So I'd given it to her.
"You look so happy," Karissa whispers.
"I was happy," I confess, my chest tightening as I gaze at the old photograph. "Very happy."
"Are you…?" She pauses for a moment. "Are you happy now?"
I can feel her gaze on me. My eyes shift to meet hers. I drink in her apprehension as she once more bites on her cheek nervously.
I'm not sure how to answer that question. A part of me yearns to just say 'yes', to ease all of her worries because I think it's what she wants to hear. What she needs to hear. But another part of me just can't lie to her.
"Not like I was then," I say, watching as the trepidation morphs to dejection. "I was naïve, Karissa. I thought perfection existed, and I thought I'd found it. I thought I was untouchable, that nothing and nobody could ever take away what I had. I was happy, because I was a fool. I've learned a lesson since then, a hard lesson, and I can't be that person anymore. I can never be that happy again."
She ducks her head, averting her eyes. I reach out and cup her chin, pulling her face up so she'll look at me again. I don't want her to misconstrue this, or walk away thinking I'm saying something I'm not.
"I'm not naïve anymore," I tell her. "But that doesn't mean you don't make me happy, because you do… in your own way. What I have with you isn't blissfully ignorant. It's real, and it isn't always pretty, but when it's good, it's good. So yeah, I'm happy, Karissa. A different kind of happy. The kind of happy that says even if this all destroys me, and it might, it'll all be worth it."
She smiles, a small smile, as she slips into my arms, nuzzling into my chest. I press my cheek to the top of her head, rubbing her back, when a throat clears from the doorway. Glancing over, I meet a set of beady dark eyes that pierce through us.
Martina Angelo.
"Mrs. Angelo," I say politely. "Nice to see you."
She says nothing, turning from me to look at Karissa. She curves an eyebrow judgmentally, her eyes scanning her slowly, picking her apart with a gaze. After a moment, the woman looks at me again. "Dinner's ready. Ray was looking for you. Figured you were off with your…" She waves toward Karissa dismissively. "Her."
Martina walks away, leaving us alone again. Karissa looks up at me questioningly. "Ray's wife?"
"Yes."
She shakes her head. "I like Brandy so much better."
Their dining room table is massive, packed to the brim on both sides with chairs. The two closest to the head of the table adjacent to Ray remain empty. I pause as I give the room a glance, surveying the others, before leading Karissa to the empty chairs. I pull one out, whispering for her to take a seat.
She does so hesitantly.
I push it back in, offering Ray a polite nod as I sit down, taking my place between them.
Caught in the middle…
Dinner is strained. I can feel the tension all around me, wrapping its hands around my throat and squeezing. The others eat heartedly, laughing and drinking, happy to be here. A few months ago, I would've felt the same way.
But something changed.
I changed.
I'm not sure if it's in a good way.
I cut my eyes toward Karissa, watching as she stirs her food around with a fork. I don't think she's eaten any of it.
Neither have I.
Leaning over, I whisper in her ear. "Not hungry?"
She edges closer, her voice only loud enough for me to hear. "You weren't eating, so I figured it might not be safe for me, either."
Her lips curve into a small smile as I laugh, shrugging when she cuts her eyes at me. Her smile turns to laughter before Ray clears his throat beside us, garnering our attention. "Got something funny you'd like to share?"
Karissa silences immediately, as I turn to Ray. "Private joke."
He doesn't look amused.
His gaze burns through me for a moment before his focus turns to Karissa. "So, Miss Rita—"
"Reed," she interjects. "My name is Karissa Reed… not Rita."
The entire room grows silent, the sound of clanking forks so loud I see Karissa flinch at the unexpected noise. People don't correct the boss, nor do they talk back to him. He could call you fucking Benedict Arnold and the rest of these guys would tolerate it so not to rock the boat.
But boat rocking is in Karissa's nature.
It's a side effect of her mother's smothering.
"Reed," Ray says, his voice terse. He's not sure how to react to her declaration. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your father's Johnny Rita."
There's a sharp exhale through the room. That name is like poison—nobody wants to breathe it. Karissa glances around before clearing her throat and looking at Ray. "As far as I'm concerned, I have no father. My name has always been Karissa Reed."