20. Solenne #2
“I want to dance with Mama and Daddy first.”
“I know. But closer to the music means you can hear it better.”
Summer considers this. “Can I see the instruments?”
“If we go over there.” Delfina points to a spot near the stage.
“Can Mama and Daddy come?”
“They’ll be right behind us.”
Summer looks at me for permission. I nod, and she takes Delfina’s hand, pulling her toward the band with the single-minded determination of a five-year-old on a mission.
Valentin and I follow at a slower pace. The crowd has thickened, people pressing toward the dance area, and I find myself scanning faces without meaning to.
Looking for the ones who watched me stand at the edge last year.
Looking for signs of recognition, of judgment, of the calculations I used to see everywhere.
Some people are watching us. But they’re watching everyone. That’s what happens at festivals. People look at each other, notice who’s wearing what, comment on who came with whom. It’s not always about me.
I don’t have to guess which of them believed the story anymore. Tonight I can choose where to look. Summer is pointing at a drum nearly as big as she is.
“You’re thinking,” Valentin says.
“I’m always thinking.”
“Louder than usual.”
I look at him. “Last year, I stood over there.” I point to the spot near the edge, by the food stalls. “I watched you from there. Summer kept asking why you weren’t coming to find us.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t know then.”
“No. I didn’t.” He stops walking, turning to face me fully. The crowd moves around us, a river parting around a stone. “I keep thinking about what I missed. All the moments I should have seen and didn’t. Standing over there, watching, was one of them.”
“I don’t need you to apologize again.”
“I’m sorry I stood for that photograph,” he says. “I should have been looking for you.”
“You looked for me tonight. Even in our bedroom mirror.” I touch his sleeve. “I noticed.”
The music starts, a traditional piece that’s been the opening song for as long as this festival has existed. Couples begin to move onto the dance floor.
Summer appears at my elbow, having abandoned Delfina’s hand for a better vantage point.
“It’s starting! Can we go?”
I look at Valentin. He offers his hand.
“Come on, piccola,” he says to Summer. “Let’s show your mama how it’s done.”
The three of us step onto the dance floor together. Valentin takes one of my hands and one of Summer’s, and I take Summer’s other hand, forming a small circle. It’s not how the traditional dance is supposed to go, but no one stops us.
Summer bounces between us, not quite keeping time with the music but clearly enjoying herself enormously. She spins when the music spins, dips when she decides to dip, and at one point tries to lead both of us in a direction the dance isn’t going.
“I’m in charge,” she announces.
“You’re in charge,” Valentin agrees.
We dance like that for the whole song. People move around us, proper couples doing proper steps, and we orbit each other in our little triangle, laughing when Summer gets tangled in her own feet, lifting her up when she decides she wants to spin higher.
When the song ends, Summer is breathless and delighted.
“Again!”
“Again,” I agree.
The next song is slower. Valentin lifts Summer onto his hip and offers me his free hand. I step closer, and we sway together, the three of us, Summer’s head drooping against his shoulder as the excitement finally catches up with her.
“She’s fading,” I say.
“I can see that.”
“Should we find Delfina?”
“In a minute.”
We dance through the rest of the song, slower and slower as Summer gets heavier against him. By the time the music fades, she’s nearly asleep.
The first firework wakes her properly. Her head jerks up, and she points so urgently that Valentin turns before the next one opens above the rooftops.
“That one was a flower!”
“I saw it,” he tells her.
She watches from his arms, one hand over an ear, explaining each burst to us as if we might miss it without her help. I lean against his other side. Last year she left before this part. Tonight, when a shower of gold hangs over the square, she has both of us looking where she points.
After the last burst, she asks if there are more. When we tell her that’s all, she drops her head onto Valentin’s shoulder again.
Delfina joins us, fastening her cardigan. “Marco’s collecting me by the fountain. Shall we take her home?”
“If you’re ready to go,” I say.
“My feet have been ready for half an hour.”
We walk with her to the car. Valentin settles Summer into her seat while I tuck her cardigan around her and kiss her cheek. Her yellow balloon bobs against the roof.
“Don’t let it go,” she murmurs.
“I won’t.” I fasten its ribbon to the handle of her little bag.
