I wake up to Marco’s last full day in the States with a sick feeling in my stomach. It’s like I’m stuck on the bumpiest ride on the rollercoaster of love, struggling to keep my heart off the tracks. I hate the thought of losing him, even though I know this isn’t permanent. Love is not a matter of counting the days, but of making the days count. So that’s what we’re doing. Who knows how long it will be until we’re in the same place again?
I might… just might… have an ace in the hole. This is Vegas, where Lady Luck can always make a surprise appearance. Tonight’s the night for me to explain the idea I’ve put off for the last two months. We’re planning to spend the whole day together. I just need to find the right time to bring it up.
“Are you ready for our last date?” Marco asks over breakfast.
I shake my head. “Don’t call it our last one. We’ll have a ton more, okay? A whole lifetime of dates.”
Marco’s sad smile tells me that he isn’t exactly convinced, but if he doesn’t know how stubborn I am by now, then he’ll never figure it out.
He smiles at me, but I’ve never seen him so withdrawn. He doesn’t look like my Marco at all. His face is thinner than before, his eyes downcast, his smile halfhearted at best. I wonder if he’s going to leave me here with only memories of our shared past, frozen in time. The heaviness I’ve been carrying around tightens and spasms, heading straight for my tear ducts. But they’re dry from overuse.
“Let us enjoy our day, cara mia,” he says. “I am all packed. Today is just for us with no more thinking of tomorrow, si? Or any tomorrows after that. We have only now—this precious moment—to think about. Some people are denied even this, but we are two of the lucky ones. I want to be happy with you only in these remaining hours as if the future does not exist.”
I feel exactly the same way, so rather than press the issue, I finish the pancakes we made and take my plate to the dishwasher. “What kind of date am I dressing for?”
Marco’s eyes light up for real this time. “Ah, this is the best question. You will need shoes that are good for walking, but not hiking.”
“Indoors or outdoors?”
“Indoors.” Marco considers this. “Mostly.”
Interesting. I hurry back to our room, soon to be just my room again, and think about how much I will miss having evidence of Marco at my fingertips. His toothbrush by the bathroom sink. His cologne on the dresser. His clothes in the closet. Heaving a sigh, I pull on a pair of cuffed jeans and a floral off-the-shoulder top. Cute, but casual. I brush on the barest hint of makeup, dig out my high-tops, and head for the door.
I’m not surprised when we head for the Strip, not far from the Bellagio fountains where we walked on our real first date. Remembering how that particular night ended, I can’t help but smile.
“Please tell me that we’re not going to the Ball and Chain again,” I say. “I’m not posting photos from there.”
Marco lets out a bark of laughter. “No, principessa, I am not so sex-positive as this. Today is wholesome. Nobody will be spanked today.”
“Aww.” I stick out my bottom lip and make puppy-dog eyes. “Not even a little?”
Marco grins, taking his eyes off the road just long enough to let them sweep over me. “Maybe a little. If you are my very good girl.”
“Or your very bad one,” I tease.
Usually, this sort of talk would get us both hot and bothered, but today it’s just patter because something dark and unwelcome lingers between us that overshadows our love for each other. It’s called ‘goodbye’ which I have decided is the worst word in the entire English language. Marco parks near the Bellagio and leads me into the hotel.
“Oh, are we going to the conservatory?” I ask.
“Have you been already?” he asks.
I shake my head, walking just a bit faster. “Nope. It’s supposed to be really pretty, though. It should be all done up for Christmas by now, right?”
He presses his lips together. “I do not know, but I suppose we will find out.”
I was right on the money. I’ve heard that the botanical gardens are pretty, but I don’t usually hang around on the Strip in my free time. Besides, walking through a botanical garden with Marco is a lot more appealing than visiting on my own.
The gardens are nothing like what I expected. The Christmas display is stunning, a fantastical wonderland composed of living plants and larger-than-life sculptures. Silver and red glass snowflakes hang suspended from the ceiling. There are multiple Christmas trees strung with thousands of golden lights. Polar bears lay by a charming fireplace. There’s even a gingerbread house. But the most spectacular display of all features three Faberge eggs. The center one opens like a cabinet, featuring a snowy Dickens-like holiday scene. Everywhere I look, something magical meets my eyes. It’s almost enough to make me forget that we’re standing in the middle of a hotel in the desert.
Not that I’m complaining. I’m sure I’ll get my fill of arctic temperatures and an actual winter wonderland when I go home to visit Silas, Phoebe, baby Austin, and my mother for the holidays.
Then I remember that Marco will likely be spending Christmas all alone, and I reach for his hand. Maybe he can come visit for Christmas? How often can he visit as a regular tourist? And how long can he stay? Then again, I’m not sure he’ll be able to afford to visit often. He’ll be looking for a new job in Italy, after all, and I have no idea how much he has in savings. I know they don’t make much on an entry-level contract in the NHL. If I asked him to visit, I’m sure he would. And if he does get picked up again by an Italian team, will I only be able to see him during the off-season? My career’s going well, but it’s not like I can jet off to Italy one week a month, not in the long term.
