“Man, I sure hope so.” Enzo lay back, squirming a little before he found a comfortable position. “I’m ready to sleep in my own bed again.”
“I’ll have to start looking for another place to crash.”
“I wish you’d stay in Chicago.” Enzo pushed a button, raising his bed into a sitting position.
“Even if I stayed - and that is a big if - I’d need to find another place to live. It’s a great apartment, but it’s not big enough for both of us.”
“But you are thinking about it.” The kid was tenacious, the proverbial dog with a bone. “With everything that’s happened, I bet they’d take you back on the force.”
“Actually,” Dante admitted, “they’ve already offered me a position.”
“That’s perfect! You can just-”
Dante lifted a hand to cut him off. “I said they offered, I didn’t say I was taking it.”
For a minute Enzo looked just like he did when he was six, when Pop let it slip that there was no Santa Claus. It was enough to break a guy’s heart. “I’m keeping my options open, job wise, but...” Dante took a deep breath, “I’m gonna stay.”
“Really?” Jesus, he looked so hopeful, so young. “In Chicago?”
“Yeah, well. I got nowhere better to be right now.”
“At the risk of pushing my luck,” Enzo wrinkled his nose, scratched his jaw, “you wanna talk about the newspaper?”
“What newspaper?” Dante asked, giving Enzo his best I have no idea what you’re talking about face.
“Come on.” Enzo snorted. “You know exactly what newspaper. The one that I’ve seen you read, oh... probably seven times during the past week? Which, considering your well documented aversion to all things news related, has to be significant.”
“Maybe we should talk about something important instead.” Dante tipped his head slightly, watched for his brother’s reaction. “Like how we feel about the fact that someone we thought we knew, someone we trusted, turned out to be someone else entirely.”
“We feel the way we’re supposed to feel,” Enzo snapped, his eyebrows pulled together in a pronounced V. “Like we were deceived, betrayed. Does that about cover it?”
O-kay. If anger was the third stage of grief, they were halfway through the process. Maybe at this point, that was the best they could hope for. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
Enzo was quiet for a second or two, then shook it off. “So Sophie told me about the reporter,” he went on. “What was her name? Hailey?”
Dante dragged his hand over his jaw. “It’s Harley,” he said, knowing that Enzo knew it, too. “Her name is Harley.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” Enzo nodded his encouragement. “You know, I read the article, Dante. Frankly, it seemed like it could have been a lot worse.” There’d been nothing about Patrick, or him. And what she'd written about Leo had been, if not sympathetic, at least compassionate. “It was accurate and thorough. Fair, you know?”
“Yeah.” Dante admitted, almost reluctantly. “It was fair.”
“Then what’s the problem, brother?”
Dante was quiet for several long moments before he turned to look out the window again. “I said some... really ugly things.”
“Like what?”
“Accused her of sleeping with me to get a story, for one thing.”
“Did she?”
“NO.” Dante scowled before he could stop himself, before he even realized he was doing it. “No.”
“Do you want her? I mean I know you’ve always been kind of...” Enzo raised his hands, fluttered his fingers in the air, “anti-relationship, but does she make you want more?”
“It’s not-”
“Uh.” Enzo lifted a hand to quiet him. “It’s a yes or no question, man. Do you want her?
“Yes,” Dante blurted out, vaguely irritated. “Yes, I want her. Okay?”
Enzo shook his head, laughed. “Then tell her you're sorry.” He didn't say duh, but it was implied.
“It's not that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was gonna be easy.” Another duh look, this one even more pronounced. “You're gonna have to do some serious groveling.”
“I can grovel.”
“Then go. Grovel.” Enzo shook his head again, waved him away. “The sooner you get started, the sooner you can move on to the good stuff.”
Almost on autopilot, Dante backed his way towards the door. “I can definitely do the good stuff.” He was halfway out the door when Enzo called out, “And don’t come back until you’ve cleaned up your mess.”
* * * *
From the sidewalk outside Harley's building, Dante glanced up at her window. Movement, the faint outline of a silhouette against the blinds, the warm glow of lights. She was home, a fact that somehow managed to be a relief and terrifying at the same time.
He was saved the humiliation of her refusing to buzz him in - a distinct possibility - when some guy with a yorkie came home, letting him in in the process. The yorkie eyed him suspiciously, but it's owner ignored him completely, entering the apartment two doors down without a backwards glance as Dante knocked on Harley's door.
He stood there for a moment, definitely long enough for Harley to see him through the peephole, listened to the sound of her moving through the apartment. Nothing.
