Finally, I’m at peace with that.
Which brings me to today. To what I have planned.
Getting one over on Troy.
Troy and I are lying back on the picnic blanket beneath the chestnut tree, praying it doesn’t drop its nuts like well-aimed missiles at our heads. We’ve just finished devouring a picnic of bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine that we still prefer to share the way we first did—by exchanging heated kisses instead of using glasses.
He rolls toward me. “What are you thinking about?”
I point upward. “That cloud. It started as a dragon. Then, a ship. Now, I think it’s a pterodactyl.”
“That’s awfully imaginative.” He reaches for my free hand, tugging me closer. “I was going to ask how your day was, but I think you finding pictures in clouds tells me it went pretty well.”
“It was good,” I affirm.
He leans up on his arm, “How about we try for perfect?”
“Overachiever,” I accuse as he brushes a kiss at the corner of my mouth.
“With you? Always.”
I smile during his kiss. It tastes like early fall, wine, and joy. My favorite flavors.
After a while, Troy pulls back and rubs his thumb down the hollow of my cheek. “You’ve got that face…”
“What face?”
“The one that says you have something on your mind. What is it?”
“It’s nothing major,” I deny, knowing the next few minutes are about to change the trajectory of our lives together.
He leans down and plucks another kiss from my lips. “Liar.”
“That’s you.”
“I never lie,” he manages with a straight face.
“No? Who ate the burnt toast this morning and didn’t complain?”
“Semantics. It was made with love.” He declares, unbothered because to him, that’s what love is. It’s him, it’s me, it’s the occasional burnt toast, but it’s togetherness. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight ofTenuta delle Ombre. It’s trust that’s weathered storms and is still standing.
We fall quiet, me curled into his side. My heart is thundering, but it has nothing to do with the wine. Then, he shifts, trying to move his body upward—so determined to be a traditionalist in this when in our day to day lives there’s no his or her plays.
There’s only winning in the game of love.
His mouth opens to ask something I know he’s been working up to—several times in fact.
I lay my finger on his lips. “Don’t.”
A myriad of emotions flash across his face—hurt, confusion, but then the one I was waiting to see. Trust. “Why?”
“Because I want to.”
Troy’s breath catches. I wish I had thought to set up a video because the look on his face—the shock, the awe—nearly unravels me.
And I haven’t even asked the question yet.
I reach into the canvas bag I insisted on carrying and feel around for the small hand-carved wooden box. It’s something I had been planning on giving him for Christmas, but when it was delivered to me early last week, well, the timing seemed fortuitous. I run my fingers over the smooth top, surprised at how difficult it is to summarize a year’s worth of love into words.
