Me.
“You are,” I whispered, answering his thoughts. “So deserving. That’s why I’m here now. You deserve this. You deserve all the love the world has to offer.”
“Your love.”
Oh, because I am his world.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Ari!
“Mylove.” I stabbed my pointer finger against my heart, stepping in front of him. “My entire heart, my entire soul, my entire body, and all that each one can hold—and there is no limit. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances were of your conception.” My voice took on a bolder tone. All my truth concentrated to each declaration. “You were created for love—you were created forme. You are mine, Rocco Piero Fausti, and I’ll love you beyond death. That’s how deserving you areto me.You are my heaven. If we get to choose, I’ve already picked you as my eternity. Or itwouldn’t be heaven to me, but hell. When I first saw you, I knew. My heart knew. You aremylove in physical form. The love we’ve always been missing. It doesn’t matter why our parents created us, all that matters is that we’re together now. Our parents were only the vessels that delivered us to each other.”
He blinked at me, almost like he was in shock.
It was such a genuine, guileless reaction, the Mediterranean might have been me—a puddle melted at his feet.
It should have been me asking him what he was thinking, but it was him who said in a ragged voice, “What you must be thinking of me at this moment.”
He thought I’d think of him as weak for confiding in me. Even though he hadn’t said it, I knew he was wondering how he could love me if he wasn’t made from love. He probably never told anyone else that story.
My smile came slow. “I’m thinking…I’m so happy you’re the reason why I write love stories now.”
I took a step closer to him, another step…it seemed like his muscles trembled, his bones rattled, his skin tightened, like feeling something soft, my love, against his…metal shell…wasn’t something pleasing, but uncomfortable. But he held his ground.
Sighing, I slipped my hand in his, something not too deep, but deep enough. Palm to palm—just one way to connect.
It was like words failed him.
He was lost—so lost in love.
That was okay.
That was why I gave him my hand. He might direct me inside of his world, but I’d direct him inside of mine.
The world around us had turned a delicate shade of pink—the sky a baby blue, the cotton-candy colors reflecting all around us in a heavenly glow.
This was my version of heaven.
The man in front of me, and nothing else.
“I went to Trapani to find her,” he said, entwining our fingers, and by unspoken agreement, we started to moveforward.
He went on to say he’d gone to see the woman who had carried him in her womb, but she had already died. Her father was left, but he didn’t want anything to do with Rocco. Rocco belonged to the Fausti family, end of story. To make things even between us, I opened up to him about my parents, and how my mom hated my dad so much, she didn’t want anything to do with me. It was my grandparents who opened their home to me and loved me unconditionally. That was how I knew love.
Even if I wouldn’t have had my grandparents, I had a feeling Rocco and I would have still found our way together. The love between us would have taught us, because we would have chosen it and put it first—above all.
It was already showing us the way.
“You know,” I whispered as we approached the Ducati. One of the men must have switched the car out for the fast bike. “I think I saw anise not far from here. A wild field of it. Let’s stop there before we go home. I’ll cook dinner tonight for us and make my Nonna’s anisette cookies for dessert. I miss her cookies. She cooked with love. Food that became more than just…food. It was good for the soul too.”
“You will tell me more stories,” he said.
I grinned and touched his face, and even though it wasn’t a question, I nodded and said, “You don’t have to tell me twice to keep talking.”
He leaned down and kissed my lips—it was a kiss so full of thanks, tears escaped from my eyes, and before I could wipe them away without him knowing it, he noticed and wiped them himself.
“Do not cry,” he said, rubbing the salt of my tears on his lips, like he did the pressed oil from an olive. “I am not worth it.”
“Please, never say those words to me again,” I whispered, my eyes fierce on his, tears continuing to run down my face. “You speak those words to me, it means my love isn’t enough either, since you aren’t worth that much.”
