For her.
Even mountains fell at her feet.
Who was I then, a mere fucking man, to think I could ever stand against her?
Her eyes found mine, the connection sending a lightning bolt through her and then through me, and a trembling breath that tangled with the chilled wind seemed to come from her mouth and mine. I took a knee in front of her, slipped the blood diamond on her left hand, where it was always meant to be, and held her cold hand in mine, directing her to stand.
The marble was cold. The wind was cold.
My wife wouldn’t be cold. Not if my body burned for hers.
Even after death.
She had set my soul on fire—but only around the edges. The most important area, the area that was eternal, was protected and preserved by her love.
If I lost that—I was lost.
So fucking lost.
I closed my eyes and kissed her hand. “In this life and all others, in death, in heaven, we will never part,” I said in Italian. “You are my wife, and I am your husband, Sistine Evita Fausti.”
She squeezed my hand, the trembling of her bones wracking mine, and then I rose to my full height at the command of her hand. I looked down at her, and she looked up at me. I took her hand and set her earbuds in them. She had given them to me before the maze.
“Yours,” I said. “You. You’re all mine. This is why I found you—I’ll always find you, even without the unnatural. Fate. Fate has its own compass—destiny.” I took her hand and hit my heart with it.
We left the maze without a word, our hands locked, and afterward, a photographer was waiting to capture our day. My sister was all over the place. One minute she was over there, and the next, she would be in front of our faces, telling us how to pose, or telling us to be natural.
My sister had a natural talent when it came to the camera, inheriting it from our mamma, who at one time had been invited to collaborate with top-name publishers to create books from the photographs she had taken over the years.
A few hours later, my wife was whisked away from me again. This time, to prepare for our church wedding. We married at sunset at The Church of San Leopoldo in Follonica.
My wife wore the same gown from the maze.
Our eyes connected, the connection between us a slow-moving heat that would eventually rise to a fire. But there was a cold that refused to leave my wife. I was not as touched as my mamma and my sister, but it felt as if I could touch it. I felt it when I touched her. She had some residual issues with me from our time apart.
I wouldn’t dwell on those then.
Later.
When her time was fully up—the time to shy away from me—she would allow whatever was eating at her to go free. She would get mad. Throw a tantrum. Pitch breakable things at me. Come at me with her claws drawn. Cause battle wounds against my body. Steal the heart from my chest. But I wouldn’t allow indifference bred by a hurt I wasn’t aware of to come between us.
Nothing would.
I would kill anything that dared.
The night moved, and we moved with it to our home in Grosseto.
Our reception was set deep in the woods surrounding the property. Wooden tables were set out with decorations fit formy wife. If she was happy, I was fucking happy. A band played. My grandfather sang. My parents gave us a gift. A 1965 Chevy Impala. The car was still in Louisiana, but Mamma had a picture painted of it, with my wife and I occupying the front seat. My old man said it still needed a little work, but he thought he and I could take care of it in no time. My parents thought my wife and I would like to cruise like they did in my old man’s vintage car, the one he brought back to life himself.
We’d probably find a copy of Ben E. King’s “Stand By Me” in it. The song held meaning in my family because it had meaning to my mamma’s brother, Elliott, and my old man. Mamma even taught me how to dance a combination of the rumba and bachata to it.
Then my wife changed her gown. She wore the gown from our wedding in Wyoming.
Shewas the reason I seemed to be breathing, but she stole my breath time and time again. It was the most natural thing, while also being the most unnatural. Like she was breathing air into my life but stealing it from my lungs at the same time. I couldn’t get control of it. I couldn’t rope it in and make it submit. I was powerless against her.
My knees didn’t feel so secure anymore, but my feet were planted firmly in front of her. The feeling was so fucking overwhelming, my hand went directly to my heart to ease the ache.
Pain never bothered me.
