Carmine paced the foyer again, dressed in a black suit and nervously twirling a red rose. Ever since he had told Dia about his plans, she had been calling it Operation Cinderella, although he thought it was more like Operation Please-Don’t-Fuck-This-One-Up. The closest he got to being Prince Charming was being a Principe della Mafia, but there was nothing remotely romantic about that.
His mind ran through all the potential catastrophes as he waited, already preparing for the worst. He might say something wrong and offend her. She might be disappointed or overwhelmed by it all. The picnic would be a disaster, with food poisoning or invading ants. If none of that happened, it would storm, even though the weatherman assured a clear night.
Earthquake. Tornado. Tsunami. Monsoon. Hurricane. Flood. Hail. Blizzard. He didn’t know if half were possible, but he imagined them all happening at once.
Eventually the clunky hunk of junk Dia called a car pulled up outside. His heart pounded hard. It was only Haven, he reminded himself. It was the girl who, somehow, saw him at his worst and still managed to love him.
The door opened and Haven stepped in. She fidgeted in a white dress, a tiny bit of makeup on her face, her wavy hair tamed and pulled back. “Buon San Valentino,” he said, holding out the flower. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Smiling sheepishly, she took the flower from him.
Carmine turned off the highway when they made it to Black Mountain, driving straight to the art center on Cherry Street. The sign above the main entrance of the gray building announced what it was, but as Carmine helped Haven out of the car, all he saw in her expression was confusion.
“It’s a gallery,” he explained, not knowing if she’d understand.
“Like a museum?”
“Yes, like that.”
Excitement flared in her eyes, and he knew then he had made the right choice. He took her hand to lead her inside. The place was dim, only a subtle glow of light throughout the building, shining above the scattered exhibits. “Come on, tesoro.”
She didn’t move. “Don’t you have to pay?”
“No.” He hadn’t expected her to ask that. “You don’t have to pay to look at the art.”
He stood there, apprehensive about what she thought. Now he started to feel bad bringing her somewhere that didn’t cost him a dime.
“This place is really free?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He never thought about it before. “Educational reasons, I guess. Artists are kinda like musicians and work more for pleasure than money.”
He had no idea if he was right or not, but it sounded good.
They walked around, pausing every few feet to check out exhibits—carvings and pottery, sculptures and paintings, drawings and photography. It wasn’t the usual thing he would find interesting, but anything was enjoyable with Haven around. She glowed the entire time, and he just stood back, listening with amazement as she analyzed and dissected the art.
“You need to go to college,” he said. “You’re too damn smart not to.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is it appropriate to curse in a gallery?”
He laughed. “Fuck if I know.”
She shook her head. “Do you really think I could go to school?”
“Yeah, I do. And you know I could help you, right?”
“I know you could try,” she said playfully. “Whether or not it works is another matter.”
They went through the rest of the gallery, chatting casually and holding hands. Toward the end of their tour, Haven paused in front of a pencil drawing, a figure of a woman from the back with a vibrantly colored sphere hovering in the air beside her. Haven was transfixed by it, a smile gracing her lips as she reached out to trace the outline of the drawing. “I like this one. It reminds me of myself.”
“How so?”
“Well, the girl . . . she’s stuck in a life where everything’s bland and hopeless, but then this beautiful thing comes along and brings color into her world. Color she never expected to see.”
He stared at her, stunned, before turning back to the drawing. He had no idea how she had gotten something so deep from a pencil sketch. “You know, maybe we’ll see your work in a place like this someday.”
“You think I’m that good?”
“Of course I do.”
Carmine turned on a side road that weaved through the mountain, driving until the small cabin came into view. It was just one room, a bed and a fireplace, with a small bathroom built in. He parked the car in front as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting light along the meadow surrounding it. Tucked in among the trees were some deer, and Carmine stared at them as one took a few steps in his direction, feeling like he’d been sucked into a Disney movie.
If one started talking, he was fucking running.
“What is this place?” Haven asked as they climbed out of the car.
He pulled the key from his pocket. “Home for the next twenty-four hours. I rented it.”
She eyed him skeptically. “No wonder you took me to a free gallery. This must’ve cost a fortune.”
He laughed as he grabbed a basket of food from the car and spread a blanket out on the grass. “Come on, let’s eat. I think I can still afford to feed you.”
Haven looked at it with surprise. “A picnic?”
She sat on the blanket, spreading her legs out in front of her. He sat beside her and pulled out the containers of food. Haven grabbed a grape from one and popped it into her mouth as he took the top off of the tall green bottle. Haven watched him warily as he poured the bubbly drink.
