He takes my face in his hands.
"I want to give you something."
"Okay."
"Two things, actually."
"Okay."
He reaches into his jacket pocket. Pulls out a small leather box. Not a ring box. Smaller. Flatter.
My heart does a thing.
"Gray."
"Hear me out first."
"Okay."
"I've had this for two days. I bought it Wednesday morning at a jeweler in Vancouver who does custom work. I flew down Thursday to pick it up. That's why I was in Vancouver before I came to Toronto. I didn't tell you because I wanted it to be in my hand when I said it."
"What is it."
"Open it."
I take the box.
I open it.
Inside, on dark velvet, is a fine gold chain. Delicate. A small pendant at the center, a flat gold disc, and on it engraved in a tight careful hand is the wordHOME.
Just that.
Home.
My eyes fill.
"Gray."
"It's not a collar in the way you'd wear in the bedroom. It's not that yet. I'll make that one later if you want one, and we'll negotiate it the way we negotiate everything. This one is different. This is the one that goes on your neck right now. That you wear to the grocery store. That you wear to the Globe. That you wear when you fly to Ottawa for work and when you sit in editorial meetings and when you're on calls with sources. It's the one that says where you belong to yourself. Not to me. To yourself. And the word ishomebecause that's what you told me on the porch."
"Gray."
"Put it on."
He lifts it out of the box. I turn. Lift my braids off my neck.
His fingers on the back of my neck. The cool weight of the chain settling at my throat. The small click of the clasp.
I turn back around.
The disc sits in the hollow of my throat.
"It's perfect."
"Yeah?"
"It's perfect, Gray."
