The Second Drawing

Chapter 15 - The Second Drawing

Oliver made the second drawing when he was twelve.

He gave it to me at Christmas.

Not Luca.

Me.

“Open it.”

“I’m opening.”

“You’re slow.”

“Character.”

He rolled his eyes.

The paper was larger this time.

Colored pencil.

Not crayon.

A house in the middle.

Then people.

A lot of people.

Vanessa.

Rosalie.

Luca.

Me.

Oliver.

My mother.

Even Carlo, drawn smaller and far to one side.

I laughed.

“Why is your grandfather tiny?”

“He lives far away.”

Logic.

“And what’s this?”

I pointed to a man near a blue line meant to be Lake Michigan.

Oliver became quiet.

“My dad.”

Julian.

He had drawn him from photographs.

Curly hair.

White shirt.

No angel wings.

I loved that.

“Why there?”

“Because he doesn’t live with us.”

Simple.

The dead did not need to hover over rooftops.

They could have a place.

Then I noticed Vanessa and Rosalie were standing on opposite sides of Oliver.

“Where do you live?”

He pointed to Rosalie’s house.

Then Vanessa’s apartment.

“Both.”

The court had changed guardianship the previous year.

Joint legal custody.

Primary residence still with Rosalie during school.

Long weekends and summers with Vanessa.

Not the triumphant full custody Vanessa once imagined.

Better.

Built slowly.

Oliver seemed happy.

That mattered more.

He pointed to Luca.

“Uncle.”

Then me.

“And you.”

“What am I?”

He frowned.

“Emma.”

My throat tightened.

“Good answer.”

Luca entered carrying groceries.

Oliver immediately hid the drawing.

“Why?”

“It’s her present.”

“I bought the groceries.”

“Not relevant.”

I smiled.

The old drawing hung in Oliver’s bedroom now.

Our new family.

He kept it even though it had been wrong.

Maybe because wrong was not useless.

It showed what he wanted then.

The second showed what he had.

Messier.

Wider.

True.

A month later Luca proposed.

Not because of the drawing.

Thank God.

We were at home.

I had just come from a fourteen-hour hotel shift after a burst pipe flooded three floors.

My hair smelled faintly like industrial carpet dryer.

I wore sweatpants.

Luca was making pasta badly.

He turned off the stove.

“Emma.”

I looked at him.

“No.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“You don’t know.”

“You have your serious face.”

“I always have this face.”

“No.”

I sat.

“Proceed.”

He laughed.

Then did something I did not expect.

He stayed standing.

No kneeling.

Good.

“I want to marry you.”

My chest tightened.

“Why?”

He smiled.

“You were always going to ask that.”

“Yes.”

“Because I love you.”

“Insufficient.”

“I know.”

Good.

“Because you have a life that does not disappear when you come home.”

I went still.

“Because I have learned I want to be part of it, not own the doorway.”

Better.

“Because when I’m wrong, you tell me.”

“Frequently.”

“Painfully.”

“Yes.”

“Because you know what I did and you don’t make me perform shame every day to earn affection.”

My eyes filled.

“And?”

He looked toward the kitchen.

“I want boring things.”

“What boring things?”

“Your mother complaining about my coffee.”

“She’s correct.”

“Hotel Christmas parties.”

“You hate them.”

“Yes.”

“Oliver arriving without warning.”

“He does.”

“Arguments about thermostats.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I know.”

I smiled.

Then Luca’s expression changed.

“I do not want you to marry me because I protected Oliver.”

“I won’t.”

“Or because I went to prison.”

“Definitely not.”

“Or because you think I need someone to keep me good.”

That one mattered.

“You don’t.”

“No.”

“If you become terrible again, I leave.”

He almost smiled.

“Romantic.”

“Accurate.”

“Good.”

Before he reached for the ring, Luca looked toward the framed second drawing Oliver had left on our bookshelf.

“Do you ever think about the first night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish you had walked away?”

I thought about it.

The bruise.

The fireplace.

Oliver in the SUV.

Vanessa’s face when he called her Mommy.

“No.”

Luca looked at me.

“That doesn’t mean I’m glad it happened.”

He nodded.

“I know.”

“I’m glad I didn’t burn the paper.”

A small smile.

“So am I.”

“And I’m glad I left your house when I did.”

That smile disappeared.

“So am I.”

Good answer.

If loving him required me to rewrite the moments when leaving had been necessary, the relationship would already be wrong.

He seemed to understand that without explanation.

Then he reached for the ring.

Not family jewelry.

New.

Simple.

No Moretti history attached.

“Will you marry me?”

I looked at him.

At the ring.

At the man who once could close a gate with one word and make twenty people move.

Then I made him wait.

Not punishment.

Choice.

“Yes.”

Luca closed his eyes.

I laughed.

“Were you worried?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You’re cruel.”

“Useful.”

He came closer.

Stopped.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Now you’re showing off.”

“Yes.”

I kissed him first.

The pasta burned.

Neither of us cared.

Then the front door opened without warning.

Oliver.

“Why does it smell—”

He saw the ring.

Stopped.

Then screamed so loudly our neighbor knocked on the wall.

Vanessa arrived five minutes later to pick him up and found him making wedding plans.

“No white flowers,” he said.

I stared.

“Why?”

“Boring.”

Vanessa looked at my hand.

Then at Luca.

Her face changed.

For half a second I saw the woman in the red dress again.

The engagement dinner.

The fireplace.

My bruised wrist.

Then she smiled.

Not perfectly.

Real enough.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

She looked at me.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

That was perhaps the strangest part.

We had not become friends.

Not exactly.

We had become women who knew the worst thing the other remembered about one night.

Sometimes that is its own relationship.

Oliver said:

“Mom, you can help.”

Vanessa laughed.

“With what?”

“My drawing.”

He pulled out a notebook.

“I need a wedding version.”

I looked at him.

“No.”

“What?”

“No family predictions.”

He groaned.

Luca laughed.

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Vanessa did too.

And for once, Oliver’s drawing could wait until after the adults made their own choices.