I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work, but what if it could be easier?
What if I could keep him here?
We snap a few photos of ourselves for the fans and even manage to look like we’re having fun. Since we can both feel the weight of the unspoken words, we don’t talk as much as we usually do, although Marco never lets go of my hand and the warmth of his skin feels like a lifeline. I know that we’re both thinking of the inevitable, holding onto something that’s slipping through our fingers so quickly that we have no hope of catching it.
The botanical gardens aren’t that big, and when we’ve made our way through the whole exhibit, we just keep moving. We walk under the Chihuly glass ceiling on our way through the hotel, and we both stop to marvel at the spill of light through the ribbed glass sculpture that blooms like alien flowers above us.
“This reminds me of Venice,” Marco says.
I squeeze his hand. “I thought Venice was just a tourist trap?”
“I did not change my mind, bellissima,” Marco says. “But even things made only to look at can be wonderful. Everything serves its purpose in this life. Even the things that seem too painful to bear.”
I spot a sign at the far end of the room and pull on Marco’s hand. “Come on. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“What is this?” Marco asks.
I turn my head over my shoulder. “You’re not the only person who’s allowed to have surprises, you know.”
Marco keeps pace with me as I lead him back through the shopping area.
“Ah, to Yellowtail?” Marco licks his lips. “There is not good sushi in Italia, not where I am from. And after lunch, the other half of the date: we are going to the spa for a couple’s massage!”
“I’m not thinking about sushi, Marco.” I stop short in front of the Cartier next to the restaurant. “I was thinking maybe we could look at some jewelry…?”
Marco’s brows pull together. “Oh? You want me to give you something, to prove that I will not forget you until I return? I will do this, Madison, of course—”
I shake my head, taking his other hand in mine. My throat closes up, and I’m on the verge of tears. Love is like a bud in spring, soft and fragile when it breaks through the cold, hard earth, but forever growing until it reaches toward the sun. I’m just wondering when our sun will rise. “I don’t want you to leave at all. In fact, if you do, I think it might kill me.”
He frees one of his hands so he can slide it along my jaw and tip my face toward his. “I know this is so hard upon you, amore, but you were listening when I am speaking to my agent. You know that no other NHL team wants me. Without a team, there is not a visa, and without a visa—”
“We… we could get married!” I blurt.
Marco’s mouth drops open even as his forehead creases.
I paste on a smile. “Think about it! People run away to Vegas for last-minute weddings all the time. This city is famous for it. And we’ve been super public about our relationship, so even if there are, like, government people or whatever who look into this kind of thing, they’ll be able to see that it’s for real. We love each other. No one can deny it.”
His expressive eyes tell me what words cannot. “Madison—”
I feel the last card I had to play slowly slipping out of my control. “I’m not just asking you to marry me because of the visa situation! I mean, yes, I’m asking now because of the visa thing, I’m not the sort of person who usually rushes into things, but I’ve never felt this way about someone. You’re my person, Marco. I love you. I need you. I can’t even imagine my life without you in it. And if you marry me, then you won’t have to go away… it’s a win-win. Can’t you see?”
With every cell in my body shouting at me to fix this, I can’t stop talking. The words spill out of me, words that I’ve been sitting on for the last two months. We never discussed this as an option—not at the strategy meeting and not since—but I’ve been thinking about it nonstop and it makes more sense with each passing day. It’s a commitment I’m willing to make if he is. People are staring at us, but I don’t care. I don’t care who knows how much I’m willing to sacrifice for this man.
My hope curls like liquid smoke through the room.
I love him with every breath in my body.
I just want him to stay.
Which is why my heart breaks when his face crinkles up with a mixture of pity and affection. The visual serves a wicked blow. He places his hands on either side of my face, swipes his thumbs over my burning cheeks, and whispers, “Madison.”
Oh my God! He didn’t say, bellissima, or principessa, or mi amore, cara mia, or anything else. He used my damn name! Twice!
“Don’t say it like that.” To my horror, my lips wobble and my eyes prickle with tears. The bottom finally falls out of my world and I about sink to my knees. “Don’t say my name like you feel sorry for me. Just say yes. Just stay with me and commit to our future together.”
“And then what, cara mia?” Marco bends toward me, and he’s never looked so calm or so sure of himself. “I have no work. I have no offers. Do you think someone will change their mind tomorrow and call me up? No, they will not. Tomorrow, nothing will change. I cannot be here, living in your home, relying on you for everything. A man without vocation—without purpose—only moves backward. I want to give you the world, amore, not take from you. What kind of man would that make me? Not a man at all.”
“That’s some machismo bullshit.” My voice cracks, and hot tears spill down my cheeks. “If I needed you, you’d do anything for me. I know that. So why won’t you let me help you? I know you, Marco. You are the hardest-working person I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t have to support you for very long.”