She took a glass carefully. “Is this alcohol?”
“I’m afraid not, tesoro. Sparkling grape juice. We’re going sober tonight.”
She looked surprised as she took a sip.
They munched on the food for a while, chatting and laughing. She kicked off her shoes as they talked about trivial things, like TV and weather, before delving into more serious topics. She told him stories from her fucked-up equivalent of a childhood, and in turn, he talked about his mom.
Carmine reached inside the basket and pulled out two Toblerone bars. “Dia said you’re supposed to give chocolate to your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day.”
Haven opened hers and pulled off a triangle. “I thought Saint Valentine’s Day was just a massacre.”
He choked. “How do you know about that?”
“Jeopardy!”
Saint Valentine’s Day massacre, when La Cosa Nostra in Chicago killed seven Irish associates. Carmine was curious if she realized the connection between his family and those things, but he thought better than to bring it up. The last thing he wanted was to have their night tainted by reminders of the world they’d have to go back to.
They watched the sunset quietly. It was one of the things he loved about her—she never felt like she had to fill the silence. He gazed at the sky when something wet splat on the center of his forehead. Closing his eyes instinctively, he reached up and prayed he hadn’t been shit on by a bird. He felt another drop after a second and groaned at the same time Haven laughed. “It’s raining.”
He sighed. Of course the weatherman wouldn’t know what he was talking about.
They settled onto the cabin porch as the rain steadily fell, a curtain of water cutting them off from the world. Haven watched it quietly, while Carmine strummed his guitar.
“Will you play something for me?” she asked. He started to reply, to tell her he was playing something, when she spoke again. “Something happy, please.”
He sighed. No more Moonlight Sonata. “Uh, sure. I’ll play a song that reminds me of us.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s a real song,” he said. “I mean, like one you hear on the radio or whatever.”
“Will you sing it too?”
He stared at her. He could probably rupture eardrums and break sanities with his voice, but he couldn’t deny her. Not when she looked at him that way. “Okay, but this might not be pretty.”
Her smile grew. Carmine strummed the first few chords of Blue October’s “18th Floor Balcony” before softly singing the lyrics. He could feel her gaze on him, his fingers wavering, but he tried to keep focused so not to mess up. He could tell her all day long that he loved her, but this was cracking his chest open and stepping out of himself fully for her to see.
He glanced at Haven toward the end of the song, his fingers stilling when he saw tears streaming down her cheeks. Reaching over, he brushed some of them away.
She let out a shaky breath as she placed her hand on top of his. “Can we go inside?”
He led her into the cabin for the first time, and she paused right inside the door, surveying the dozens of roses faintly visible in the glow of the room. He scooted around her and turned on some music, scanning through songs when Haven brushed against him. She pulled off her coat and draped it over a chair before grabbing a rose. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled its sweet scent as she sat on the bed, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth.
Carmine tossed his suit coat onto the table and lit the fireplace before walking over to her. Her expression made his steps falter. “You okay, hummingbird?”
Her voice cracked. “Perfect.”
“Perfect, indeed.”
He cupped her cheek and kissed her as she ran her hands through his hair. She moaned as he pushed her onto her back and leaned over her with his hands on both sides of the bed. He pulled from her mouth to take a breath and nudged her head to the side to kiss her neck.
“Carmine,” she whispered as he kissed toward her collarbones. “Make love to me.”
Strong emotions swirled through him—shock and elation, with a ton of fear—as his eyes met hers. He wanted to . . . Christ, did he want to . . . but there was no turning back from that. “Haven . . .”
“It feels right,” she said. “We’re right.”
He felt it, too. There in that moment, it was just him and her, no one and nothing else. They were all that mattered—two people, desperately in love and wanting to show each other. No master and slave, no class divides. No Principe della Mafia and his sweet forbidden fruit.
They never really felt that way, but it was hard to ignore the labels. There were reminders everywhere of the people they were supposed to be, the ones they didn’t want to be, but it was different here. Here, they were away from everything threatening to tear them apart. Here, there were no complications, no need to hide or pretend.
Carmine didn’t respond. No words were necessary. That bitch of a voice inside his head, doubting and nagging, had finally been silenced.
He gazed at her, absorbing all the love, before leaning down and softly capturing her lips with his. He kissed her tenderly as he placed his hand on her knee, slowly running it up her inner thigh. She squirmed under his touch, a whimper escaping her throat as she ran her hands under his shirt, tingles swimming through him as she caressed his bare skin.
Pulling away, he crouched down beside the bed and pushed up her dress, watching for any sign of distress. “You can change your mind at any time, hummingbird.”
