“Pink.” He kissed me softly, quickly. “It reminds me of you.”
I nuzzled into his neck, holding the book for him as he unclicked the cap of the pink pen and began to neatly underline a section about magical cats. He had told me fifteen times he hated cats, but apparently not these ones. He scrawled his name on the edge of the margin, even adding a small smiley face beside his name. I wondered if he’d wanted to do that since he himself had read this book.
He held it away from him, then close to him, with a frown and a smile, and he read it over again, his eyes scanning the same lines and words. Milan wasn’tMilanin that moment; he was his inner child who had never been able tobea child.
Gently, I pried the book from his fingers and tapped my knee.
He frowned, assessing the situation like a puzzle, his pupils flickering over me, the couch, and the book as though everything was a clue. Milan didn’t know how to be justloved,and that small boy inside didn’t know how to be small.
I pulled his head into my lap, letting him lay against me and the couch, and began to read.
Instantly, his eyes closed, and his muscles sank into my body as I read his favorite part. He laughed, he smiled, he cried too, but he kept his eyes closed as though finally,finally,someone was doing something to let that boy rest.
“I never had the words to ask for it to be read again,” he said when it was over, pulling my fingers from the creased book cover to his lips to kiss. “I did not understand that it meant I liked it. There is a lot of emotion involved withlikingsomething, and my father took away anything I liked.”
My fingers ran through his hair as he spoke, gently caressing the truths from him.
Milan tipped his chin up to find me. “Would you read it again, Sicily?”
I read it four times, and each time he breathed in the words like he was cherishing them, until he sat upright and kissed me silent. It was appreciative, and I knew he wanted me, to have all of me, because I wasn’t going anywhere.
But when the book thudded to the ground, I pulled away.
Milan’s brows furrowed deeply, but he settled on my smile and let the tension release from his body. “Are you all right?”
“I have something to show you.”
“Show me?”
I nodded, pulling him off the couch. I chose to ignore how he adjusted himself because I needed to show him his gift before we did anything withthat,and led him through the corridor toward his office. His footsteps were hesitant as though what was waiting there would spook him.
Our hallways were now lined with photographs after Milan had been inspired by the Feras’ full ones. He had spent weeks choosing all of the memories, and then even longer measuring the gap between each frame, but when he’d finished, our entire lives lived within the walls.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
I laughed. “It’s just a gift, Milan.”
“A gift? It is not my birthday or Christmas.”
I silenced his thinking with a kiss, my fingers holding the doorknob of his office. “You deserve a gift every day.” I pushed in, my heart hammering against my chest.
Milan paused, looked around obliviously, and then found the wide wall above his chair and froze. He didn’t smile; he didn’t even move from the doorway, just stared until a grin wider than the Cheshire cat’s spread across his lips.
“Sicily.” He sighed, but it was dreamy and soft.
He launched into a brisk step forward, his fingers brushing the edge of the gold canvas that held a painting of his new car andmesprawled across it.
I had taken some creative liberties; his hand hadn’t been around my throat, and my back surely hadn’t beenthatarched, but Milan had certainly seen it like that so, in some respect, it was accurate. The canvas was shining, almost glowing with the bright colors in this dark room. It was the brightest thing there, other than Milan’s smile.
“You are so beautiful, and now I can look at youandmy car on a difficult day.” He bundled me into his arms, squeezing me until I spluttered. “Thank you, angel.”
“I have another surprise,” I managed to say, my words coming out strained as my feet lifted from the floor with how hard he held me.
Milan didn’t let go as he stopped swinging me from side to side and let me explain as I dangled in his arms. I pointed tothe corner of the room where a rectangle of pink wrapping paper and a matching ribbon sat, and he dropped me suddenly to my toes and approached it like it was a wild animal. The sun caught his face from the open window, and I tilted my head to see more of him, to watch as the sun held him as he opened it.
“For me?”
“Go on,” I urged as he crouched before it, looking at it as though he wasn’t allowed.
