However, Adone was right that death is an awakening. It wakes the survivors left in its wake from the slumber of life, and it forces us to take notice of the small things we might take advantage of.
Mariano Fausti had taught me what it meant to take notice of all the small things, such as the way he commanded a car when he drove it, the same as he did a horse, or a soccer field, or any room he walked into.
Or the way his scent filled the air, and I did not seem to want air unless it did.
Or the way he opened my door no matter where we were, or pulled out my chair, yet at the same time gave me the freedom to make my own choices when it came down to the career I wanted, if I wanted one.
Or how he would take my hand even if we were not seeing eye to eye, letting me know that I was safe within his love. Just because we were not agreeing, he would not manipulate me to give in because he was holding himself from me. He was there. We would work it out. This was why he had locked me in our bedroom in Grosseto until we worked out our differences.
Death, however, woke me up and forced me out of the trees, rising above them. I could see our life in that second, spread out before us, and every second of it, I wanted to keep close. I wanted to count every scar on my husband’s body, every breath he took, absorb his warmth into my skin—holding it in such a deep part of me that someday, when the world looked at us, all they could see was one instead of two.
The same as Mariano’s parents. I could not see Brando Fausti without his wife, as I could not see Scarlett Fausti without her husband.
It made no sense to me.
None.
Just as his grandparents made no sense without each other.
I realized then just how powerful the matches were in the family, and I also realized, perhaps, the cause. The men. If it was the type of relationship Mariano and I shared, the connection, they would fight to the death for it, as would the women, even if in different ways.
The men shielded the body, and the women…armored the soul. It felt ancient, how the Fausti men treated their women, but at the same time, new and tailored to fit the woman they vowed their lives to for the rest of their lives.
I could not see Mariano Fausti without his wife, and I could not see Sistine Fausti without her husband.
My phone rang, and it startled me out of my reflections. Atta. I sighed.
An executive, as she called her, at some big-name recording studio wanted to sign my husband, and the only way to the core of the Fausti family was through another core family member. Since my cousin was married to my husband’s cousin, this executive went through Atta. When I had asked Mariano, he gave a stiff shake of the head, and that was that.
I would call my cousin back later, when my heart did not feel so heavy, since I was not sure if this was what she was calling about again.
Mariano turned into his grandparents’ drive. It was long, surrounded by oak trees swaying with the strong wind. At the end of the drive was a large, stately home. With the dreariness of the day, it almost seemed…cold, though it was bright white. Mariano parked behind other cars that had already arrived.
When he opened my door, a whoosh of humid air invaded the cabin of the car. It seemed to cling to the cold air from the air conditioning, and the frigid air clung to me. I was not sure why I felt as if I was chilled to the bone, but I was. Mariano touched my face and shook his head. He took off his jacket and wrappedit around my shoulders, and I used one hand to keep it secure, the other to hold on to my husband.
We stared at each other.
No words.
Only feelings.
It seemed as if his feelings were rushing him as fast and as hard as mine were rushing through me. My heart pounded in my chest as if it was going to explode out of it, attempting to get to his.
When he leaned in, I thought perhaps he was going to kiss me, but his forehead ran down my throat, chest, and rested against my stomach, his massive hands cradling my hips. I ran my hands through his hair, closing my eyes, and we both seemed to sigh at the same time.
More cars started to arrive.
We sighed again, and it seemed as if we were both giving consent to allow the moment to stretch but not fade. We would reclaim it when the time was right. He lifted to his full height, and I fixed his hair, keeping one hand on his jacket as we made our way toward the house, hand in hand.
No matter what was happening around these men, war or romance, death or a wedding, they held themselves as if they were the strongest force in the room. I could feel the power my husband radiated through touch alone. He would be strong for his mamma. The same way he was always strong for me.
Voices were hushed in the house as a woman came to take the jacket from me. I thanked her but declined. The house felt colder than the car.
What happened after was a long, lingering reception that almost felt…dull without the booming voice of Mariano’s grandfather. It was a stark reminder of who Gramps had been in life, and the void he had left behind.
By the end of the evening, it was almost a relief that it was over. I was weighed down by the heaviness of the day.
The storm was growing meaner outside, only adding to the morose feel. I had come to terms with my fear of them, and by the time we slipped into a guest bedroom at his grandparents’ house, my eyes had closed a second before my head hit the pillow.
