regular pancakes, and whether the syrup bottles were shaped like the state of Illinois, and whether pilots were allowed to eat breakfast before flying or if they had to wait until they landed.
Luca answered every question.
Patiently.
Carefully.
The way he always did with Leo.
I watched him do it and felt something complicated move through me that I didn't have a name for yet.
When Leo excused himself to use the restroom, the table went quiet.
Luca wrapped both hands around his coffee mug.
"How did you sleep?"
"I didn't, much."
"Me neither."
The waitress came by and refilled my cup without asking.
I thanked her.
"I've been thinking," I said.
"So have I."
"Let me go first."
He nodded.
"I believe you that it wasn't physical.
I'm not saying that to be generous — I actually believe you.
And I believe you that it's over." I looked at my coffee.
"What I'm struggling with is the two years of silence.
That's what I keep coming back to.
Not what happened.
What you decided I didn't need to know."
"I understand that."
"Do you?
Because from where I'm sitting, for two years I've been living in a marriage where my husband was carrying something significant and decided, on his own, that I couldn't handle knowing about it.
And that makes me wonder what else you've decided I can't handle."
Luca set down his mug.
"That's not — it wasn't about what you could handle.
It was about my own shame.
I was ashamed of what I'd let happen.
And I didn't want you to look at me the way I was looking at myself."
"So you protected yourself."
"Yes." He didn't flinch from it.
"Yes.
That's exactly what I did.
And I'm not going to dress it up."
Leo came back to the table, sliding into the booth with the particular boneless energy of a seven-year-old.
He picked up his fork and looked between us.
"Are you guys talking about grown-up stuff?"
"A little bit," I said.
"Is it boring?"
"Extremely," Luca said.
Leo accepted this and returned to his pancakes.
I looked at Luca across our son's head.
He looked back at me.
There was no performance in his face.
No strategy.
Just a man sitting in a diner in Chicago waiting to find out if he still had a marriage.
"I want to talk to someone," I said.
"A counselor.
Both of us."
Something shifted in his expression.
Not relief exactly.
More like a door that had been braced against pressure finally being allowed to open an inch.
"Yes," he said.
"Whatever you need."
"I'm not promising anything beyond that."
"I'm not asking you to."
Leo looked up.
"Are we going to the airport after this?
Can I watch the planes take off?"
"Sure, buddy," Luca said.
His voice was steady.
"We can do that."
Leo went back to his pancakes, satisfied.
Under the table, I felt Luca's hand move toward mine.
He didn't take it.
He just rested his fingers near mine on the vinyl seat.
Not asking.
Just there.
I didn't move my hand away.
It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't a decision.
May you like
It was just a hand near another hand in a diner in Chicago, which was the most either of us could honestly offer that morning.
And for now, it was enough to keep going.
