He leads me out of the helicopter and motions something to Alex. He nods to Carmine and says, “I’ll take Nada for a ride with me, be back then”. Carmine waves to him as he shuts the door.
The propellers begin to swoosh loudly as Alex takes off. I wait until the noise lessens to address Carmine again.
“Pay our respects? Who died?” I ask. But he still does not answer me.
Instead, he guides me deeper into the sea of tombstones that encompass whatever cemetery we are in. Still waiting for Carmine to reveal what he has up his sleeve, I follow him, accepting his silence in the hopes that I haven’t made a colossal mistake by fleeing with him.
I should know better. As if any moment with him could ever be a mistake. Any hellish moments I experience in his presence are arguably bliss compared to moments I was robbed of his presence.
We continue to walk, losing the light the helicopter gave off as Alex soars above us. Tonight, is exceptionally dark, making the night sky appear vaster than it already is. Not a star in sight, just a velvet, black ocean of endless sky adorned with a luminous full moon. The leaves swirl and crunch as the combination of the November wind and the propellers dance together. My hair releases itself from being tucked behind my ears, and as I go to move it back in place, Carmine suddenly stops. That’s when I seeit.
My heart begins to race with curious excitement as I take in the two beautifully ornate tombstones that are in front of me. I let go of Carmine’s hand and continue to inch forward, admiring the details of the chiseled stone.My eyes are immediately drawn to the baroque scrolls that line the arch top of the slate. The scrolls etched into the stone match, except for one detail. One has a hummingbird, and the other has a flower. It looks like a hibiscus. Not that I know my flowers—I have a black thumb. I only recognize the flower because it matches a tattoo that I have. It was one of the tattoos I got shortly after Leo left. It is a hibiscus, the flower of Puerto Rico. Just like the flower that was in the painting from the tattoo shop all those years ago.
I take my hand and glide my fingers across the detailed art.
“Carmine, this is beautiful,” I declare.
“You like,mi reina?”
“They are beautiful, but why are you showing me this?” I ask, stating the obvious. Not that I don’t love cemeteries. Carmine, of all people, knows my affection for them, but still I’m not sure why he is showing me this.
“I wanted to see if you approved.”
“Approve of what?” I ask with urgency.
“Where we will lay to rest.”
I freeze. Suddenly, the cemetery has gone from creepy and possibly erotic to unnervingly surreal.
Did he just say what I think he said? Did I seriously endure the Hell I have for these many years to be reunited to only meet my demise at his hands? Fucking Christ, his hands. Even in this momentary panic, I can’t stop staring at the way his strong hands grab for yet another cigarette. How can he make things that are so detestable somehow alluring? How does he always know how to lure me to where he knows I want to be?
My mind is racing, though my legs remain planted to the ground. I want to run, but I can’t.
“Did you bring me here just to kill me?” I can barely muster up the words.
He doesn’t answer right away. As he lets the plumes of smoke mask his gorgeous face, he releases a brief smirk before answering me. Whatever he brought me for, whatever he has up his sleeve, he is getting a sick enjoyment out of it.
“Relax,” he says, seemingly unfazed by his own odd demeanor.
“Umm, easy for you to say. You aren’t the one who is being surprised with matching grave plots,” I say sarcastically. Sarcasm has always been my shield, especially when I am uncertain. And this, whatever this is, has me feeling very uncertain.
“I didn’t bring you here to kill you, Sienna. Just the opposite.” He pauses.
“Care to elaborate?”
“Do you remember that day we got our locket tattoo?”
How could I forget? It was the day my heart broke, and I simultaneously found myself. I embarked on a now twelve-year-long obsession with the therapeutic art of needle to flesh. It was the moment I thought I lost my love but gained strength within myself that I did not know existed.
“Yes,” I reply, simply.
“Do you remember the story of Alida and Taroo? The hummingbird and the flower?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you remember. You seemed to be zoned out when Eddie was telling the story.”
He reaches for my hips, pulling me into him. “I wasn’t zoned out. I was trying to figure out how to get us here. To this moment.” His grip remains strong with one hand as his other extends to emphasize our considerably morbid yet beautiful surroundings.
“What, to our funeral?” I half joke.
