A Little Too Much (22 page)

He hesitates and lets out an agonized groan, but I don’t want him to think. I just want him inside me. I roll my hips and take him deep.

He moans my name as he sinks into me, and a seriously intense sex rush seizes my body. All the muscles in my belly, my groin, down my legs contract hard around him and my breath catches in my throat.

“Am I hurting you?” he breathes into my hair, concern edging the roughness of his need.

For a second I can’t speak. “God, no,” I finally manage. Nothing has ever felt this good.

He begins to rock, and the feel of him moving inside me, filling me, sets my blood on fire. His pace is slower than I’m used to, so it takes me a minute to catch his rhythm, but when I do, and we move together, hot, aching pressure starts to build in my belly again, like lava roiling under the volcano, preparing to erupt.

He drops kisses over my shoulders and neck as he moves on top of me, picking up his pace as our breathing does the same. With every thrust, I give a little moan, unable to stop myself. I catch his earlobe in my teeth and tug gently and am rewarded with an animal growl from Alessandro’s core.

Something changes with that growl, like he was holding back but now he’s set the beast free. He trails a hand from my left hip down to my knee and lifts it higher, spreading me wide, then groans deep in his chest and plunges deeper, burying himself to the root.

I spin with the sensation of him moving inside me, doing everything I need him to do—bringing me just where I need to go. And the only pain is the ache in my heart for not being able to get close enough.

As he pumps faster and deeper, I feel myself start to spin out of control. I gasp for air as he brings me right to edge of the cliff again, and arch into his body with his last thrust. As I come hard for the second time in ten minutes, I cry out, “Alessandro!”

And his name falling from my lips sounds like a prayer.

I’m ready, I realize just in that second. I’m ready to open up and tell him everything. I want him, and more than that, I
need
him. I think I always have, on some level, even when I thought I’d never see him again.

“Hilary?” Alessandro pants, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, my eyes screwed shut and my insides in knots. I open my mouth to say it . . . to tell him Henri is his. But then I close it again. Now isn’t the time. It’s too much too soon.

When we’ve caught our breath, he kisses my lips then rolls off me.

I pull myself to my feet and hold out my hand. “Come on.” I tow him up the hall on shaky legs, past Henri’s room, to my old bedroom. We slip under the sheets and I curl into his side, and this time, when he loves me, it’s slow and easy and so tender that it hurts.

And I know without a doubt, this is where I’ve always belonged.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I
T
’S
T
HURSDAY AND
it’s my turn.

And I’m petrified.

Last Thursday, I slept with Alessandro. This Thursday, I’m going to tell him he has a son. We’ve been together every night for the last week, and so many times I’ve opened my mouth to tell him, but I can’t decide how.

What if everything Mallory is afraid of comes true?

She’s been the only constant in my life. Everyone has left me. Mallory is the only person who’s ever come back. I know we fight, and I know I disappoint her, but I can’t risk losing her. If Alessandro finds out about Henri . . . if he wants to tell him—or worse, tries for custody—not only will I lose Mallory, but maybe Henri as well.

But when I search deep inside, I realize I’m much more afraid of Alessandro turning his back on me. Somehow, he’s torn down my walls, and the feeling of being totally vulnerable and exposed to him both terrifies and thrills me. It’s like the rush of free-falling, and knowing I can take the risk because Alessandro will catch me.

Except, what if he doesn’t? What if I tell him this and he lets me fall on my face?

I’m wound so tight trying to sort through this that, when my phone rings, I jump a mile, sure it’s him. But then I realize the ringtone isn’t Creed. I pick my phone up off the nightstand and look at the screen.

Bedford Hills Correctional.

My heart leaps. I went yesterday, on New Year’s, and Mom refused my visit again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I stab the connect button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. McIntyre? Hilary McIntyre?” a woman’s voice that’s not Mom’s asks.

“Yes.”

“Ms. McIntyre, this is Sylvia Reingold at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Your mother is asking for you.”

For a full minute, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. “Is she okay?” I finally ask.

“She’s being transported to Northern Westchester Hospital as we speak. The doctor says it’s close. You might want to hurry.”

“I will,” I say, numb.

“And she’s also asked for your sister, if you can reach her. We don’t have her number on file.”

My pounding heart flips in my chest. “Okay.”

I disconnect and dial Mallory.

“Hey,” she says, and through the blood pounding in my ears, I hear the boys yelling in the background. It sounds like Max is getting back to himself.

“Mal, we have to go to see Mom. She’s—”

“Stop, Hilary,” she interrupts, her voice a blade. “I told you why I can’t go. Please respect that.”

“They’re taking her to the hospital. They said she’s asking for us and that we should hurry. This is it, Mallory. She’s really dying.”

“Good,” she spits, but then there’s a long pause where all I hear is the TV blaring and the boys fighting. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I want you to come.”

“Which hospital?” she asks after a beat.

“Northern Westchester.”

