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“That’s so perfect,” I said. “Ella will love it, because she studies space and stuff.”
“Yes, Dev’s been working on his proposal speech for a couple weeks. The big line is:You’re my whole universe.”
I pretended to faint. “That’s too romantic. I’m dead.”
“Me too. We’re both dead.”
We slumped in our first class seats together, settling in for the hop over to Milan. The violin he’d made me was in its case, tucked carefully beneath the seat. Skywritten proposals and speeches of love were all well and good, but he’d made me a violin that would last hundreds of years, and bring me, and future owners, untold magnitudes of happiness. When I played Milo’s violin, I felt those magnitudes in the tones it produced. He’d made me a miraculous thing.
And yet he could still sit beside me, a normal, slightly frazzled man. “Worried about seeing your family?” I asked.
“Why would I be worried?”
“It’s your parents’ first time hearing this violin. My parents too.”
“Think they won’t like it?”
“You know they’re going to like it,” I said, nudging him. “You’re worried that your father will be upset when he realizes you’ve become a better luthier than him or your grandfather.”
“Shh.” He shook his head. “Not better or worse, just different.” He took my chin in his hands and kissed me, rough and quick. “And if they hear you play it, of course it’s going to sound like the finest violin in the history of the world.”
“Too romantic. I’m dying again.”
He grinned at me as he brushed back an errant lock of his dark hair. As the plane flew over the ocean, I thought about which song I should play for our families as we celebrated Milo’s achievement. Probably Vivaldi. There was no better choice to express my happiness. It wasn’t great to lose everything you owned in an explosion and fire, but I was alive, and everything had turned out more wonderfully than I could have imagined.
“Oh,” said Milo, turning to me. “I was talking to Fort on Monday, about The Gallery and the rules. He suggested we tweak them a little.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. For those of us who have trouble sharing our pretty toys. You know the lock on the collar, the one that saysProperty of the Gallery?”
“Oh!” I blinked at him. “Members can take them on and off.”
He threw up his hands. “If it’s so obvious to everyone, why are we only thinking of this now? Yes, the idea is that people who are into sharing have the lock attached, and people who want a private scene leave it off. I explained it in the email to all the current members, and every response so far has been positive, so…”
“So we can go back!”
“Yes, if you want to.”
“That’s amazing news. Yes, I want to!” My one sadness about loving Milo was that he might have to forgo certain needs on my account. Now, even if he didn’t want to share me, he could take me to the dungeon he’d help build, and let out some of that wildness that attracted me in the first place. “Although, if we go back, you mighthurt me there,” I whispered.
“Don’t flirt with me. Not now, when I can’t do anything about it.”
“We’ll be in Milan in a few hours, if you really want to do something about it.”
“You realize we won’t be in the same room, right? Knowing my mother, once she finds out we’re a couple, she’ll make you bed down in a whole different wing of the house.”
“Then I’ll sneak over to your wing after dark. I’m not afraid of your mother.” I thought a moment. “Actually, I am a little afraid of your mother. Do you know the name she decided on? The one she picked for my violin?”
“She might not know it herself yet. She’ll want to pick it up first and see what it’s ‘telling her.’ All Fierro matriarchs possess special violin-communicating abilities.” His fingers tightened on mine, and he gave me a look that made my heart pound wildly in my chest. “Maybe you’ll be the next one, Alice. You’re pretty good with violins, even if you’re not Italian.”
All I could do was stare at him. So many things flashed through my mind: music, children, a happy marriage, and waking up next to Milo every day, kissing him good morning and running my fingers through his tousled, bedhead hair. “I’ll sully the Fierro family line with my ginger-Swedish genes,” I joked, to cover my deeper feelings. “Maybe we’re not a good idea after all.”
“There are ginger Italians too. It’s possible you’re stuck with me, Lala. We’ll see.”
Our relationship was young, with plenty of years to develop, but it also felt old as time, especially when he called me Lala. I closed my eyes and rested my head against his shoulder, dreaming of Italian weddings and spirited ginger-Milo babies. In a way, I couldn’t picture any of it, because the dream was too wonderful and gigantic, but in another way, it felt like it’d always been meant to be.
*
