Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Our lips meet, seeking each other with slow nudges. I set down the binder onto the table as I move up into his lap, circling his neck with my arms. He breathes a sigh of contentment as I settle onto him, laying my body against his chest, my face nuzzled into his throat. His arms are tight around me as we listen to the fire crackle.

"It seems like it's just one thing after another, doesn't it?" he asks, disrupting the silence.

I nod, refusing to open my eyes. They're so tired. "It does."

"Do you remember the last time you were happy? I mean, truly happy? For more than a night, or a day?"

I do. It was months ago. "Italy."

"I was going to say the same thing."

"Maybe Maria will still let us stay there next time. She might forgive us for messing all of this up when we fix it."

He chuckles. "I'm sure she will be happy to see you again, Scarlett."

"We'll...probably have someone else with us," I admit, my thumb moving over my lip slowly. His pause is noticeable. He presses his lips to my hair.

"We'll get our happiness, Scarlett. At some point, we will..."

I must have drifted into sleep against him, because I wake up on the couch, a blanket draped over my body. My eyes first catch the time on the clock, which reads four AM, before swiveling over to the man still hard at work, seated at the counter, drawing onto a pad.

I don't know why he can't sleep. I should ask, but I doubt he wants to speak on it, just as I haven't wanted to. He's wearing black pajama pants, which indicates he intended to sleep, but hasn't gotten around to it.

My eyes travel over the blades of his shoulders, and down the olive skin of his back, drinking in the familiar muscles, the familiar shape of him and his words from earlier seem to be my only thought process.

"We'll get our happiness, Scarlett. At some point, we will..."

We're both hanging by a thread here, both trying so hard to be strong. Everything in our lives has tried to tear us apart, and we've prevailed against it all. But—it's definitely taken it's toll.

We're together now. We're breathing the same air, and yet, we're both so far apart, trying to cope with every blow. We're so used to them, that I'm sure at this very moment he's worrying about when the next one will strike.

I want to make things better for him. I want to see him smile.

I want him to be happy for more than just a day, or a night.

He deserves to be.

This man who has been my strength, my only light in all of this. Who wants to save me from every bad thing in this world. Who is so desperate to make my life better than it's ever been.

This beautiful, selfless man I've devoted myself to in every way, but one.

For once, I want to give him even a fraction of what he's given me.

He doesn't notice me sit up, nor does he notice when I stand, onto shaky legs.

I stare at him, my heart in my throat, my mind consumed with only one thought.

"I want to marry you," I breathe into the air.

His pencil slows against the paper. I wait, having never been more sure of anything in my life.

He sets down his work, and peers at me over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and rest there, absorbing my confession, my request. I shake my head, gulping so I can speak without stuttering. Never in a million years did I ever expect to ask someone to marry me, willingly.

But here I am, begging him to.

"I don't want to wait. I don't care where we do it, how we do it, or who goes. I just want to be married to you. I-I want to be your wife. I want you to be my husband." I'm scared, and I don't know why. He's already proposed to me. Perhaps it's the shock plastered on his face that hasn't left yet. I smile, nervously, moving a few steps closer. But something stops me.

I want him to want this too. I want him to meet me halfway.

"We don't have to wait...we can make our own happiness, Giovanni."

He stands, and the bench groans against the floor abruptly. The closer he gets, walking slow as if he were dragging each second of this moment to make it last longer, that's when I notice the gleam in his eye, the spark that's been gone for so long, concealed by stress, and worry, and pain.

We're forcing fates hand.

He stops right in front of me, illuminated by only firelight, and his lopsided smile widens.

"Your car or mine?"