June was looking at the stage again.
With my forefinger under her chin, I made her look at me. “You said I wasn’t scared of anything, June. That I’d just go back to Milano, unscathed. Remember? I looked it up. I’m scathed, June, by you. And Iamscared. I’m scared of losing you.”
“Why?” She was looking straight at me, and it gutted me that she was asking this in earnest. No man had ever fought for her.
“Because I’ve never felt this way before, and I know I never will. There’s only oneyou.”
“But look at her.” She veered her head toward the stage. She’d guessed that wastheAmber I had told her about, and I could only imagine what she thought of her being here.
“What about her? She showed up. I didn’t invite her.”
“I’m not her.”
I made her look at me again. “No, June. She’s notyou.”
37
June
She’s not you. I etched that on my heart.
“I’m not rock ’n’ roll, Angelo,” I warned.
It had been a four-hour drive, and I’d had many opportunities to turn back. Yet, I hadn’t. I’d let my heart lead me for once. I wanted to stop fighting my feelings, stop depriving myself of them. All of them. Even pain. And I needed him to know that I chose him, too.
But I was still me, and although life had no guarantees, I had to make sure. I had to go over every item on the cons column of my pros and cons list, starting with our age difference. The pros column included only one word—Angelo.
Entering the club after trying him at home and the shop, I’d heard the live music and known he’d be part of it. And he was; up on the stage, looking like he was born for it. Seeing him, hearing him play, along with the lyrics they sang, had spread inside me like waves of happiness and pain.
BecauseI’m still in love with you.
I did the last thing I had imagined myself doing—I sang out loud, not as part of an entire audience or by myself in my car but protruding all alone on the floor with nowhere to hide, joining the tune the man I loved was playing.
By the time Angelo reached me, my heart flew out of my body, so high it soared.
Yet, I still had to check every con on my list, especially since the woman he had once wanted to marry was on the stage, doing what he loved doing.
“I’m not rock ’n’ roll, Angelo.”
He smiled. “Not the simple kind. You’re raw, alternative, grunge rock. My favorite. You’re jazz—can be annoying and harder to master.” He chuckled. “I hope you’re not recommending your products like you do yourself.” His eyes softened, and his face steeled. He tapped a forefinger on his forearm. He was in black jeans and a black T-shirt that exposed his tattooed arms, a hot version of Johnny Castle.
“Scopo, amore, musica—aim, love, music. To me, you’re all of these, June.”
I put my hand over his. I didn’t have the words to convey whathewas to me.
“Anyone who sings with Sheryl Crow like you do has music in their bloodstream,” he added with a sly smile.
“You heard that, didn’t you?”
“I did. And I could tell that you scream out your soul with the radio all the time. Scream tome, June.”
While my voice could still carry me, I spoke, feeling my heart everywhere, even in my eyes that drank Angelo in. “Do you have them?”
His smile widened as he reached into his jeans pocket.
Without breaking eye contact, we laughed, a peal of intimate, happy laughter that no one was allowed in on. Our hands blending excitedly, we put the rings on each other’s fingers.
“I love you, Angelo, beyond words,” I managed to whisper before we gripped each other and kissed until whatever was left of the world around us evaporated entirely.
