32. Anthony
— ? —
Anthony
Now - Tuscany
My legs gave out when I saw her coming down the hill.
She’s wearing my shirt, the white one I threw over a chair last night.
It hangs past her thighs, and her feet are bare against the wet grass, and her hair is wild from the storm and sleep and everything that came after.
She looks like something out of a dream - like the girl I fell in love with when I was sixteen, walking toward me through the vines at golden hour.
So I’m on one knee in the mud before she even reaches me.
The foreman’s crew is arriving for the day at the top of the row.
I can hear their voices carrying through the morning mist, the rumble of equipment starting up.
Old Matteo - the one who carried a flashlight down this hill to fetch a crying girl in a blue dress all those years ago - stops dead when he sees us.
He takes off his cap and holds it against his chest, watching.
Alessia stops in front of me.
“What are you doing in the mud?” she asks.
Her voice is soft, confused. The morning light is catching the gold in her eyes, and there’s a crease on her cheek from the pillow, and I’ve never loved anyone the way I love her. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want to be the man she deserves.
“Our anniversary is always going to have the next morning attached to it,” I say. “The courthouse. Your aunt. The cameras. I thought maybe we could make a new day of our own.”
I open my hand.
It’s a plain gold band. No diamond, nothing that sparkles or catches the light. Just a ring. Simple and solid and real.
“Anthony…”
“I want to marry you again,” I tell her. “Honestly this time. No secrets under the altar. No files in a drawer. Vows we both understand.”
I take her cold hand in both of mine. Her fingers are trembling, or maybe that’s me. Maybe it’s both of us.
“I know you’re not ready,” I continue. “I know it could be a long time. I just want you to know that this is what I want. You. Starting over, as many times as it takes.”
She’s laughing a little, this broken sound that’s half sob and half something lighter, and she doesn’t wipe her face.
“That’s not how marriage works,” she says. “You can’t just start over.”
“Then we’ll make it work however we need to.” I hold up the ring. “Wear it as a promise. Whenever you believe me all the way, we’ll do it right.”
She looks at the ring for a long time. The gold catches the early light, warm and steady.
She looks up the row at Matteo and his crew, who are pretending very badly not to watch. Some of them have stopped working entirely, leaning on their tools, waiting to see what happens. Then she looks back down at me, kneeling in the mud in the spot where she waited for me once and I never came.
She looks at the ring for a long moment, and then her face goes carefully, deliberately blank.
“No,” she says.
For three full seconds I forget how lungs work. Up the row, one of the pickers stops whistling. I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t have to decide today, doesn’t have to decide ever, and nothing comes out.
Her mouth twitches.
“Oh my God, your face.” She’s laughing now, this helpless, delighted sound, pressing the back of her wrist against her mouth to try to stop it. “Anthony. I’m joking. I’m terrible, I know I’m terrible. You’ve gone white as the shirt.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.” She’s still laughing, and there are tears running down through it, and I can’t tell anymore where one stops and the other starts. “Yes. Obviously yes. I’ve worn your name for three years. I can wear your ring while we work out the rest of it.”
She takes the ring out of my palm and slides it onto her own finger before I find my voice again.
I pull her against me with my arms wrapped tight around her waist and my face buried in her hair, and I hold on like I’m never letting go. I don’t tell her my heart is still slamming. I don’t tell her that somewhere in those three seconds I decided I was never doing this the ordinary way again.
Up at the top of the row, Matteo puts his cap back on and says something to his crew in Italian. They break into applause.