She blows out a breath. “I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up.”

I
’M
ON THE
curb when Mallory’s silver Volvo SUV rolls to a stop next to the parked cars in front of my building. The car behind her honks as I race over and hop in. And when I look at her as she pulls away, I’m surprised to see she’s been crying.

She glances over and sees the surprise on my face. “Don’t even say it,” she warns, holding up a hand.

I sink into the seat and neither of us says anything as she navigates us through the city to the West Side Highway.

“What else did they say?” she finally asks just as we’re crossing the bridge into the Bronx.

“Nothing really.” I look at her. “But she asked for both of us.”

Her jaw grinds tight and she keeps her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I’ll never forgive her. I don’t care if she’s dying or not.”

“I don’t blame you.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, I lean my forehead into the window and close my eyes.

It’s an hour and a half later that Mallory’s GPS informs us we’re “arriving at destination.” She pulls into the parking lot and we go to the information desk.

“Where is Roseanne McIntyre’s room?” I ask the old woman at the computer.

She pecks at the keys for a minute and I want to scream at her to move her ancient bones faster, but I bite my tongue.

“I don’t see any MacEntire,” she finally says.

“No.
McIntyre
. M, C, I. She was probably just brought in from Bedford Correctional.”

She types some more and smiles as she hits pay dirt. “Oh! Here she is. She’s in a secured room on the third floor.” She looks up at us. “Are you family?”

But I’m already sprinting toward the elevator. Mallory steps up behind me as the doors open. I wait for everyone coming out to get the hell out of our way, then step in and push three. When the doors open again, it’s into a long corridor. Just down from us is the nurses’ station, and across the hall, sitting in a molded plastic chair, is a corrections guard. I hurry toward him, Mallory lagging behind.

“We’re Roseanne McIntyre’s daughters. She was asking for us,” I pant.

“ID,” he says, standing from his chair and towering over us. He’s huge, like they think Mom’s a flight risk and they might need a mountain of a guard to wrestle her into submission when we try to break her out.

I hand him my ID, and I see Mallory’s hand shake when she holds hers out to him.

“You can see her one at a time. Fifteen minutes each.” He pushes the door open. “Who’s first?”

“Her,” Mallory shoots before I have a chance to respond.

I look at her hard. “Don’t you disappear.”

Her terrified eyes flick toward the door then back to me. “I can’t do this, Hilary.”

“She’s dying, Mal. You have to.” I step up and hug her. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

I feel her shake as she lets a sob loose into my shoulder. I hold her for a few minutes, until she gets her shit together.

“Okay,” she finally says, peeling herself away and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

I back off and she steps up to the door, hauling a deep breath before walking through.

The guard leaves the door open and stands watch outside. I so want to eavesdrop, but instead, I wander over to the nurses’ desk. “Excuse me,” I say to a middle-aged woman sitting there typing into a computer.

She holds a finger up at me, then types something else before looking up. “Can I help you?”

“My mom, Roseanne McIntyre?” I say with a wave of my hand at her door. “I was wondering . . . are they saying how long she has?”

Her expression goes all sympathetic as she stands. “Not long. Hours, most likely.”

“What . . .” I swallow the pulsing lump in my throat. “What kind of cancer does she have?” I don’t know why it matters, but I want to know.

Her lips press into a grim line before she answers. “Lung cancer, but it’s metastasized everywhere now.”

I turn and take a step to the side so I can see her bed through the door. I can’t see Mom at all, just a mound of blankets, but Mallory’s standing about five feet away, at the bottom of the bed. My heart contracts into a hard knot when I see her shoulders shaking as she cries.

“What are you doing for her? Is she in pain?” I ask, swallowing back my own tears.

“We’re doing everything we can to make her last few hours comfortable,” the nurse says as I turn back to her.

“Good. Is there a vending machine on this floor?”

She points up the hall. “In the lounge at the end of the corridor.”

“Thanks.” I head in the direction she pointed and locate the door marked “patient lounge.” Inside, I find the machine. I dig through my bag for a dollar and feed it into the slot, then push D6 and the Oh Henry! is pushed of the rack and thunks into the tray at the bottom. I grab it and head back to Mom’s room.

I peek through the door again and see Mallory is closer now, at the side of the bed. An arm reaches out of the mound of blankets. It’s bony and it shakes as it extends toward her. Mallory tentatively takes the knobby hand. I watch as she leans closer, as if trying to hear something Mom said. She shakes her head and fresh tears spill over her lashes, but then she sinks into the chair at the side of the bed and holds Mom’s hand in both of hers, pressing the backs of Mom’s fingers against her forehead as she cries.

And that’s it. I can’t stop the tears leaking from my eyes, first a trickle and then a flood. I lean my back against the wall and cover my face as sobs hitch out of my core.

But a second later, Mallory’s at the door. “Someone help!”

The nurse from the station and the guard both rush into the room, and I follow.

