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It’s our turn to watch in frozen shock as they leave. “It can’t be that easy, right?” I ask.
“Probably not,” Atlas agrees. “But if there’s trouble, we’ll be ready. Meanwhile, you two have a wedding to plan. Or did I misunderstand?”
Gio and I ignore him. Our world has shrunken down to each other. It’s as if we’re our own miniature snow globe, and someone has shaken a storm around us. “You don’t have to do this. Not anymore. If Al Silvio is out of our lives, you now have a choice. A choice that’s not based on guilt or fear or…”
He slams his lips on mine. Cutting my words off as his tongue wraps around mine. The scent, the taste, and the strength of his arms binding me to him—it all feels so right. But I don’t relax until he whispers into my kiss. “From the first time I saw you—there was never any choice.” My thoughts scramble, and I’m pulling the strings apart like Milo with a ball of yarn. “I love you, Jeniah Reynolds. Love everything about you. I want to give you all your firsts. Take you on a million dates and cherish you through all those lifetimes. You only need to say yes.”
“It depends,” I say through my sniffles. “If you get to bring your monster, I get to bring my cat.”
He gives an exaggerated groan before trying, “Maybe we can get rid of both.”
I gasp, “Absolutely not. I love the monster, so you’ll have to love Milo.”
He wraps me in his arms again, shielding me from the cold, trying to seep into my bones now that the adrenaline has worn off, and says, “Deal.” He kisses me again, and through the rapidly brewing haze of lust, his fingers find mine in a pinky swear.
Epilogue
The car slows to a stop, and I feel my heart skip a beat. We’re here—the place I once called home, the house I swore I’d never return to. Gio squeezes my hand, his touch grounding me.
“Ready?” he asks softly.
I nod, not trusting my voice. As we step out of the car, I’m struck by how different everything looks. The gardens, once overgrown and neglected, now burst with vibrant colors. Bright flowers sway in the gentle breeze, their sweet scent filling the air.
Gio leads me up the familiar path, now lined with new stonework. The house itself looks… lighter somehow. The dark, imposing structure of my memories has been transformed. Large windows catch the sunlight, and I can see glimpses of a bright interior.
“You’ve been busy,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Gio smiles, a mix of pride and nervousness in his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. I hope I didn’t overstep…”
As we enter, I’m overwhelmed by the changes. The heavy, oppressive atmosphere is gone, replaced by an airy, open feel.But it’s not until we reach the living room that I truly lose my composure.
There, above the mantle, hangs my mother’s portrait. The sight of her smiling face, captured in oils and preserved in time, brings me to my knees. Tears flow freely down my cheeks as a lifetime of memories washes over me.
Gio is there in an instant, strong arms lifting me up. “Hey,” he murmurs, “you aren’t supposed to cry. It’s okay to be happy. Happy cries are allowed.”
I laugh through my tears, burying my face in his chest. “They’re happy tears, I promise.”
We move through the house, each room holding new surprises. In what used to be a guest bedroom, I find a fully equipped nursery. I turn to Gio, eyes wide with question.
He holds up his hands, a soft smile on his face. “Not now,” he assures me. “I won’t tie you down like that. You’re going to travel, see the world, enjoy your life first. But this will be waiting for us when we’re ready.”
His words warm my heart, and I pull him in for a kiss. When we part, he continues, “I know you said you’d never live here again, and we don’t have to. We have business and family in Chicago, and we can visit often. When we do, if you like, we can stay here. I’ve learned that running from painful memories only makes them stick more. The key is to make art out of the scraps that remain behind.”
He leads me out to the garden, where a stunning sculpture stands as the centerpiece. “This was created from things that couldn’t be saved,” Gio explains. He calls out, and a tall,statuesque woman approaches. “Jeniah, I’d like you to meet Blaise Zephyr, the artist behind this piece.”
Blaise is striking, with smooth dark skin and a muscular frame that speaks of both strength and grace. Her hair is styled in intricate braids that frame her face, highlighting her high cheekbones and intelligent eyes. Even in her classic low-top gym shoes, she’s impressively tall.
As we chat with Blaise, Atlas joins us, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in the artist’s appearance. Suddenly, he blurts out, “What kind of name is that?”
We all turn to stare at him, shocked by the uncharacteristic rudeness. Atlas, usually so smooth, looks flustered. But before he can backtrack, Blaise’s eyes narrow, and she responds with a sharp wit that leaves him looking both chastised and intrigued.
“It’s Creole,” she says, her voice cool and controlled. “I’m from Louisiana, where men treat women with respect and rude comments are a sign of low class.” Her gaze sweeps over Atlas, unimpressed. “But I suppose not everyone has the benefit of a good upbringing.”
Atlas opens his mouth, clearly searching for a response, but Blaise isn’t finished. She turns to Gio and me, her expression softening. “It was a pleasure meeting you both. I truly hope this piece brings you a lifetime of joy.”
With that final ding to Atlas’s ego, she turns on her heel and walks away, her stride purposeful and dignified. Atlas stands there, mouth still slightly agape, looking as if he’s been struck by lightning.
When Atlas excuses himself, presumably to chase after Blaiseand attempt damage control, Gio and I share an amused look. “That was… unusual for him,” I comment, unable to keep the laughter from my voice.
