The tangible truth that Alex had wanted me forever carves a tiny scratch in the turning of the world, making time skip in disjointed bursts. I wonder what my life might have looked like if Alex had slipped this ring on my finger long ago, before I gotthe chance to bolt—a ring that was a little bit his family, a little bit my family, and with the new stone, a little bit us.
“But,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “Maybe we can make it work now. Maybe that’s all that matters.”
I shake my head slowly, smearing the pad of my hand across my eyes so hard that slivers of color zip along like tiny fish. “I think I’m going to have a panic attack.”
His mouth is against my jaw. “Breathe. In and out. Nice and slow. It’s okay. It’s just a ring.”
“Not just a ring,” I mumbled. “It wasmyring.”
“I didn’t know it was still your ring, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Or I would’ve kept it in my pocket every day since.”
“I’d thought...” I struggle to verbalize it, because maybe saying the words out loud will make him realize they’re true. “That I didn’t deserve you. That you were too good for me. I still think that sometimes.” I’m downplaying this. “Okay, I think that a lot, actually.”
Alex stares.
And stares and stares. Finally: “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
I dig the heel of my hand between my eyes. “I always thought you were too good for me. Everyone did,” I mutter, uncomfortable.
“I sure as shit didnot, and neither did your parents, your grandma, your sisters, your friends, half this damn town. And even if they did?” He throws an arm. “Fuck ’em. You have no idea how excited I am, how much I can’t believe it, that I getallof Romina Tempest. And that idea still troubles you?” He wipes a hand over his face, sitting up higher. “If that’s what you think, then I’ve failed you. Miserably.”
“You haven’t—”
“You are so much more important, more indispensable tomy happiness, my survival, than you can know, than you’ve given yourself credit for. You thought that by minimizing your presence in my life, I would flourish. You thought you were giving me more choices, but you were also taking one of my choices away.”
I watch him for a few moments. “An option you would have chosen.”
“Yes.”
I try to hide my face in my hands as I digest this.
“You’re incredible,” he tells me, voice hard as he endeavors to keep his emotions under control. “I’m the luckiest man alive, and Iknowit. I am desperate to keep you.”
His serious tone, coupled with the half-crazed wilderness in his eyes tells me he’s vowing here and now to make sure I never forget it. I nod, my world still adjusting.
“I will never let you go again,” I tell him through tears. “I’ll always choose you, Alex. I’m not as good at verbalizing my feelings as you are, but you have to know—I need you to know—how much I need you. You make everything better simply by being.” I kiss his forehead, his cheek, his mouth, desperate for someone who’s already mine. “You just make it all better.”
He slides a hand against my wet cheek. “Someday the ring’ll be here, if we need it, and I’ll replace the missing stone. Okay? It isn’t going anywhere. I’m certainly not going anywhere. Youownme.”
I curl up into him, ring cast back into its drawer until someday, maybe. I kiss my way down his chest, feeling him react to me, and soon he forgets it all; feverish color, lips dark and swollen, fingers curling the blanket. I’m not going to forget what he told me, but I’m not going to spend any time pressing the bruise on purpose, missing him when he’s right here.
Right here with me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ORCHID:
I shall make your life a sweet one.
My greenhouse is a mirror for a thousand fairy lights, glass flashing garnet and gold in the setting sun. Moonvillians are snacking on Bushra’s shortbread, some clustered together in conversation while others thread from booth to booth, magic pulsing through the ground to amplify everyone’s energy. Morgan is peering into Grandma’s crystal ball, pretending he can read futures, conjuring a fair amount of traffic. I suspect this has more to do with his thick black hair and disarming smile than any aptitude for clairvoyance.
Above, starlight begins to freckle the sky; and around, chattering voices ebb and flow with Gilda’s mixed tape of atmospheric music. Next to her sits a horror from my childhood, pulled from its exile in a closet in the back of her costume shop for years. It’s an eyesore. It’s the eighth wonder of the world. Grandma Dottie once petitioned for it to be killed by fire.
It’s a coin-operated automaton of a psychic woman in a fortune-telling booth.Gilda the Majesticflourishes across its glass front in a silver arc. Toward the bottom, in smaller script:Her wandering eye sees all.
The automaton does look like Gilda. If her head were made of dented papier-mâché and she had haunting glazed eyes with lashes that were falling off. The lower part of automaton-Gilda’s head is slightly melted, so even when her mouth is supposed to be closed it gapes open, which makes for a ghastly experience when she “speaks.” But the lobster-red hair in barrel curls and filmy disco shimmer shawls are dead-on.
I feed automaton-Gilda a quarter. The machine clicks loudly to life, its slot dispensing a small slip of paper exactly like the kind you’d find inside a fortune cookie.
