Chapter 7
The kitchen still smelled like coffee that had gone cold. Martha's coat was gone from the back of the chair and the glass-pane door was shut, but the air hadn't settled. I could feel where her hand had been on my arms, and where Connor's hand had been on my face, two different kinds of heat in the same ten minutes.
Leo sat at the island with his hands tucked under his thighs. He wasn't crying anymore. He was watching me too closely, the way toddlers do when they're trying to decide if the grown-ups are done being scary.
My cheek throbbed in a slow pulse. I opened the freezer.
The ice maker had jammed again. I had to shake the tray. Connor stood by the sink and didn't move to help me, which I was grateful for. I pulled the dish towel from the oven handle — the gray one with the thin blue stripe — and wrapped a handful of cubes in it. The cold bit through the cloth immediately.
"I'm going to put ice on," I said. My voice sounded flat to me. "Just for a minute."
Leo slid off the stool. He came and pressed his forehead against my olive skirt. I put one hand on his curly hair and held the towel to my face with the other. The pressure made my eye water.
Connor said, "Let me — "
"I got it," I said, not unkind, but quick. He stopped.
I walked to the bathroom because I didn't want Leo to watch me wince. The light in there was bright and honest, the recessed kind that makes everything look a little sharper than it is. I stood at the mirror.
My cheek was red, not yet dark. The imprint wasn't a perfect hand, just a bloom of color high on the bone. I turned my face slightly, the way you do at the dentist when you're trying to see a sore tooth. I watched my own micro-expression. My mouth tried to stay even. My left eye narrowed without me telling it to. I breathed through my nose, slow, and let the ice sit.
Connor appeared in the doorway. He didn't come in. He kept his hands at his sides, his bomber jacket still zipped halfway, like he'd forgotten he was wearing it.
"Victoria," he said. He paused. I could hear him inhale before the next sentence. "I hit you. I didn't ask what happened. I saw my mom upset and I hit you. I'm sorry for striking you."
He said it exactly like that, as a sentence with a period at the end. Not "I'm sorry if" or "I'm sorry but." He looked at the ice, at my hand holding it, at my reflection.
I kept the towel against my skin. The cold was starting to ache.
"Thank you for saying that directly," I said. I had to take a small breath before the next part because Leo was just on the other side of the wall. "Hitting is never the answer. Especially not in front of Leo. He was already scared. Then he watched you hit me."
Connor's jaw worked. He nodded once. "I know."
"I need you to know what it did," I said. "My face hurts. My heart was beating so hard I couldn't hear. And Leo asked why everyone hits mom. That's what he learned in our kitchen this afternoon."
The words landed. I saw it in his face — his brows pulled together, but not in anger this time. His eyes dropped to the tile, then back up.
"I wasn't thinking," he said. "I thought — I thought she was in trouble. I didn't look at you. I didn't look at Leo."
The ice was melting through the towel. A thin line of water ran over my wrist. I pressed a little harder, then pulled it away to let the skin breathe. The red mark looked angrier without the white cold covering it.
"I hear that you were trying to protect your mom," I said. "But you hit me without asking one question. That can't happen again. Not once. No matter who is upset."
"I understand," he said. His voice was low. "It won't."
I wanted to believe him quickly because believing him would make the house quieter. I didn't.
In the kitchen, Leo had dragged his small step stool to the island and was trying to reach the black smartphone. He wasn't touching it, just hovering his hand over it like it was hot. When I came back, towel dripping slightly, he looked up.
"Does your cheek need a band-aid?" he asked.
I knelt so we were eye level. My knees popped against the wood floor. I set the melting towel bundle on the island and touched his arm.
"No, buddy. Ice helps it. No band-aid needed," I said. "Thank you for asking."
He studied my face the way I had studied mine in the mirror, head tipped. He reached out and very lightly, with two fingers, touched the edge of my tan suede boot instead of my face.
Connor stayed near the sink. He didn't crowd us. He asked, "Can I get you water? Or more ice?"
"Water is good," I said.
He filled a glass and set it on the island without sliding it toward me, giving me space to pick it up or not. I did. The water was cold.
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We stood there, the three of us in the bright kitchen with the white dome camera in the corner and the phone face-down next to the melting towel. My cheek kept pulsing. The apology had been said out loud, specific and unqualified, and I was holding it carefully, like something fragile that would break if I moved too fast.
Leo climbed back onto his stool and leaned his weight into my side. His breathing slowed. The house was quiet, but the quiet wasn't peace yet. It was just the space after a choice to say the thing plainly.
