Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Marina
"Keep your eyes closed."
Dante's hands cover my face from behind. His chest presses against my back as he guides me forward. Gravel crunches under my feet.
"If you wanted me dead," I say, "this seems unnecessarily complicated."
His laugh rumbles through me. Low. Warm.
"I would die first." His lips brush my ear. The words are quiet. Certain. "You're going to live many, many years, cara mia. And you need to take care of this."
"Take care of what?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, his hands fall away from my eyes.
I blink against the sunlight.
And then I see it.
A house. White siding. Blue shutters. A wraparound porch with two rocking chairs.
A white picket fence surrounds the front yard. An actual white picket fence, like something from a movie I watched as a kid and never forgot.
There's a garden. Small. Neat rows of soil waiting for seeds. A trellis against the side of the house, ready for climbing roses.
And sitting on the porch steps, tail wagging so hard its entire body shakes, is a golden retriever puppy.
"What is this?" My voice comes out strange. Thin.
Dante moves beside me. I can feel his tension without looking at him.
"Did I remember wrong?" The words tumble out fast. Nervous. "You said—I thought you said—a house. With a fence. And a dog. You told me once, when we were in Denver, about what you dreamed of as a kid. Before everything. You said you wanted—"
I drop to my knees.
The gravel bites into my skin. I don't care.
The sob tears out of me before I can stop it. Then another. Then I'm crying so hard I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but kneel in front of this house that shouldn't exist.
This house that he built from a throwaway comment I made at three in the morning.
This house that proves he listened. That he remembered. That every word I've ever said to him mattered enough to keep.
"Marina." Dante's voice is rough. Worried. "Marina, look at me."
I can't. I can't stop crying long enough to lift my head.
His arms slide under me. One behind my back, one beneath my knees. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, pulling me against his chest.
"There's no need to cry." His lips press against my temple. My cheek. The corner of my mouth. "Please don't cry."
I grab his face with both hands.
And I kiss him.
Hard.
Desperate.
He groans against my mouth and pulls me closer. His arms tighten around me until there's no space between us, until I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, until I forget where I end and he begins.
The puppy barks.
We break apart, breathing hard.
"You remembered," I whisper.
"I remember everything." His forehead rests against mine. "Every word. Every look. Every time you smiled when you thought I wasn't watching."
"Dante—"
"This is yours." He sets me down but doesn't let go. His hands frame my face. "The house. The garden. The dog that's probably going to chew everything we own. It's all yours."
"Ours," I correct him.
Something flickers in his eyes. Hope. Fear. The same vulnerability I saw when he broke down in the shower.
"Ours," he repeats. Like he's testing the word. Like he's not sure he's allowed to say it.
The puppy bounds down the porch steps and crashes into our legs. Its tail wags so hard it nearly knocks itself over.
I laugh through my tears and crouch down to pet it. Soft fur. Warm body. A pink tongue that immediately tries to lick my entire face.
"Does it have a name?" I ask.
"That's your job." Dante crouches beside me. The puppy immediately abandons me to climb into his lap. "I just bought the thing."
"You bought a house and a puppy."
"I adopted him. And I had the fence." He scratches behind the puppy's ears. "Don't forget the fence."
"I love you," I say.
The words feel too small. Too simple for everything I feel.
But Dante's face transforms. The tension drains out of his shoulders. His eyes soften.
"I love you too." He reaches for me, pulling me against his side while the puppy squirms between us.
The puppy yips and tries to climb up my chest. I catch it before it falls, laughing as it licks my chin.
"We should go inside," Dante says. "See the rest of it."
"There's more?"
"There's a kitchen." He stands and offers me his hand. "I'm going to teach you how to cook without burning water."
"I don't burn water."
"You burned pasta last week."
"The water was involved. It doesn't count."
He pulls me to my feet. The puppy races ahead of us toward the porch, tripping over its own feet twice before making it up the steps.
I look at the house again. At the fence. At the garden waiting to be planted.
At the life waiting to be lived.
"Thank you," I say.
Dante squeezes my hand. "Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the bathroom. The tiles are terrible."
"Then why did you buy it?"
"Because you said you liked blue." He shrugs. "The tiles are blue."
I stop walking. He turns to look at me, confusion crossing his face.
"What?"
I kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower.
When I pull back, he's smiling. The kind that reaches his eyes and transforms his entire face.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go home."
Home.
The word settles into my chest and stays there.
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