“Roman—"
“I promise you, no one has ever worn it but you. Now shut up and turn around.”
She doesn’t listen. Of course, she doesn’t listen. She narrows her eyes, completely disbelieving. “When did you get this?”
“Like, six months ago.” 163 days ago, to be precise.
Her shoulders sag a fraction. “But you didn’t even know if I was coming back.”
“I knew. Now, turn around. Put it on.”
She gingerly takes the necklace from me, and I admit, I almost keep it out of her reach. I should be the one to put it on her. Bella fiddles with the clasp, and my stomach drops. I wanted it to be perfect, and this is less than that. She deserves so much more than the shit I put inside the locket.
All my worries and concerns that she would frown at how terrible it is, vanishes when her lips curve into a smile, and a soft little giggle leaves her.
She runs her finger over the right side of the locket, where there’s a picture of Mickey Mouse that I cut out from a magazine. On the left, in small handwriting, it says “Roman （aka the real Mickey）。” This way, it isn’t just me who’s kept close to her heart, it’s her mother, too.
Bella’s obsession with Mickey Mouse started because of her mamá, but she never managed to find any photos of her, just like there aren’t any （non-government taken） photos of me.
“Mickey,” she breathes as she looks up at me, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “This is beautiful.”
“I know.”
Her warm smile doesn’t disappear when she rolls her eyes or when she hands me the necklace to secure around her neck.
Before she can turn around, I have the next gift out of the bag. A—you guessed it—Mickey Mouse keychain. Honestly, there’s this weird trend with Mickey Mouse going on, but I couldn’t give a shit as long as it puts a smile on her face. I have no memories outside of Bella that I want to keep alive. Still, I will do everything I can to make sure her happiness is immortalized, even if that means having an excessive amount of Mickey Mouse stickers all over both of our things so she’s taken back to Disneyland with her mamá.
Bella claims she’s sick of the thing, but it doesn’t stop her from pausing whenever she sees that damn mouse like she is now.
Our kids will probably be just as obsessed with the rodent.
“My birthday was, like, months ago.” The absolute attitude dripping from her voice right now is uncalled for. She’s still a part-time brat, I see.
I cock a brow. “Your point?”
“You didn’t know if I was coming—"
“I did.”
“I can’t accept all of this.”
“Who said you had the option not to?” The urge to groan and shake my head in disbelief is real. She does this every time: pretending that her moral compass is in the way of taking something I’ve gotten specifically for her, even though I can practically smell how much she wants to get her hands on it.
“I do.”
“Signore aiutami con questa.” Lord, help me with this one. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the way that will have you all squirmy. Take the goddamn keychain.”
She glares at me as she takes the keychain and clips it on her bag, grumbling, “I haven’t liked Mickey Mouse in a long time.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but I don’t make the rules.”
Tradition is tradition. Every year that has passed and that will come, she’ll be getting a Mickey Mouse item. No ifs, ands, or buts.
“Last one,” I say. And thankfully, it has nothing to do with the big-eared rodent.
A little wrinkle forms between her brows as they dip, taking the orange stuffed animal from me. “Foxes aren’t my favorite animal anymore.”
Of course, they aren’t. It changes every year. Last year it was a fox. The year before, magpies. The year before that, wolves. “What is it this time?”
“Bears.”
“That’s gonna have to change. I’m here, and you aren’t going to be a solitary creature.”
Chapter 8
ISABELLA
3 Years Ago
Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
Today is always the hardest.
It’s the time of year when I remember the life that I had, or more accurately, the life I could have had. Not because I think I deserve it, or that it’s the path I should be on, but because it doesn’t matter how hard I try, the hole in my heart will never be filled.
That’s not to say my heart isn’t stuffed to the brim. It’ll simply never be whole. There will forever be cracks, and shards have gone missing.