Mallory is back at the side of the bed. “She’s not breathing,” she sobs. “Do something!”

The nurse takes Mom’s wrist and checks her pulse. “I’m sorry, honey. She’s gone.”

“No.” I step up to the side of the bed as the nurse brushes her fingers over Mom’s dead eyes. She’s so much thinner than she was even last time I saw her, two months ago. Nothing but skin and bone.

I can’t reconcile the anger I feel that she didn’t wait for me with the grief that wraps around my heart and squeezes, threatening to choke out its rhythm. I convulse with sobs that I can’t control as everything I feel for and about her erupts out of me.

She drank. She let a parade of strange men into our lives. She threw Mallory out. She abandoned me and pretended like none of what happened to me afterward was her fault. She was a horrible mother. But she was mine—the only parent I’ve ever had. I wanted her to be so much more. I wanted her to love me.

The least she could have done was wait to die until I had a chance to say good-bye.

I drop the crushed Oh Henry! in my hand and spin for the door. Mallory calls after me as I bolt into the hall. When I get to the stairwell, I slide down the wall to a sitting position and pull my phone from my pocket.

“Il mio amore,” Alessandro purrs in greeting.

“I need you,” I sob into the phone. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever uttered those words out loud to anyone, but right now, it’s true.

M
OM DIDN’
T HAVE
any friends. She had one brother, but all I know about him is that he lives somewhere else and didn’t want me after Mom went to jail. I didn’t try to find him to tell him Mom’s gone.

We don’t do a service, because there’s no point, but I stayed last night at Mallory and Jeff’s, and we go to the cemetery together when they put her in the ground.

After almost two weeks in Alessandro’s bed, being alone last night was cold and lonely. But Jeff asked me to come for Mallory. She’s still dealing with the emotional fallout of seeing Mom again for the first time in years, just in time to watch her die.

Despite his insistence, I asked Alessandro not to come to the cemetery for that reason. Mallory’s already a wreck, and seeing Alessandro and me together isn’t going to help. I’m finally ready to open up to Alessandro, as soon as I figure out how, but I’m not quite ready to tell Mallory about it. But it’s harder than I thought it would be to do this without him.

The cemetery is a few train stops south of Mallory’s house in New Jersey. I guess it was the cheapest place Jeff could find. It seems a little run down, with patches of weeds between the patches of snow, but overall, not too bad. It suits Mom. It’s quiet right now: only the three of us and the guy with the backhoe.

I shiver under the gray January sky as Backhoe Guy very unceremoniously cranks Mom’s coffin into the hole. No one brought flowers or anything, so when he asks us if we’re ready, we nod.

As he climbs onto the backhoe, I feel Mallory’s hand tighten, where she’s holding my elbow. I look at her and her pale face is pulled tight as she stares through the stumpy, bare trees toward the parking lot.

I follow her gaze and, walking across the grass toward us, is Alessandro. His back wool jacket is closed over black slacks and a blue button-down. I’d been containing my emotions pretty well, but when I see him, I feel the dam start to break.

He stops across Mom’s hole from where Mallory, Jeff and I are standing, and there’s a question on his face.

Do I want him to stay?

Mallory splits an anxious glance between us, then drops my arm and grasps Jeff’s hand tightly. Jeff looks from her to Alessandro and his eyes widen in understanding. There’s no way anyone close to Henri is going to miss the resemblance.

I walk slowly around Mom’s hole and stop in front of him. He reaches for my gloved hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay away.” He bites the corner of his lower lip. “I can’t stand the thought of you in pain.”

I sink into his arms. “It’s okay.”

Alessandro glances at Mallory as Backhoe Guy cranks the engine loudly to life, then says into my hair, “Would you like me to say a word?”

I look at Mallory and her face is paler than it was a minute ago, her mouth fixed in a tight line. “That would be great. Thanks,” I tell Alessandro.

He lets go of me and crosses himself then bows his head, suddenly looking very priestly. I bow mine too. “Oh God, you do not willingly grieve or afflict your children. Look with pity on the suffering of this family in their loss. Sustain them in their anguish, and into the darkness of their grief bring the light of your love. Through Jesus we pray, Amen.”

When I lift my head, Mallory is curled into Jeff’s arms, sniffling into his shoulder. We all step back as Backhoe Guy starts plowing dirt on top of Mom, and I feel my throat thicken with tears. I swallow them.

“You need to let yourself grieve,” Alessandro says, softly into my ear.

I bite my lips between my teeth and I continue to fight the tears.

He smooths a hand over the back of my hair. “She was your mother, Hilary. No matter what happened between you, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t hurt.”

A single hot tear trickles over my lashes and courses down my frozen cheek, and he pulls me to his shoulder. And that’s all it takes for me to totally lose it. He holds me close and hands me a tissue when I start to snot all over his jacket.

When I get my shit mostly together and peel myself off Alessandro, Mallory and Jeff are already walking back to their car.