“My pride is all I have left,” he says gently. Of course, his English would be perfect at a time like this. Of course. Out of all the times for him not to be confused, it would be the one where he’s rejecting my admittedly clumsy proposal in the middle of a hotel shopping court. A few people even have their phones out. My blotchy face is going to be all over socials tomorrow, and it won’t do any good. My shame won’t matter—even though it’s hot and unpleasant as it floods my body. This whole sordid scene has been for nothing because he’s already given up.
“You don’t just have your pride,” I whisper. “You have me. And pride goeth before a fall, Marco. That’s either Proverbs or a line from Hamilton, I forget which. Maybe both.”
He laughs a little, but it’s not enough to make me laugh with him. “I did fall. I fell in love. With you. I have always relied on myself. Someday, I want to be your family. Something you keep. Someone you keep. But if it is like this, you will repost me.”
I hiccup. “What?”
He pulls his brows together. “You will dislike me, for being a burden. As the man, I must lead. I must be the one who gives to you and only because you inspire me to do so.”
Resent. He means resent. That makes more sense, but I shake my head at that, too. “I could never.”
“If I am luggage, you will. But have faith, principessa. Love always wins.” He kisses my forehead. “It is why we human beings were created. Of this, we can both be sure.”
I want to believe him, but now that my last plan to keep him here has been vetoed, I feel completely hollow. I thought I could stave off the inevitable, but I guess that by definition, I couldn’t. The pain slices through me like a hot knife through butter. My knees buckle, but Marco reaches out to steady me.
“Are you still wanting sushi?” Marco asks in that kind, patient voice of his.
I shake my head and scrub at my eyes, then remember that I applied just enough eyeliner that I probably look like a raccoon right now. “I’m not really feeling up to a spa day, either.”
Marco wraps one arm around me. “Then let us go home.”
I hear the sadness resting on his tongue. It’ll be the last time he says home and means the apartment.
* * *
The moment we walk in the door, I pull on Marco’s lapels, dragging his mouth down to mine as the door clicks closed behind us. I need to kiss him more, right now. I need his mouth on mine, his skin against me. I need to feel his pulse and his heartbeat. I need to know that he’s real.
That our love is real.
I need something to remember him by since I’m not so sure that love always wins even if he decrees it.
He tucks a curl of hair behind my ear. “We sleep together on the third date,” he teases. “Everyone knows this. I am sorry that this third date was not the showstopper.”
I squint at him. “Huh?”
“Latham, he is saying… never mind. Forget Latham. Come with me.” Marco takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom.
I’ve never had another lover so patient, so attentive, and I know I never will. This man gives of himself freely because he wants to, not because he has to. This final time is no different than any of the ones that came before it. He runs his hands over every inch of me, kissing me in places where I’ve never been kissed before: the soft skin on the inside of my elbow, the roll of fat at my hip, the inside of my knee. With every movement of his hands and lips, he worships me. He’s careful and deliberate as though I’m made of the thinnest glass and I might shatter if he isn’t gentle.
I don’t burn the way that I usually do for him. I’m not desperate to have him inside me. I want him right here, like this, with his palm caressing my skin. This special moment of connection—I never want it to end even though I know in my soul that it will. Under the weight of Marco’s hand, I’ve never felt so safe. So comfortable. So vulnerable.
I want to connect our souls before our bodies meld together one last time.
When he finally strips naked and lowers himself on top of me, I want to cry all over again. I feel so light, as if I might blow away in the faintest breeze, and he’s the only thing that’s holding me down.
“Madison,” he says as I spread my thighs for him.
“Say them. Say all your names for me,” I command.
And he does, after he sinks into me. “Principessa. Cara mia. Mi amore. Bellissima.” He runs his fingers through my hair as he moves inside me. Instead of chasing an orgasm, I’m focused on the weight of him, the smell of him, the way his hair falls over his brow when he concentrates. The way his eyes caress me as if I’m special right before his fingers follow in the wake of his gaze. I commit it all to memory and demand that it never fades. Even after so long off the ice in this desert city, he still manages to smell like the cold, with a spicy hint of clove and pine that I recognize from when we’ve showered together. I kiss the stubble on his jaw and the jut of his Adam’s apple. I run my hands over the curve of his back and the bow of his ribs.
Mine. He’s mine and mine alone. God, if you’re up there, how can you even think about taking this man away from me?
I want more than an impression in the mattress beside me tomorrow. I want more than the scent of his shampoo on the other pillow.
“I love you,” I tell him as he moves within me slow and almost reverent.
We stay like that for minutes that seem suspended in time until the pleasure of my release creeps up on me. I let it push me over the edge and sweep me away from my sadness for just a few seconds of stolen bliss. Marco follows close behind, shuddering and coming apart in my arms.
As he nuzzles my throat while whispering Italian phrases along the shell of my ear, I keep repeating my declarations of love, over and over, for a long, long time.
And I wonder if they’ll ever be even close to enough.
