“Alex,” I rasp. “I...”
Over in the corner, the small Amazon robot winks back to life and replies,Hm. I don’t know that one.
I forget what I was going to say, if I even had the words to thread my thoughts together. It’s a good thing we both already came, because we’re laughing again, and I think—
I love this man. I’ll never love any other.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ASH TREE:
My love is lionhearted, high as mountains, deep as the ocean.
Hours later, I watch ceiling-fan blades rotate, mentally trace grooves in white paint swirls on the ceiling until my eyes grow heavy. We’ve finally exhausted ourselves; he truly meant it when he said he intended to enjoy each otherfor a good while. Alex switches off his bedside light, the soothing pattern of his breathing lulling me to sleep, facing me with his cheek on the sloped edge of his pillow so that we can stay close through the night.
I’m startled awake after what feels like a handful of minutes have elapsed, but the numbers on my phone glare 4:17 a.m. I sit up, groping in the darkness. Alex groans softly in his sleep.
I slouch against the headboard, hand over my racing heart. Real. Still real.
I’m too keyed up, and I can’t play on my phone without waking him. He’s told me that he needs absolute darkness when he sleeps, or else he’s susceptible to headaches. I creep out of bed on tiptoe and into the hall. Before I know it, I find myself in his shower, hot water sluicing over my head, locks of my hair hanging over my face. My hair appears grayish when wet, overprocessed, with a rubbery, synthetic texture. I watch the suds ofAlex’s shampoo trickle down. A bottle I recognize sits next to his shaving cream: Twilit Dreaming’s Lady of the Night Orchid Bodywash, the exact one I use. He never smells like that bodywash, which means he’s had it here waiting around just in case I might ever use it.
This breaks me. Alex is myone. I’ve wasted so much time finding him again, years that I’ll never get back. I wasted time getting to right here, rightnow. Every minute of the past two months that I’ve spent hemming and hawing, letting fear run my life, is a tragedy. Look at my bottle of bodywash. How long has it been sitting here? I want to throw it at my past self, right in the kneecaps, and shout,What are you waiting for! Go on! Go get your life!
I towel off while rooting through the dryer for something to wear, opting for a Cincinnati Bengals shirt and black boxer briefs. Then I pad barefoot to the back door. Wind batters the trees, leaves swaying violently as a diagonal rain cascades. It’s storm season.
I wander back to Alex’s room, hallway night-light spilling across his form as the door fans open. He’s lying facedown, one arm curled under my pillow. A sparkle in the gloom catches my eye: his magpie stash of jewelry—my rings, earrings, necklaces. I perch on the edge of his mattress, depressing it slightly, and slide my rings back on. I’ve been naked without them.
A hand reaches out, catching my left in a quick shot. He sits up fast, switches his lamp on. “Where’d you get that?” His voice is sleep-roughened and alarmed, not entirely awake.
I stare at him. “It was sitting right there.”
He reaches past me to smack the nightstand drawer, checking if it’s open or closed. Turns my hand over to inspect my rings, then lets go. Relaxes.
“What’d you think I was doing?” I ask suspiciously, eyes straying to the drawer. I watch his reaction as I try to tug it open, and he blocks me. His expression is a wall.
“What’s in that drawer, Alex?”
He doesn’t respond.
“What’s in the drawer, Alex.”
He scrutinizes me closely, then his arm goes limp, hand withdrawing. “Open it.”
Now I’m not sure if I want to. I don’t move.
He opens it instead, and I dare a peek at its contents—
There’s a ring inside. Not in a box. Just a ring resting on the IKEA faux wood grain. “What is...?” I turn it beneath the lamp to chase away shadows. The band is tarnished. A tiny diamond flanked by an oval sapphire and empty prongs, the third stone missing.
“My mother gave it to me on her wedding day.”
This doesn’t resemble any of Kristin’s rings that I’ve seen. “Why?”
“Because it’s yours,” he returns blankly. “She found it while gardening seven years ago.”
I wait for further explanation, but he doesn’t continue. “I don’t understand.”
“This is your ring, Romina. From when we were engaged.”