He knocked again, harder this time and considerably louder, but now instead of just ignoring him, she flipped on a radio, cranked it up. This time, instead of knocking, he pounded. “I know you’re in there, Harley,” he bellowed. “You might as well open up, because I’m not going anywhere until I see you.”
She turned the music off and stomped over to the door, pulled in open a crack, enough to expose half of her face. “There,” she sneered, just before she moved to slam it shut again, “you’ve seen me. Now go away.”
He stuck his foot in the opening to stop her. “Come on, Harley,” he coaxed, “just give me ten minutes.” She made a noise that fell somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “Five,” he amended. “Five minutes, please? I know you’re mad-”
“Mad. Mad?” she sputtered. “Puh-lease.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d have to care to be mad.” O-kay.
She didn’t open the door the rest of the way, but she didn’t shut it either, so he pushed it open and followed her inside. She plopped down onto sofa, crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back, her body language screaming keep your distance. “Go ahead. You’ve got five minutes.”
The place smelled like fresh paint and disinfectant, and the rug and sofa both looked new. He closed his eyes for a second, tried not to visualize the room the way it looked the last time he saw it. Splatters of blood and brain matter, the lifeless body of the man he’d considered family. He cleared his throat. “Everything looks good. I... uh... like the rug.”
Harley nodded, and Dante wondered if she pictured it that way, too. “The rug and the sofa were easy,” she told him. “I called the company the department suggested for the rest. They were very... thorough.”
He sat down next to her on the sofa, but in deference to the crossed arms, kept his distance. “So are you okay with staying here?” he asked her.
“I don't know.” She got up and went to the window, raised the blind to look out. “I've been staying with Sybil, so this will be my first night sleeping here. I just... don't want to let it chase me from my home.”
She had her back to him, and he could see the tension in her shoulders. “You won't,” he said. “You're tougher than you think, Harley.”
She laughed, but there was a hollow ring to it. She pressed her palm to the window pane, quietly pointed out, “I thought you’d be gone by now.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about staying.” He thought he heard a sharp little intake of air, but she didn’t speak. He opted to take it as a good sign. “The CPD offered me a detective slot.”
“Whoa. That’s...”
“I know.” Dante leaned forward, folded
his hands together, let them dangle between his knees. “Surprised me, too.”
She turned to face him. “I was going to say that's good, great even. It doesn’t surprise me at all,” she said solemnly. “You were a good cop seven years ago, Dante, you'd be a good cop now, too.”
“How do you know that,” he asked her.
She lifted her shoulders, offered him a watery smile. “I just do,” she said, without a shred of doubt in her voice.
He got up and walked towards her, stopped just short of touching her. “I'm sorry, Harley.” She was shaking her head, but he kept going. “For accusing you of sleeping with me for a story, for even thinking it. For not listening to you when you tried to explain.” His voice cracked. “For leading Leo to your doorstep.”
“You aren’t responsible for Leo, Dante,” she told him gently. “Any more than you were responsible for Patrick. I was the one who wouldn’t let the story go. That’s on me.”
“The rest of it then. Can you forgive me for being an asshole?”
She shook her head, lifted her shoulders. “Even if I could...”
“What?” He sensed an opening in her resolve, jumped at it. Put his hands on her face, looked into her eyes. “Tell me what to do to fix this.”
“I don’t think you can. I mean, Dante, you said my technique needed serious work. Not just a little work, but serious work.”
“Wait. What?” He shook his head, his hands still on her face. “I said what?”
“You gave me an A for enthusiasm,” she reminded him testily, “but you said my technique needed some serious work.”
“Aw, Christ.” He had to close his eyes for a moment, he was that close to his knees buckling. Had he said that? Jesus, he really was an asshole. But asshole or not, when he opened his eyes again, she was grinning at him, and somehow the air felt... lighter. “Baby, I am so sorry.” he told her. “I’m an idiot. An insensitive, cloddish, useless ass.”
“Well, I’m not sure I would say useless. And as asses go, yours is really quite impressive.”
“I am so gonna make it up to you.” He smoothed his thumbs over her cheekbones, brushed his mouth back and forth over hers, gently. “In fact, I’m prepared to spend night and day for as long as you’ll have me making it up to you.”
“That’s not gonna be easy,” she pointed out.
“Easy?” He lifted her up off the ground and she wrapped her legs around his waist, throwing her head back, laughing wildly as he carted her towards the bedroom. “You and me, baby? We don’t need no stinkin’ easy...”
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