it’s been just a little over a week since reato temporarily split; for a while, rome is idyllic. each morning brings in a calm fog that sits light on the streets, and from her little flat, she walks past a train station to go to a nearby bakery. she sips at blistering hot coffee and nibbles at different pastries, keeping her head down. sometimes, the baker’s young son gives her an extra treat for free at the register. after the first few days, her surprise and suspicion turns to smiles of thanks.
“hello, miss sofia!” the little boy calls each time, then later, when the noon light starts to warm the roads and she has paid for her breakfast, “goodbye, miss sofia!”
from there, she starts walking to the pizza parlour where she works, passing the train station again. in these days, something itches at the back of her mind; a nagging sensation she can’t place, and it isn’t until the first week passes that she realises what it is.
the train station. the station, the station, the station; again and again and again. it sits there like a taunt, a jeer, a sneer. one weekend morning, she’s sipping at her coffee when the air horn goes off — she drops the mug and the ceramic shatters into a dozen shards on the ground. the baker and his kid comes to clean it up, and gemma suddenly goes still, like she’s in shock. she hears the little boy’s voice call out in worry. she slaps a few euros onto the table to pay for the cup and then hurries away.
the decision comes like a flash.
barely a half hour later, with a large paper bag in her arms, gemma sighs with some degree of resignation as she boards the next high-speed train from rome to paris — not part of the plan, she knows, but she can’t seem to help it. she blames the lot she drew, blames the distance between one country and another, blames the passive inaction of her hiding; blames anything but her own inability to stay away.
less than half a day passes, and then she’s home.
paris, in the years that she’s been gone, doesn’t seem to have changed much at all. the streetlights are just starting to flicker on when she arrives, bathing her in their electric bronze. she steps out onto rue de dunkerque and can’t help but think, oh, how strange this is.
but she is not here to stare blankly, or to sigh wistfully, or to think sadly. no, not at all; she is here to visit someone very important.
she hails a cab and gives to the man inside an address she hasn’t said aloud for a long time. her voice cracks toward the end and she’s ashamed at how it does, but she settles quietly into the car and occupies her mind with pondering how unusual it is to sit anywhere but the driver’s seat.
when the rumble cobblestone turns to the crunch of gravel, gemma knows they are close. she pays the driver and steps out; takes a breath and walks the path she has committed to memory, even so many years later.
fifty-eight steps; in between, take two rights, then one left. at the exact count, her feet come together to a stop. in front of her: a dusted gravestone of smooth, black granite, golden words etched across the centre.
adelais sofia presigny.
1992-2013.
from her paper bag, she pulls out a bouquet. all roses and chrysanthemums — for love, for grief. gemma kneels onto the gravel path and lays the flowers prettily inside an old mason jar from the last time she was here. the previous flowers seem to have cleared themselves; withered out and blown away. she feels guilty at knowing how long it must’ve been.
“tu es ma lumière, addy,” she whispers in greeting; a phrase she’s not said in years. she brushes her fingertips against the soft petals, hand tracing a line all the way to the name carved in gold. she follows each line with care, like she wants to remember the feel of every individual letter. “you are my light. my golden light, like sunshine.” she hasn’t spoken french in so long, she thinks her words sound clumsy. unnatural. her accent is jumbled with the american one she’s feigned for so long.
“and like sunshine, you could shake the fruit from trees.” her laughter comes out in a peal; a light ringing like the melody of bells, free of weight, if only for a moment. “you make my heart heavy, the same way as ripe fruit is heavy. and when it is ripe, it is ready to fall to the ground, because it has seen enough. it has been enough.”
she thinks of reato — of what they’ve done, of what they’ve accomplished. she thinks of the mistakes she made, in between. her breath hitches. “and sometimes, sometimes when i’m only hanging on by a thread, when i’m little but a fruit clinging to its branch, that’s what i think too; that i have seen enough. that i have been enough.”
her hand rests on the top of the headstone; fingers wrapped tight around the edge, knuckles white, smile strained. she knows they made a plan to return to las vegas in three months, to come back, to continue doing their ‘good work’. but for just a moment, gemma considers lying here. falling asleep for the night. never going back. her hand trembles on the stone, drawing in a slow, deep breath.