Delfina promises to message when Summer is in bed. Marco waits until we have stepped back, then drives away slowly through the departing families.
I turn back to Valentin.
“Dance with me?” he asks.
“Again?”
“Properly this time. Without a five-year-old between us.”
The band starts another song, something slower and more romantic. I step into his arms.
We dance.
This is how it should have been last year. His hand at my waist, my hand on his shoulder, the music carrying us in circles while the lights spin overhead. The crowd around us fades to a blur of color and movement, and for a few minutes, it’s just us.
“I thought I’d feel everyone watching,” I say against his shoulder.
“Do you?”
“No. I’m mostly thinking about how long it’s been since we danced without someone telling us how to stand.”
He turns me beneath his arm. I come back laughing, slightly off balance, and he catches my hand.
“Better?”
“Much.”
We stay for another song.
By the time it ends, my feet are beginning to agree with Delfina’s. Valentin retrieves my cardigan, and we say goodnight to the people we pass on our way out.
Beyond the square, the music follows us down a narrow street, growing quieter at each turn. My phone lights up with Delfina’s message: Summer is asleep, and the balloon is safely tied to the foot of her bed.
I show Valentin, then put the phone away and take his hand.
“I’ve been working on something,” Valentin says.
“Working on what?”
“The schedule. Our schedule, I mean.” He slows as we reach the lane above the town. “My work can be organized differently than it has been. More flexibility about where I’m based.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can spend at least half the year in Los Angeles. More if you need it. Summer’s school is there. Your work is there. Those are the things that shouldn’t move.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “You’ve been in LA most of this past year already.”
“In temporary arrangements. Short-term rentals. Always knowing I was going back here eventually.” He meets my eyes. “I want to plan this with you. Our actual life. Not just where I happen to be while we figure things out.”
“Summer’s school stays our starting point,” I say. “We can’t split her year down the middle.”
“We won’t. This is what I can change, not a timetable I’ve made for you both.”
I look toward the sea, a dark shape beyond the lamps along the lane. “I’ll need stretches here too. When I’m writing. I missed it more than I wanted to admit.”
“Then we make room for those.”
“We’ll figure out the details together,” he says. “Your schedule, my schedule, Summer’s school calendar. Build it around what works for our family, not around what’s easiest for me.”
“We’ll need a calendar bigger than the one on my fridge.”
“We’ll start with the fridge and see how badly we run out of space.”
“What about the villa?” I ask. “You love this house.”
“I do. I want you to want to come here, too.” He looks back toward the square. “I don’t want a house you have to give up the rest of your life to live in.”
We walk a little farther. At the bend, he takes my hand in both of his and blows warmth over my fingers. Such a familiar thing, and tonight I don’t move past it.
“Valentin.”
“Yes?”
The words have been sitting in my chest for days. Weeks, maybe. Longer. I’ve thought about when to say them so many times, turning the moment over in my mind, trying to find the perfect timing.
There is no perfect timing. There’s just now.
“I love you.”
He stops. My hand is still between his, and for a second he only looks at me.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, Valentin,” I say, before he can ask once more. “I haven’t stopped.”
He kisses me beside the low stone wall, with the festival still audible behind us. His hand rests at the back of my neck. I hold his jacket and kiss him back, smiling so much that we have to stop.
“I’ve missed hearing that,” he says.
“I know.”
He touches his forehead to mine. He doesn’t thank me for the words or ask me to promise them again. We stand there until a pair of voices approaches along the lane, and then he shifts to give the walkers room to pass.
One of them wishes us goodnight. I answer, still laughing.
“Home?” Valentin asks.
“Home.”
I take his hand and start up the lane. He follows, then lengthens his stride when I don’t slow down.
“Your feet aren’t hurting anymore?”
“They are. I’d like to get these shoes off.”
“I can carry you.”
“You carried Summer for half the evening.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
I glance at him. “You look quite strong.”
“Then imagine.”
I laugh and pull him closer for another kiss, brief this time, a promise I don’t have to explain. Above the trees, I can see the light in our bedroom window. The photographs will be in the foyer when we get there, and Summer will be asleep upstairs with her balloon.
For once, I want the road to be shorter.
“Come on,” I tell him.
This time, I’m the one making him hurry home.