Chapter 17 - The Wedding Question
Three months after Alessandro came home, he asked whether we were still engaged.
Not romantically.
We were arguing about kitchen cabinets.
“You still hate dark wood.”
“Yes.”
“My mother liked dark wood.”
“Your mother also hid murder evidence in a coffin.”
“Unrelated.”
“Everything in your family is related.”
He stared.
Then suddenly:
“Are we still getting married?”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Five years ago, you kept the ring.”
“Yes.”
“You still wear it.”
I looked at my hand.
I did.
Some days I forgot it was there.
“Do you want to marry me?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His face changed.
“That is insulting.”
“It is important.”
He sat.
“Because I love you.”
“Not enough.”
“Because I want a life where you are legally empowered to complain about my medical decisions.”
“Better.”
“Because prison taught me time is not promised.”
“Cliché.”
“Because every morning I still want to know what you think before anyone else.”
I became quiet.
“And because I do not need you to belong to me.”
There.
That was the answer.
I sat across from him.
“I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of us.”
“Good.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Fear keeps us honest.”
“Apparently prison made you philosophical.”
“Mostly bored.”
I laughed.
Then:
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Not Il Cielo.”
“Agreed.”
“Not a Moretti property.”
“Agreed.”
“No five-hundred-person guest list.”
He looked offended.
“Two hundred?”
“Forty.”
“One hundred.”
“Fifty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Sixty.”
“Done.”
We married in spring.
At a botanical garden.
Emma was junior bridesmaid.
Noah escorted Lucia.
Sofia stood beside Alessandro.
Marco was best man and complained about the flower arrangements.
Theresa told him to shut up.
Caterina was alive in a medical prison facility.
She sent no gift.
Bianca remained incarcerated.
Rachel sent a letter through her attorney wishing us peace.
We did not invite press.
We did not sell photographs.
We did not pretend Alessandro’s past vanished because he wore a suit in sunlight.
The wedding was not redemption.
It was continuation.
Before I walked down the aisle, Emma handed me something.
A folded piece of paper.
“What?”
“Read later.”
I slipped it into my bouquet.
During the reception, I opened it.
A child’s handwriting had become teenage handwriting.
Elena,
When I was six, I thought powerful people were the ones everyone was afraid of.
Now I think powerful people are the ones who can hear the truth even when they hate it.
You heard me.
Alessandro eventually did too.
Please don’t serve chocolate cake.
Emma.
May you like
I laughed so hard mascara ran.
We served lemon.
