Page 332 of Mario
He does not speak immediately.
When he does, his voice is different, softer.
“She was stubborn,” he says.
I almost smile through the tears in my eyes.
“So you have a type?”
“It would seem so.” He smiles briefly.
“She was kind to people even when they didn't necessarily deserve it. She loved full tables. She believed food solved more problems than it does, maybe all of them.”
My lips tremble.
“She was very devout,” he says. “But she could curse up a storm when she had to.”
His gaze returns to me.
“She hated quiet when it came from loneliness.”
My chest aches.
“Mario.”
He waits.
I force myself to say it outright.
“You still love her.”
“Always,” he says.
The tears slip out before I can stop them.
“That does not mean what you are afraid it means.”
I shake my head, but the words won't come out.
“I don't want you to think that you're some sort of replacement,” he says. “She was my wife. She was the mother of my sons. She died carrying my child. That grief is part of me. It will always be part of me. What I feel for you is separate from all of that.”
“That's not what I'm afraid of,” I say.
“Then what?”
When I don't answer, he puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face up to his.
“I’m afraid because I want that,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine.
“I want the full tables and the house that feels alive. I want the kind of love that leaves grief behind when it’s gone because it mattered that much. I didn't realize how much until just now.” I press my hand to my stomach. “I want this baby to grow up in a house like that.”
His thumb stills beneath my chin.
“But you already had that once.” My voice breaks.
“I know,” he says quietly.
