She’s different here. More herself. The woman I met at the trial was vibrating with anxiety. The woman who broke into my house was desperate, grasping for something solid. But this woman, standing in her bakery, surrounded by evidence of a life she’s building, she’s neither of those things.
She’s relaxed in her skin.
“Wine?” she asks.
“Please.”
She pours. We sit at the small table by the window. The candle flickers between us.
“Thank you,” she says, and her voice wobbles a little. “For the gifts. Especially the mixer. You didn’t have to. You know that thing has more horsepower than my first car?”
“I wanted to.”
“It’s insane. Like, should I get a helmet? Or just hand over my social security number now?”
“It’s not enough.” I hold her gaze. “Nothing would be enough. Not for what I should have said months ago.”
“Which is?”
I’ve rehearsed this. The whole drive here, I practiced what I would say, how I would explain. But now that I’m sitting across from her, all my careful words feel inadequate.
“I left my door unlocked.” I try to keep my words measured, but her eyes make it hard. “Because I couldn’t bring myself to ask you to stay. I set schedules instead of having conversations. I let you come to me instead of going to you.”
She snorts, gentle and biting. “Yeah, your scheduling kink almost gave me an ulcer or a baby. Unclear which was happening. We should unpack that.”
I turn the wine glass in my hands. “I was afraid. Of wanting too much. Of losing you.”
She lifts her glass. “You could’ve just said you liked me, you know. I might’ve baked you a cake. Or kidnapped you.”
“Saul came to see me,” I continue. “Told me you were struggling. That you missed.” I stop. “That you weren’t whole.”
She waits.
“He loves you. He wanted you to have what you needed, even if that meant sharing you with men he has every reason to hate.” I meet her eyes. “That’s what love looks like, Stevie. Not unlocked doors and careful schedules. Action. Risk. Being willing to lose everything for the chance that she might be happy.”
Her eyes are wet. I file it away. Keep going.
“I’m here because I should have been here months ago. Because leaving notes was cowardice and I’m done being a coward. Because I want.” My voice catches. I let it. “I want to know who you are now. Not who you were when you testified. Not who you were when you broke into my house. Who you arehere, in this life, with this bakery and this name and this future you’re building.”
“Dario.”
“I’m not asking for anything. Not tonight. I just needed you to know.” I set down my glass. “I’m done hiding behind doors. I’m here. And I’d like to stay, if you’ll let me.”
She stands up.
For a moment I think I’ve said too much, pushed too far. Months of careful control and I’ve ruined it in one speech.
Then she’s in front of me. Reaching out. Taking my hand.
“Upstairs, Marchetti. Before I start writing sonnets about your tragic, brooding ass and scare off all my customers.”
I follow her upstairs.
Her apartment’s small.
I knew it would be. Saul described it during our conversation, one bedroom, a modest kitchen, a living room that doubles as everything else.
But knowing and seeing are different things.
