I knew this. We had discussed it in Natchitoches when we first started dating. He was reiterating, reminding me. I desperately wanted them—his children. But no matter if he wanted children or not, I’d sacrifice my dream of having them for the dream of having him.
I sighed and pushed my hand closer. “I don’t need a disclaimer, Fausti. You’ve always been my one certainty.” I had agreed years ago, that night out in the snow, before I could even grasp the depths of my feelings for him.
He took the offering, sliding his skin next to mine in a soft motion. His eyes hardened; if I were to try to lie, he’d extract the truth from me.
“Even during our time apart.”
“Yes.” My eyes fell to our connected hands, finally finding some respite. “Even during our time apart. I didn’t have you in the physical sense, but I’ve always felt you—which is haunting in its own right, you know. But I had you, if that makes sense.” I breathed in deep and let it out in a rush. I felt it was important to say this. “You were my first kiss, Brando. I want you to be my last.”
His eyes softened before they became solid again. He gave me a few minutes, or perhaps the time was for him, before he said, “Tell me when.”
“Pardon?”
“Pick a date.”
“Oh.” I blinked at our hands, releasing myself, looking him in the eye once again. “December the eleventh. I don’t care about the day, only the date.”
“Settled. Give me the place.”
“I need some time to plan that part of it. Do you have a preference?”
“No, as long as you’ll be there.”
“What’s a wedding without a bride?” I smiled.
“A bachelor party.” He grinned.
We both laughed.
He sighed, releasing the stress he must have held in his chest. The mood came up again.
“You have some time then,” he said. “To plan.”
“I do.” I nodded, ready to discuss something else. The wedding wasn’t all that important to me. It was the vows and being his wife. “I’ve been thinking.”
He groaned. I kicked him underneath the table.
“I don’t want you to take the money from Luca.”
The light mood shifted again. Sudden thoughts seemed to rush him, though he took his time to respond, perhaps choosing his next words carefully.
“You don’t want to get married.”
“Yes, I do. Wha—I don’t understand, Brando.”
“We had a deal.”
“I don’t care about the deal. That’s not why I said yes. There are no deals to marriage. If there’s no wavering on the commitment, there are no bargains to it.” I paused. “What if I changed my mind? What would you do?”
“Too fucking late.”
“Tough titty said the kitty when the milk ran dry?” I grinned at him, but he found nothing hilarious about it.
He waved his free hand in that Italian way meant to push an explanation forward. “Explain.”
“I thought about it earlier, while in the bathroom getting ready. The house on Snow, I want it to come from you. Not from your father.”
“I’ll have to keep my job. Go back home. I’ll have to leave you.”
