Chapter 16 - THE SECOND TIME HE ASKED
Z
Two years after Isabella’s birth, Vincent asked me to marry him again.
I said no.
His face was priceless.
But let me explain.
We had been officially dating for eleven months.
Slowly.
Painfully slowly, according to Salvatore.
Vincent had moved into his smaller house.
I had returned to work as an interior designer, something I gave up during our marriage because Vincent’s schedule always came first.
He never asked me to quit again.
Instead, he watched Isabella on Thursdays when I had late client meetings.
Our daughter was healthy.
Wildly opinionated.
Obsessed with strawberries.
And completely convinced her father existed to carry her everywhere.
She was probably correct.
On the anniversary of the night we first met, Vincent took me to the same little Italian restaurant.
Not the expensive one he bought later.
The original.
Red checkered tablecloths.
Candles stuck inside old wine bottles.
The owner still remembered him.
“You were arrogant then,” the old man said.
Vincent nodded.
“I was.”
“He’s improved,” I offered.
“Barely.”
I laughed.
Dessert arrived.
No ring inside the cake.
Thank God.
Vincent waited until we were outside.
Then he stopped beneath the awning while rain fell over Chicago.
I knew immediately.
“No.”
He blinked.
“I haven’t asked.”
“You’re going to.”
“How do you know?”
“You have your terrifying-business-negotiation face.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
He reached into his coat.
I covered my face.
“Oh my God.”
“Claire.”
“Vincent.”
“Could you let me finish failing?”
I laughed.
Then he lowered himself onto one knee.
The laughter disappeared.
People passed us on the sidewalk.
Cars moved through rain.
Nothing stopped for us.
That made the moment better.
Vincent opened the box.
A simple diamond.
Nothing like the enormous ring from our first marriage.
“Claire Bennett.”
He had started calling me by my maiden name again after the divorce because I asked him to.
My chest tightened.
“The first time I asked you to marry me, I thought your yes meant you belonged to me.”
His eyes shone.
“I know better now.”
Rain struck the awning.
“I know this ring doesn’t erase anything. I know changing doesn’t create a debt you have to repay.”
My eyes filled.
“I know loving you does not entitle me to you.”
A tear slipped down my cheek.
Vincent smiled faintly.
“But if you want the same thing I want, I would spend the rest of my life trying to deserve the chance.”
He opened his hand.
“Will you marry me?”
“No.”
He stared.
Someone walking past actually gasped.
I started crying and laughing at the same time.
Vincent slowly stood.
“Okay.”
“You’re taking that disturbingly well.”
“You said no.”
“You aren’t angry?”
“No.”
“Embarrassed?”
“Extremely.”
I took his face between my hands.
“Ask me again in one year.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“One year.”
“Claire.”
“I love you.”
He stopped breathing.
I had not said those words since before Isabella’s birth.
“I love the man you are now.”
His eyes filled.
“But I need to know we aren’t rebuilding our old marriage.”
“We’re not.”
“I know.”
I kissed him.
“One year.”
He closed his eyes.
“That is an unreasonable amount of time.”
“You survived eleven months of dating.”
“Barely.”
“One year.”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
Then he looked at the ring.
“What do I do with this?”
“Keep it.”
“For a year?”
“Yes.”
“What if you change your mind?”
“Then you’ll have a very expensive paperweight.”
He laughed.
Really laughed.
The sound disappeared into the Chicago rain.
Nine months later, Salvatore died peacefully in his sleep.
That nearly broke Vincent.
His grandfather had been the last person connecting him to childhood, to family history, to the world he had spent years trying to leave.
At the funeral, Vincent stood beside the casket without crying.
Everyone approached.
Everyone offered condolences.
He remained stone.
Until that night.
At my apartment, he sat on the kitchen floor because he said he couldn’t breathe.
I sat beside him.
He put his head against my shoulder.
And cried.
No shame.
No hiding.
No turning grief into anger.
I held him.
Isabella toddled out of her bedroom carrying her stuffed rabbit.
“Daddy sad?”
Vincent wiped his face.
“Yes, baby.”
She climbed into his lap.
“Papa sleeping?”
“Yes.”
She touched his cheek.
“Daddy cry okay.”
Vincent looked at me.
I smiled through my own tears.
“Yes,” I said.
“Daddy cry okay.”
He held our daughter.
And I realized that was the legacy he had changed.
Not the businesses.
Not the money.
Not the Moretti name.
This.
A little girl who would grow up knowing men could apologize.
Men could cry.
Men could change.
Love did not mean fear.
Home did not mean rules.
And power did not mean control.
Three months later, exactly one year after his proposal, Vincent took me back to the same sidewalk.
Same restaurant.
Same awning.
It wasn’t raining.
He reached inside his coat.
I smiled.
“This feels familiar.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Please don’t ruin this again.”
I laughed.
He dropped to one knee.
“Claire Bennett, will you marry me?”
May you like
This time, I did not make him wait.
“Yes.”
