Is this my happy ending?

Despite the wine slowly getting to my head, it’s the genuine laughter that escapes my mouth that warms my cheeks. Talking to him is easy, one topic quickly links to the next without any awkward silences.

“Looks like we’re out of wine,” he says when trying to pour another glass and not seeing a single drop fall in.

“Either way, I think it’s been enough for tonight,” I point out as I notice it’s already past 2 am and we’re on the third bottle.

“Do you have somewhere else you’d rather be?” he asks with a watchful gaze.

“No, but I also don’t want to fall into an alcohol-induced coma,” I reply, moving my glass away from me.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you,” he assures with exaggerated pride.

Another burst of laughter erupts, though he’s probably right, he would save me.

“But you’re right, it’s getting late...” I begin to say, starting the goodbye.

“It is?” he asks, tilting his head. “I thought you were staying the night,” he clarifies with a voice clouded with sadness.

“I honestly didn’t think that was a possibility,” I reply, still in shock.

“Why not? I really like you, Emma, in fact, you make me crave something I had long given up on,” he declares, leaning in and giving me a kiss on the lips.

And without saying anything else, he leaves me alone. I hear his footsteps fade away and taste the bitter disappointment on my lips. He wants something more, with or without the perfume, so why this insecurity? Everything is going so damn well that it makes me think I’m about to fall into an endless pit of shit. Something is missing, I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I don’t have the complete puzzle.

“Leave the paranoia,” I scold myself before taking a deep breath to find some mental clarity.

Gradually, the feeling that something will go wrong leaves me, and I must enjoy what’s happening without ruining it with negative thoughts. When I finally feel secure enough that this is what I want and that I deserve to be loved as he intends to do, I take the pink and orange bottle and let a few drops fall on my skin. I get up from the table and follow in his footsteps.

I find him sitting on the bed, hiding his face in his hands, as if he’s having the same internal struggle as me.

“We deserve this,” I say, caressing his back before embracing him.

“It’s just that I had given up on this - on love, on the possibility of having someone by my side; and then you come out of nowhere to show me how wrong I was,” he whispers as if it pains him that I intervened in his life.

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be loved, Dante,” I say, resting his head on my chest.

His hands respond to my embrace, his mouth seeks mine, and the warmth of being loved courses through our bodies. We communicate with caresses, expressing the need we feel for each other’s bodies. Clothes disappear under muffled sighs and desires for something better.

Among the tangled sheets and kisses that taste of a happy future, we give ourselves over completely. This time it’s not lust that moves us, but the longing for something more for this pair of lonely souls tired of suffering.

It’s too soon to love, I know, I’ve only seen him three times, but am I rational enough to deny what my heart screams? But what really matters is: do I want to deny it? No, I want to live this, even if it doesn’t last long. I need the love that his eyes convey and that gives peace to my soul.

҉

“Why did you say you gave up on this?” I ask, lying on his bare chest.

“After what happened with my sister, everything went from bad to worse. I think I told you about it. I did things I shouldn’t have, trying to ease the pain of her absence. When I hit rock bottom, I realized that anyone who was with me would be harmed by my actions. So, I made the decision: I would never be a boyfriend, husband, or...father,” he explains slowly, as if carefully selecting what to share with me.

I fall silent as I understand why it’s not a concern for him that I get pregnant: he can’t do it. I ponder the idea, a future without children filling every corner of the house with laughter is not what I had planned, but in his arms, I consider it. Will his companionship really be enough for me to not desire to be a mother? When my friends have children, will I be strong and not regret staying by his side? Will I not look at him with eyes full of reproach and resentment for the dream that died?

And as I contemplate the issue under his caresses, my eyelids begin to close heavily. Soon, thinking becomes difficult, and the darkness of closed eyes is comforting.