He couldn’t deny he hadn’t understood what I’d meant. He had to let me go so that I could let go.
The closer I got to the wall of pictures, the boxes, the harder I could feel an invisible string between his body and mine pulling me back.
He released me, but his eyes didn’t, and I moved a little slower this time.
There was just one thing I needed to know before I faced the memories. After he admitted that Cilla was in on it, it made me think about another important part of my life.
“Bambina,” I said. “Was that you too?”
“Yes,” he said. “I arranged for the shelter to contact you.”
“Why?”
“You needed her,” he said.
I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I had a feeling the pictures on the wall, whatever was in those boxes, were going to piece together everything I’d been missing.
With a deep breath, I stepped in front of it, meeting all that I’d lost head-on.
My eyes were starving, almost inhaling the images, feeding the voids in my mind. I couldn’t seem to see them fast enough.
“Are these—” I took a deep breath and sighed it out “—in chronological order?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded jagged, and I didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye, or I might shatter.
So many memories that were dead and gone to me. All staring me in the face, reflecting a past that didn’t belong to me, but did.
Each of these pictures I’d yearned and grieved for like a lost loved one.
Each of these pictures, these snippets of time, made me feel whole and as empty as I’d ever felt at once.
Our first date, the first picture. Reaching out with a trembling hand, I touched a picture of us at a concert. I had the biggest fucking smile on my face. I hadn’t smiled like that since…since the accident. It was so wide that it almost looked like it hurt as much as my heart was hurting.
This was life.
A life that I’d always craved, wanted, needed, and thought I’d never have.
I almost collapsed when I came to pictures from our wedding. My gown was the twin to the red one I wore to the summer event, except this one was white, and probably shimmered in soft candlelight. My hair was parted down the center, done in a chignon in the back, and burgundy roses were tucked into it. Aniello was dressed in a tuxedo that was clearly custom-made for his body. He was lean, but there was not a damn thing scrawny about him.
A Mediterranean-style waterfront villa decorated for the occasion was the backdrop. So many pictures in different spots stared back at me—pictures that could have been part of a magazine spread. Quentin and Simone. Abe and Catherine. They were in a few of them.
“Who took these?” I asked.
“Catherine.”
“She’s good,” I said. “Where is this?”
“Miami,” he said. “I know the guy who owns the place. He offers it to me to use whenever I’m in town.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, trying my best to ignore the burn behind my eyes.
“That’s what you said when you first saw it.It’s beautiful.”
“What else did I say?”
“You wanted to get married there. So we were married there.” He told me the date and the exact time, and then he described the notes of my perfume that night and how he would forever associate the scent with home.
He took my hand and placed a diamond band on my left finger. He closed his eyes, set my hand against his mouth, and breathed me in for a long moment before he took a step back.
