Chapter 5: Thursday

"I'm at the lighthouse," I said. "I can see it from my window."

Rocco swore softly under his breath.

"Come home," he said. "Please. I'll send a car. I'll send a plane."

"You already sent a car."

"I'll come get you myself."

"Your driver says your father won't let you."

He went quiet.

I had never heard him quiet on the phone.

Rocco talked over engines, over music, over other people, because he was always somewhere loud with someone laughing.

Now there was only his breathing and the sound of a long road behind him.

"I did something stupid," he said.

"Say what you did."

"I got in the car."

"That's all?"

"I got in the car, and Bianca said you'd be fine, and I knew you were angry, and I thought if I came back with the sunrise photos you'd see why."

"You left me at a gas station, Rocco."

"I know."

"You left me with a bottle of water."

"I know."

"Say it."

"I left you at a gas station."

He said it slowly, one word at a time.

It was the first time in four years that he had said anything to me without making it a joke.

I should have been glad, and I was only tired.

"Orla, listen. Don't go near the lighthouse. Don't go near the point. Not for me. For you."

"Why?"

"I can't explain it."

"Then I can't help you."

"Please."

"Rocco." I put my forehead against the cold glass. "You said you'd never leave me anywhere."

"I won't do it again."

"That isn't what I'm answering."

I hung up.

My hand was shaking, so I held it in the other one until it stopped.

Wednesday I worked the window, and the coffee line was fast and funny.

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