The Kiss Thief

“Confession time.”

“We just left the church, Wolfe.”

“The only person I owe an explanation to is you.”

“Tell me.” I smiled.

“Angelo is about to announce his engagement to a girl he met at the accounting firm he works at.” Wolfe ran his fingers along my arm, cocking his head in the restaurant’s direction. “He’s a little tight on money, so he reached out to ask if he could have it here. I said yes. My ulterior motive? I know that you’ve been feeling a little guilty, so I wanted you to see that he is fine.”

My lips fell open in shock.

In the months and years after I found out that I was pregnant with Emmie, I often agonized over the fact that Angelo hadn’t moved on. He didn’t have a girlfriend or date anyone seriously. Shortly before he got his master’s degree, his father’s accounting firm shut down after the IRS had found that they’d been laundering money for The Outfit in the millions. Mike Bandini was firmly tucked away in prison now, serving twenty years. Angelo was still on good terms with his parents from what my mother had told me—he certainly took care of his mama and brothers—but he had officially cut all ties with The Outfit. It had been months since I’d asked Mama about him, and I guess he’d finally found someone.

Wolfe stared at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I could tell he didn’t want to upset me, but I could also tell that he really wanted me not to have an overemotional reaction one way or the other. Angelo was, and always would be, a sensitive subject in our marriage. I sliced him open by kissing Angelo in front of the entire world. He forgave, but I couldn’t expect him to forget.

I cracked a smile, yanking my husband into a hug.

“Thank you. That makes me so happy for him. And for me, too.”

“God, you’re perfect,” my husband muttered, sealing our conversation with a kiss. “I took you hoping for vengeance. I never thought I’d receive something so much more powerful. Love.”

He got out, rounded the car, and opened the door for me. Together, we walked into Pasta Bella, hand in hand. The only person I hadn’t thought about today, as nostalgia flooded me, was Kristen Rhys, the woman who orchestrated two of the worst days of my life. I knew we wouldn’t be bumping into her. After she cornered me at school, Wolfe had finally picked up the phone and answered her. He helped her find a job in Alaska, then proceeded to make her sign a contract more restricting than a restraining order. Rhys was not to return to the state of Illinois and seek us out. She gave him her word that she was done messing with our family.

“What are you thinking about?” my husband asked as he pushed the door to the restaurant open. Buttery, liquid light enveloped us immediately, candles and red tablecloths and rich wood everywhere. The place was packed, and among the bobbing heads and laughter, I found Angelo, his arm draped over the shoulder of a beautiful girl with long black hair and slanted eyes. We walked toward them.

“I’m thinking about how happy you make me,” I said, frankly.

We stopped two feet from Angelo.

He turned around and smiled at me, happiness shining from his blue, ocean eyes.

“We made it,” I whispered. “Apart.”

“You look beautiful, Francesca Rossi.” Angelo pulled me by the collar for a slow, suffocating hug, whispering in my ear. “But not as beautiful as my future wife.”

Six Years After

I watched my wife from what used to be her bedroom window many, many years ago, my hand caressing the wooden box where Emmeline—it was her room now—kept all her seashells. Francesca and I had agreed early into parenthood that we didn’t want to continue her family tradition of the notes. Too much pressure and confusion.

My eyes followed my wife as she said goodbye to her favorite vegetable garden that she had tended to for over a decade with Josh and Emmeline hugging each of her hips and little Christian in her arms. Sterling was there, too, rubbing my wife’s shoulder with a smile.

Later on tonight, we were going to board a plane that would take us to DC. I was going to start serving my country the way I’d dreamed about since I was an orphan—as the president of the United States.

We had dreams to chase, a country to serve, and a lifetime to love each other more fiercely and strongly than we did the last year. But as I looked down at her, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my decision to steal her under the starless Chicago sky ten years ago was the best choice I’d made.

I loved my country ferociously.

I loved my wife more.

THE END