Chapter 5 - I REFUSED VINCENT’S HOUSE
Vincent wanted me nearby.
Noah wanted me nearby.
Those were not the same thing as me belonging there.
After one week at the hotel, Vincent said:
“There’s a guest apartment on the Moretti property.”
“No.”
“You haven't heard the details.”
“No.”
“Separate entrance.”
“No.”
“Full privacy.”
“No.”
“Security.”
“Especially no.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve spent the last year having everyone else control whether I had a place to sleep.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“I know.”
He went quiet.
That was important.
He did not argue that his intentions should erase my discomfort.
Instead:
“What do you want?”
I had not been asked that in a long time.
“A job.”
He blinked.
“I can—”
“Not from you.”
His mouth closed.
“Permanent housing I can pay for.”
“Okay.”
“My identification replaced.”
“Okay.”
“And access to my mother’s storage unit before it goes to auction.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
I immediately said:
“Don’t.”
Marco stopped.
Vincent almost smiled.
“What?”
“I can make my own phone calls.”
“Understood.”
Rachel helped me reconnect with a city homelessness-prevention nonprofit.
Not because Vincent donated.
Because I qualified.
Replacement documents.
Rental assistance.
Employment services.
I took a temporary administrative job at a legal-services nonprofit.
Then a permanent one.
Less glamorous than mafia rescue.
Much more useful.
My first apartment was tiny.
One bedroom.
Fourth floor.
Radiator that sounded like someone trapped inside the wall.
I loved it.
Noah visited with Vincent two weeks after I moved in.
He walked through the living room.
Then:
“Small.”
“Rude.”
He smiled.
That smile was becoming easier.
Vincent looked around.
“You need a better lock.”
I stared.
He corrected himself.
“Would you like me to recommend a locksmith?”
“Yes.”
He was learning quickly.
Then Noah saw the empty refrigerator.
“You still don’t have food.”
“I get paid Friday.”
Vincent immediately reached for his wallet.
I raised one eyebrow.
He stopped.
Noah sighed like an exhausted parent.
Then he took a twenty-dollar bill from his own pocket.
“For sandwich.”
I stared.
Vincent said:
“That’s his allowance.”
Noah held it out.
I crouched.
“You don’t owe me.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He shrugged.
“Friends buy food.”
My eyes filled.
Fine.
I accepted five dollars.
“No.”
Noah pushed the twenty toward me.
“Inflation.”
Vincent laughed.
I took ten.
Compromise.
That night Noah spoke more than he had in two years.
Not constantly.
Words came slowly.
Sometimes stopped.
Sometimes vanished for days.
His therapist warned everyone:
Do not turn speech into performance.
No applause.
No demanding repeats.
No asking him to demonstrate for relatives.
So when Noah said:
“Pizza bad,”
Vincent simply replied:
“Correct.”
Then went into the bathroom and cried where his son could not see him.
May you like
I pretended not to notice.
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