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“Really?” Elio says, sounding genuinely surprised. “There’s different colouring, sure. But when I saw that photo, I thought you both had the exact same smile.”
My breath catches. No one has ever told me that before. Anytime anyone ever commented on my appearance growing up, it was always to remark upon the red hair I inherited from my father. But as I stare down at the photograph, I suddenly see that Elio is right. How did he notice that when nobody else did? Not even me?
I wipe at my eyes again, then hug the photo, platinum case and all, to my chest. Now that I know what’s inside, the violin and bow engraved on the front are even more meaningful. Because that’s something that I shared with her.
“Was there anything else at the house of note?” I ask, trying to move my mind onto more practical questions because otherwise I think my heart might crack right open. “Anything to do with my father?”
I’m curious if there were any signs that he’s been back to the house, though I doubt he has been. And after everything that’s happened, after it’s become crystal clear that he never planned to come back for me after selling me out in the first fucking place, I have no interest in seeing him even if he does come back.
“There was…” Elio pauses for so long I think something’s gone wrong with the call.
“Elio?”
“There was nothing else.” His voice is suddenly clipped, like he’s pissed about something. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about my dad.
Which is fair enough. Because neither do I.
“Alright, well… I guess I’ll let you go,” I say, but the words are halting, like I don’t want to end the call at all. The bed suddenly feels so empty, and before I can reign it in, there’s a stab of desire. The desire to have Elio here with me.
“Did you sleep in the bed last night?” I ask abruptly.
“Sure did,” he says, and he doesn’t sound annoyed anymore. He sounds like a very smug cartoon cat with a bird’s wing caught beneath its paw. “You didn’t even stir when I got home. Guess I tired you out too much in my office yesterday.”
“Where are you now?” I ask, ignoring the lurid implication of his last words.
“Why? Miss me?”
The thing is, I actually do. And that’s kind of terrifying.
“Can’t a woman have any secrets?” I huff, copying his earlier question and feeling my cheeks warm.
“Not from her husband.”
“You’re not my husband yet,” I counter, trying to control the slightly giddy feeling rising in my chest. I think it’s very fucking likely that I am flirting with my fiancé and I really don’t want to acknowledge that possibility.
“Not long now,” he muses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Two weeks and a day.”
My stomach flips. That’s really, really soon.
And for the first time, I’m not filled with utter dread at the prospect.
What is happening to me?
“Valentina’s coming over later,” Elio says. “She’s going to bring you some dresses. Get you all dolled up.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out for dinner.”
“You realize we’re doing this in the complete wrong order, right?” I say, letting out a breathy laugh. “Usually going out for dinner for the first time is something you do before you get engaged.”
“Yeah, well, most guys don’t get shot the first time they meet their fiancée, either. What can I say? We’re unconventional.”
I snort loudly. I’m not crying anymore. It actually feels good to talk with him like this. Despite what he just said, it feels oddly normal.
I hear a man’s voice in the background.
“You still haven’t told me where you are,” I remind him.
