It’ll be when we get back home—I just know it. By the time he pulls up into the garage, my eyes are burning, and my mouth tastes bitter, my stomach trying to crawl up my throat. He parks the car and gets out then walks to my side and opens the door just before I pop the latch. He offers me his hand.
I take it hesitantly, thinking this might be the beginning. He’ll drag me into the house, push me against a door, and then start yelling.
He doesn’t. He closes his fingers around mine and walks with me into the house. His face seems quieter, less tense. Less angry. I’m not quite ready to let myself take a deep breath, but I’m getting close.
Opening the door into the house, he still says nothing. As I move past him, he lays a hand on the middle of my back. I flinch. But it’s not a guiding hand, or a reprimanding hand. He’s just touching me. His fingers move in a slight caress.
“Are you okay?” he asks as we head into the living room.
“Yes, I’m…” I pause, still not sure I’m in the clear. Then I notice the stiffness in his body as he moves. I’d thought he’d gotten away mostly unscathed from the fisticuffs with Sal, but apparently I was wrong. “You’re not okay.”
“I’m fine,” he protests, but I take his arm and steer him toward the couch.
“Sit down. Let me look.”
I expect him to protest, but he doesn’t. That makes me that much more concerned. How badly is he hurt? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him react like he’s in pain, so my automatic thought is that it’s bad. He sits down, and I start unbuttoning his shirt.
“It’s not that bad,” he protests, just as I peel back his shirt and catch sight of a red-black bruise spreading along his ribs, partially onto his chest. When did that happen? Of course I wasn’t cataloging the fight blow by blow, but this seems worse than what I saw happening. I’d lay money he’s got at least one broken rib.
“Not that bad? You should probably go to the doctor.”
“I’m not going to the doctor.” His tone is stubborn, and he damn near pouts. I want to smack him.
“Don’t you have some kind of mob doctor? I thought all the mob people had mob doctors. You know, like in that one movie?”
That gets a laugh out of him. “What one movie?”
“I don’t know.” I take a closer look at the bruising and finish divesting him of his shirt. He’s got a few more marks, but nothing as bad as the big one over his ribs. He’s got a split lip, too—I’m surprised I didn’t see it earlier. It’s not bleeding at the moment, though, so it can wait. His knuckles are bloody, too—no real surprise there. “That one movie with the mob doctor.”
“That narrows it down.”
I poke at the bruises on his ribs, and he flinches. “Easy.”
“I’m trying to figure out if you have a broken rib.”
“Making use of your extensive medical training?”
“Yes.” He’s making fun, but I figure if I can poke him on the darkest spot of the bruise and he’s not screaming, he probably doesn’t have a broken rib. I poke him again and he just curses inventively. “I don’t think it’s broken.” I push to my feet. “Let me go get some stuff so I can clean some of this up.”
To my surprise, by the time I get back from the bathroom, he’s stripped down to his underwear and lying on his back on the couch. There are more bruises on his shins, and one shin’s missing some skin. I make a tutting sound and kneel beside him.
He’s quiet for a few minutes, letting me see to him. I don’t think there’s much I can do besides clean and bandage, but on the other hand nothing looks like it needs stitches or a cast or any other sort of advanced treatment. He’s just banged up.
Finally, as I’m finishing up a makeshift bandage over his torn shin, he says quietly, “You shouldn’t have gone there. Definitely not without my permission.”
I freeze. This is it, then. This is where he gets up and, injuries be damned, starts the hitting and yelling.
“I know.” I keep my voice as careful and nonconfrontational as possible. “I left my computer there. I needed to get it. I couldn’t stand the thought of Sal with it.”
He studies my face. I’m just sitting there, matching his gaze, fingers picking at the wrapping on another big adhesive bandage. I wonder what he sees in my eyes.
It must satisfy him a little, because he nods. “You should have called me. I would have sent one of my guys.”
I nod. It’s hard for me to explain why I didn’t do exactly that. But if I’d gone to him for help, it would have been admitting I couldn’t take care of things on my own. That the bakery might as well not be mine at all. That’s what Sal wanted, and I wouldn’t give it to him. I don’t want to give it to Nick, either. My whole life is tied up in that bakery. It’s the only real meaning there is to me.