Simone
I wake up to Rocco and Cecilia sitting beside me. For a moment I think I’m in my apartment and I wonder what they’re doing here, but then I hear the beeping of the hospital equipment and notice the ubiquitous whiteness of the place. I try and sit up but Rocco leans forward, touching me softly on the chest, pushing me back down.
“You need your rest,” he says.
“How do you feel?” Cecilia asks, her voice high-pitched and full of worry. It’s the voice that lets me know she cares about me, the voice she used when we were kids and I fell off the swing and landed on my face.
“Tired,” I say. “Tired but okay. Not hurt. The baby . . . oh God, Rocco, the baby?”
“Both of you are fine,” the doctor says, sweeping into the room with his clipboard. “There’s no cause to worry, Miss Ericson, no cause at all. Some smoke inhalation, but thankfully your body is fighting back. We’re going to keep you under observation for a few days, but I don’t foresee any problems.” She nods her head and smiles, a bright-looking lady with small studded earrings. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”
“You look better,” I say to Cecilia. It’s not that her appearance is changed in any way. But there’s a look to her face that I can read through twin magic. She’s getting over Shotgun’s death, moving on with her life.
“I’m not working at the restaurant anymore,” she tells me. “I’m working for a nonprofit, a company which cleans plastic from beaches. I do feel better—but this isn’t about me!” She giggles, shaking her head. “Look at me talking about myself here of all places. Don’t worry about me, Mona. Just get yourself better.” She kisses me on the cheek and then leaves me and Rocco alone.
He grabs my hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry, Simone.”
“Sorry?”
Speaking in a grim tone of voice, he tells me that he was the one who set the fire. When he’s done, he looks at me as though he expects me to push him away.
I laugh in the way only a person who’s nearly died can laugh. “Our baby is healthy!” I exclaim. “And I’m alive! And we’re together. And we’re in love. There’s nothing to be miserable about. We’re safe now, aren’t we?”
He nods. “We’re safe now but . . .” He trails off.
“But?” I say, worried.
“But I’m wondering if you’ll wanna be with me even though I’m not the president of the club anymore. I gave the title to Beast. I’m not anything in the club anymore. I’m an unemployed man with some savings to fall back on but not much else. All I am, now, is a man who wants to be with his family. The bloodshed, the violence . . . it never meant anything to me when I was on my own and thought I’d always be on my own, but seeing you like that, lying there, I’m done with it. I want you instead.” He lays his hand on my belly. “I want us instead.”
I blink away tears. “I’m not crying,” I say, “and you can’t prove that I am.”
He leans down and kisses my tear-wet cheeks. “I never said you were crying,” he whispers, and all at once I remember the first time I felt his breath on me. Even lying here in the hospital bed, the excitement isn’t reduced. I want him now just as badly as I wanted him then. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting him.
“When they say you can leave, you’re coming home with me. I put a down payment on a three-bedroom outside of town.”
“For the two of us?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice, even if I shouldn’t be shocked. This man was a secret sexy photograph on Cecilia’s phone . . . I think back to that afternoon in the mall. It seems like years ago instead of months.
“For the two of us,” he confirms.
Five days later, Rocco is driving me toward a three-bedroom detached house in a quiet suburban street, compete with a white picket fence surrounding the yard. All down the street there are kids’ bikes and swings and slides and similar picket fences. Rocco takes me by the hand and leads me into the house, which is mostly empty except for a bit of leftover furniture dotted here and there.
“We can do whatever you like with it,” he says.
“We’ll do it together,” I reply. “We’ll do it all together.”
“Well, I’ve actually got started on one room . . .” He leads me upstairs.
I step through the threshold, my mouth falling open like a cartoon character’s. He’s set up a crib in the corner and painted the walls a neutral blue and put up starry-night wallpaper, with a baby dial above the crib and a play mat and some baby’s toys on the floor. “Rocco,” I whisper. “Rocco, it’s . . . it’s just amazing.”
I turn to face him, to kiss him, to hold him and make love to him. That’s when I see my six- foot and then some man on one knee, the ring box looking tiny in his big hands, looking up at me with dark eyes which will never stop melting my heart.
“Simone Ericson,” he says, “will you marry me?”
For the tiniest fraction of a second, my mind conjures up an image of how the old Simone would’ve reacted to this, the pre-Rocco Simone. But then I push that image aside and fling myself at him so fast that he has to jump to his feet to catch me. I wrap my arms around him and kiss his neck, his cheek, his beard.
“Is that a yes?” He laughs.
“It’s a yes, yes, yes!” I cry.
He kisses me over and over, telling me I’ll be the perfect mother and he’ll try to be the perfect father, telling me he’ll never let anything happen to us again. Once he’s slid the ring onto my finger, I reach down for his crotch.
“Is the bed ready?” I ask.
“Well, just a mattress. The frame is arriving later today.”
I take him by the hand and drag him onto the hallway. “A mattress will do.”
THE END
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