“How?” I ask, refusing to be judgmental, to think too hard about what he's saying to me. Not yet, at least. I need the whole story before I can even consider going there. I run the tip of my finger around the rim of my wineglass, the burgundy liquid red as blood in the dim, atmospheric lighting. “Why?”
“We were living in a van for a while,” Gill says and I feel myself tense. I definitely haven't heard this particular story before. “Traveling from church to church while my mom searched for some sort of salvation. From what, I don't know. All I knew then was that there was a man threatening my mother's life and that I'd do anything to save her. From him and from herself.”
My stepbrother taps his fingers on the table and then drags his hand back into his lap. He's always hated talking about his mom. I can see why. All of that anger, that fear and pain and confusion, that loneliness he felt back then, it all comes rushing to the surface, as hard to deal with now as it was back then. I don't think he's ever really gotten over it.
“It's not your fault, Gill,” I tell him, because sometimes, even when somebody knows something, it's okay to tell them, just to reinforce the feeling. His mother, her decline, her demons, whatever they were, were not Gilleon's fault and he should never have been burdened with them.
I get one of those tight smiles, the ones he throws out to calm a situation, make it seem more casual than it really is; this is probably the most important conversation we've ever had or will ever have. I take a deep breath.
“I know,” he says, voice dropping, memories lacing his every word. “But it doesn't make it any better, doesn't erase what I did then or all the things I've done since then.” When he looks up at me again, I know we're talking about the hotel and those two men. I'm not sure if the switch in conversation is intentional or … no. Nothing Gill does is ever unintentional.
“Don't change the subject, please,” I tell him, taking another breath. The air smells like pasta, like wine, like garlic. The scents soothe me. “When I said I forgive you, I meant even that. You did what you had to do to protect your family. Some people might judge, but you won't find me among them.” I drum my fingernails on the tabletop. “This … boy or teenager or whatever he was, what happened?”
“I was thirteen at the time, so maybe he was eighteen or nineteen, I don't know. All I knew was that he was several years older than me and that he was sleeping with my mother. Sometimes in the back of the van while I tried to sleep in the front seat, sometimes in a hotel while I waited outside.” Gill's jaw tightens and his pulse flickers with old rage. “He was supplying her with drugs and she was …” Gill doesn't finish his sentence, and I don't ask him to. “I don't know what happened between them. I heard a scream and I picked the lock on the hotel room door, found my mom with blood running down the side of her face and a gun not two feet from her skull. I didn't think too hard about it, honestly, and I didn't lose much sleep either.” We keep our eyes focused on one another, and I make sure I tell him with my gaze that it's okay, to keep going. “I hit him with his own baseball bat, one he left in the van. I didn't mean to kill him.” But you didn't know your own strength yet, did you?
I look at Gill and his wide shoulders, his muscled frame obvious even beneath the black fabric of his suit jacket. It's not hard for me to believe that he could kill someone with a bat—especially not when I once saw him break a man's arm with his bare hands. At age seventeen. Go figure.
I play with my mother's necklace for a moment, thinking this over. I have the bare facts now: Gill killed a drug dealer to protect his mother, my mother was shot, then his, and then he left. I see the four events. Now all I need is for him to tie them together. I cross and uncross my legs, trying to get comfortable. Inside my chest, my heart pounds and my breath hitches. Gill left and he didn't come back. After a decade, I'll finally know why.
I yank the white napkin into my lap, unroll it and put the silverware back on the tabletop. Gill watches me with a bemused half-smile.
“This is designer,” I say with a smile of my own. “Very expensive. Would not do to get red sauce on the lace, right?” I can get through this. We can get through this. After tonight, everything's going to be different.
“I love you, Regina,” he says again, making my pounding heart flutter. We both pause again, like runners taking a break between sprints. When the waiter comes back over again, I order garlic bread, fried raviolis (not exactly traditional but damn good), and something I can't pronounce. Might have the Spanish, German, and French down, but I've never taken up Italian.