“I love you, too, Gilleon.” I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table and dragging my wineglass towards me. Next to the rose, there's a white tea light flickering in a silver holder. I look at the flames and then glance back at Gill. “This kid, who was he?”
“Karl Rousseau's son.”
I can feel the blood drain from my face, that sickening lurch as it all cascades down to my feet and makes me dizzy.
“What was this guy's son doing living in a van and selling drugs?”
“He had a fallout with his dad, and Karl threatened to disown him, did for a while, too. I think that's why it took so long for him to find me.”
Fuck.
I can see where this is going, and I don't like it.
“Karl?”
Gill nods and lifts his wine to his lips for the first time, draining the entire glass in one go.
“When they found out he was dead, naturally they wanted to find out who killed him, something the police had never been able to do. It took them longer than it should, with all their resources, their money, their connections.” Gill grins at me, but there's no joy in it, just a sense of honesty, an admittance. “I'm good at what I do, even before I knew I'd be doing it for a living. By the time Karl found me, he wanted me. I told him no.”
My turn to pick up my wineglass and drain it. Before the waiter can come over and refill our glasses for us, Gill does it, taking his almost to the rim. I watch him drink half of this before he continues.
“Your mom … they thought she was my mom at first.” Gill closes his eyes, takes several careful breaths through his nose. Karl had your mother killed, Regi. Because of me. Elena, she's dead because of me.
I can feel my skin prickle and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My lips part; my eyelids flutter.
Retribution. Vengeance. That's what it all came down to? That's why my mother died?
“Well, I think that's bullshit because Karl doesn't make mistakes like that. Maybe he knew that at that point, I loved your mother as much as I loved my own.” Gill sucks in a breath like he's in pain, like he's about to admit something terrible. “Maybe more. She was all the things I ever wished my mom would be.” I can feel tears threatening, glossy drops clinging to my waterproof mascara, just waiting to fall. I want to walk away right now, put my hands over my ears, take a break. But I can't. I'm sitting here in this restaurant, full of all these people. As I intended, I have few choices that make sense. Go to the bathroom, disappear outside into the rain, or … stay put.
I keep my seat.
“He even warned me that if I didn't come to him, he'd do it again, that he'd find my real mother and put a bullet in her. At the time, I told myself I was calling bullshit on his threat. In reality, I was being selfish.” Gill closes his eyes again, and when he opens them, they look brighter somehow, like a clear blue summer sky. “I didn't want to leave you, Regi. But I also knew I couldn't bring you into that life, that Karl would never let me live happily ever after with you. So I left to work for him, just two days before the anniversary of his son's death, two days before he promised that you were next. And then Dad. Every two years he would kill someone I loved because it'd taken him two years since he started looking to find me.”
I exhale in a rush, my pulse pounding so hard that for a moment, I'm overwhelmed by dizziness. Gilleon tenses and his own breathing slows, making me wonder if he's actually stopped altogether. I don't know what he thinks I'm going to do. Run, maybe? Curse his name? Throw something at him? I'll be honest: the first thought never crosses my mind. The other two … well, I briefly consider them—but only briefly.
Am I still mad that Gill left? Hell yeah, I am. Does his reason for leaving make it hurt any less? No. But it all makes at least some small semblance of sense. In his own way, Gill thought that leaving me was akin to saving me, that he had no other choice. The revelation isn't about to wipe away the sins of the past, but it does bring me a reasonable amount comfort to know why. I hadn't thought it mattered; it does.
I fight back tears, clutching the stem of my wineglass and holding in the surge of emotion I feel as the waiter lays out our appetizers. The poor guy looks stressed enough as it is, has way too many tables to take care of on his own, and the last thing he needs is some stranger weeping over a plate of deep fried raviolis.
“Merci,” I say, raising my glass in salute. The waiter gives me a weird look, but at least he smiles.
“Regina?” Gill asks, his voice carefully neutral. He's waiting for something from me, some sort of confirmation that I heard and understood what he said. Elena, she's dead because of me. In the strictest sense of the English language, Gill's right. If he hadn't killed Karl's son to protect his mother, my mother might still be alive today—might being the key word. But she could just as easily have died in a car accident or from falling off a ladder or, like my father, from some hidden monster like cancer. Life is absolutely chock full of what-ifs. All we can really do is exist in each moment and make the best decision we know how.