Chapter 16 - She Finally Stopped Covering Her Arms
Three months later, spring arrived in Chicago.
Marco pleaded guilty.
So did Victor.
Parker entered a cooperation agreement.
Caleb Warren went to trial on fraud, conspiracy, evidence tampering, and other charges.
Ethan remained in custody while his criminal case moved forward.
His custody petition regarding Noah was dismissed.
That day, I sat outside the courthouse and cried for twenty minutes.
Not because I was sad.
Because I had spent years believing freedom would feel loud.
It did not.
It felt like unclenching muscles I had forgotten were tense.
Ruth sat beside me.
“You okay?”
“I think so.”
“That sounds convincing.”
I laughed.
Noah was at school.
Normal school.
Normal day.
He had complained about math that morning.
I had never been so grateful for a child complaining about math.
Jack waited near a black car across the street.
He had come to court but had not entered the hearing.
My request.
The custody case needed to be mine.
When Ruth left, Jack approached.
“How’d it go?”
“You already know.”
“Rocco told me the ruling. He didn’t tell me how you feel.”
I looked at him.
“Relieved.”
“Good.”
“Terrified.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting everything I said I wanted.”
He nodded as though that made perfect sense.
Maybe it did.
“What now?” he asked.
“I found a job.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Where?”
“Legal aid office.”
That surprised him.
“Doing what?”
“Administrative intake.”
I smiled.
“They apparently like people who notice missing details.”
His expression softened.
“They’re lucky.”
“No.”
I nudged him.
“They’re paying me.”
“Even better.”
I had expected him to offer me a job months earlier.
He never had.
Finally I asked why.
“Because if you wanted a job from me, you would ask.”
“What if I was too proud?”
“Then your pride would be expensive.”
I laughed.
We walked.
Jack’s legitimate businesses survived the investigation, though several contracts were restructured.
He cooperated with regulators more than anyone expected.
Some reporters claimed he was becoming respectable.
Rocco found that hilarious.
Jack found it irritating.
“What about the other side of your life?” I asked one evening.
He knew what I meant.
The parts newspapers called alleged.
“I’m reducing it.”
“For me?”
“No.”
I appreciated the answer.
“For Noah?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He looked toward the city.
“Because Marco almost destroyed everything by exploiting structures I spent years pretending were manageable.”
He paused.
“And because I discovered I would like a future that doesn’t require checking every doorway before dinner.”
I understood.
“Sounds boring.”
“I’m hoping.”
We had dinner that night.
Not a date.
At least, neither of us called it one.
Ruth called it one.
Rocco called it “the longest non-date in organized-crime history.”
We ignored both of them.
Jack chose a small neighborhood restaurant.
Nothing like Maragold.
Paper napkins.
Red vinyl booths.
No private room.
No guards visible inside.
Halfway through dinner, a woman recognized me.
She approached hesitantly.
“Are you Lily Bennett?”
My stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
She was around forty.
Long sleeves despite the warm room.
“I saw your press conference.”
“Oh.”
She looked nervous.
Then rolled her sleeve back slightly.
Burn scars.
Old.
Healed.
“I haven’t worn short sleeves in twelve years.”
My throat closed.
She smiled.
“I bought a sleeveless dress yesterday.”
I could not speak for a second.
Then I stood and hugged her.
When she left, I sat down.
Jack looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Pretending you aren’t emotional.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes were suspiciously bright.
I smiled.
“Your hands are steady, Moretti.”
“That joke has run its course.”
“No.”
“It really has.”
I laughed.
Then noticed my own arms.
Bare.
I had stopped covering them several weeks earlier without consciously deciding to.
Sometimes healing did not announce itself.
Sometimes you looked down and realized a habit had simply stopped following you.
Jack reached toward the salt.
His fingers brushed mine.
Both of us paused.
Three months of almost.
Three months of space.
Three months of refusing to turn crisis into romance simply because crisis made emotions intense.
Jack pulled his hand back.
I stared at it.
“You know you can touch me.”
His eyes lifted.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because sometimes you act like I’ll file charges if our fingers collide.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Also possible.”
I looked at him.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Ask.”
His expression changed.
He knew exactly what I meant.
“May I kiss you?”
My entire body became warm.
It was such a simple question.
Maybe that was why it mattered.
“Yes.”
He leaned across the small table.
Slowly.
Enough time for me to change my mind.
I did not.
The kiss was gentle.
Brief.
No audience applauded.
No dramatic music.
A waiter walked past carrying spaghetti.
When Jack sat back, he looked more nervous than he had while confronting Marco.
I smiled.
“You okay?”
“No.”
I laughed so loudly the couple at the next table looked over.
Jack shook his head.
“This is humiliating.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
I touched his hand.
He turned it over.
Our fingers linked.
When I returned home later, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
Same scars.
Same body.
Same woman.
But the voice in my head was different.
Ethan’s voice had grown quieter.
Victor’s too.
Marco’s.
My father’s.
For years, other people had narrated my reflection.
That night, for the first time, I spoke over all of them.
“You look happy.”
The woman in the mirror smiled.
Not beautiful because Jack Moretti had kissed her.
Not healed because a powerful man had chosen her.
Happy because she had finally chosen herself.
Then Noah shouted from the bedroom.
“Mom! Robot emergency!”
I laughed.
“Coming!”
I left the mirror without covering my arms.
May you like
And I never covered them for shame again.
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