Page 315 of The Lies We Play

I reach for my purse.

The key is in the inner pocket, still on the little ring my father had in his apartment in Florence.

I never thought I would use it.

My fingers close around it, and for a second, my body refuses to move.

“If I fall apart in there⁠—”

“I have you,” he says it simply.

This is Creed, offering the one thing he has always known how to offer.

I nod once, open the door, and step out.

The air is cold enough to make my eyes water, which is convenient because now I can pretend the weather got there first.

Creed comes around the car and waits beside me. He doesn’t take the key. He doesn’t put a hand on my back yet. He only stands close enough that I can lean if I need to and far enough that I still get to walk myself to the door.

The house is closed up.

Nobody has lived here for almost four years.

My mother was diagnosed with stage four cancer. She refused treatment because the prognosis was nine months either way, and she wanted those nine months not to be spent in hospitals. She told my father to pack a bag and book two tickets to Florence, because if she had nine months left, she was going to spend them in the city her daughter had chosen.

She got thirteen.

She died in my arms, technically, although she had already gone somewhere I couldn’t follow by the time my arms were around her.

My father stayed in Florence after the funeral because he couldn’t bear to come back to a house where she wasn’t anymore. He came to my place most days. He started learning Italian from a tutor at seventy-six.

He died six months later of what his doctor called a sudden cardiac event and what my therapist called the predictable consequence of grief in a man who had never learned where to put it.

I never planned on coming back to this country.

Or to this house.

The house has been cleaned twice a year by a service my father paid for in advance until the trust runs out or I make other arrangements.

I unlock the door.

The air smells like dust and lemon polish.

It smells like a place kept waiting by people who no longer know how to return.

“We can leave,” Creed says.

I turn around and shake my head. “He said one day that he had to come back to pick up a folder and a letter for me. He claimed he had time…”

My voice trails.

Creed’s eyes stay on mine.

“We always believe we have time,” he says. “But in the end, we don’t choose when it’s over.”

I nod and step inside.

The entry is narrow. There are hooks by the door, empty except for one old umbrella. A console table with a ceramic bowl. No mail. No shoes. No signs of life, which should help.