“and so that’s what you are, addy: the promise that i have been, that all this hasn’t been for nothing. that even if, sometimes, i might pray for the breeze to turn and sever me, we were. we were. we were. and that is enough for me.”
gemma glances at her watch. it’s late, now, but she still has some time before the last train. she sits on the ground, heedless to the leaves and soil clinging to the fabric of her clothes, and leans her head against the cold granite. her eyes sting hot when she finishes, voice gentle, “do you like the flowers? they came all the way from italy.”
in time, she will have to go back. in time, she will have to pick herself up again. first, back to rome; and then, back to vegas.
but for now, she can sit here. she can rest. she can remember.
gemma has few things in life with sentimental value, and fewer things still she considers worth that sentimentality. as a result, her little corner of the warehouse is sparse of... almost anything. from the get-go, she’s chosen a small perch on the upper floor as her own — tucked by a slanted wall and predominantly concealed behind support pillars and old piping. you can peer in from various angles, but you can only enter from one, tight-squeeze corner. (gemma often blocks this hole with a heavy crate whenever she’s inside.) there is a dusty, cracked and taped-over window by the head of her mattress — almost constantly unmade and messy — and beside it is a wooden stool she’s turned into a bedside table for things like her keys, wallet and watch. on the windowsill is a bottle of bourbon and two glasses; beyond this, as well as a wooden rack and some overhead pipes repurposed as her closet, the room (if it can be called that at all) is almost entirely bare.
though her sleeping quarters are as far hidden as possible in a warehouse shared by eight people, the main place where she spends her time — a side room she’s deemed her ‘garage’ — is much closer to the entrance and centre of the warehouse. there, she keeps three vehicles: one, a black 1968 shelby mustang GT500-KR; two, a red 1964 ferrari 250 GT berlinetta usso; and three, her customised cruiser motorcycle, affectionately named clementine. out of the three, she only ever takes clementine out for daily purposes — the other two, rather broken down and past their prime, salvaged from cruel fates at ignorant junkyards, are kept merely for tinkering and admiring. there are a few other (less recognisably vintage) cars scattered across the compound that gemma uses, though getaway vehicles are always dumped after its intended heist. when gemma isn’t in her garage, she’s on the warehouse rooftop or by the back staircase with a cigarette and/or a glass of bourbon; occasionally, she can be found elsewhere attempting to make conversation with her associates.
Memories from last night drift like shadows behind your closed eyes, blurs of butterfly wings and tender kisses. You remember warmth; her firm hold, her soft touch, her slender fingers, entwined with yours. Your face nestled into the crook of her neck, her arms wrapped tight around your birdcage ribs, pulling you close to her.
Now, you lay alone with a bramble rose; plucked from the bouquet you’d brought last night.
You can feel the quiet light of morning filter through the window, spilling warm rays across your bare back. You missed this light; this tremulous, secretive light. It came only with her, with her protective, guardian wings, with the soft rise and fall of her laugh and quiet, gentle voice. You’ve been chasing this light for months, only to come up empty handed like a blind child in the desert, mourning over dust and sand in her shaking hands.
Yet here you are now, bathed in this light.
(Almost redemption, almost benediction.)
You turn over to look at the ceiling, stretching your arms above your head like a lazy cat, opening a sleepy eye and running your hands through your hair. The space beside you is vacant but still warm, as though her sleep had stayed intertwined beside yours, leaving trembling shadows in her wake.
“Addy?” Your voice is quiet and hoarse, heavy with sleep. “Adelais, love?”
You take the rose from upon her pillow, noting the letter beneath. The words are written in her thin, loopy script:
Called to the hospital. Will see you later!
Yours, Adelais.
You snort. It’s so very old-fashioned — and so very like her — to leave a handwritten note. You pick up your phone from the bedside table and send her a good morning text, wishing her the best at work. Soft-scented petals brushed against the tip of your nose, and despite it all, you can feel yourself smiling.
This, the life you’ve been blessed with: after severing ties with the Red Knights, a decision prompted by a particularly dangerous heist and encouraged by Adelais warm support, you move out of Paris to Lyon with her. Here, she becomes a nurse at the local hospital; here, you take on a simple delivery job. You’re the fastest courier on wheels, even if that’s not a fulfilling title. It’s boring, it’s bland, but it’s safe — and at this point, that is all you want.
Truth be told, you don’t think you deserve it, after everything. But Adelais, she tells you that happiness does not have to be about deserving. (She kisses you for no reason and when you ask what it was for, she laughs: affection doesn’t have to be earned, Gem. She makes you feel spectacular, like you’re something better than you are.)
After your shift for the day, you drop by the hospital to pick Adelais up. She sees you from the desk at the lobby and comes running, running, running into your arms; she leaps and you sweep her up easily.
The two of you drive home in your car; a vintage beauty you fixed up together. Adelais puts on a radio station with the cheesiest love songs you’ve ever heard, but she grins at you and sings along and all you can do is laugh. Love you! she giggles when you let her music be, and you roll your eyes at her despite your smile.
The sun shines bright as it sets and it feels like it’s laughing with you, warm rays calling out in echo: love you! Love you! Love you! Your hand grips Adelais’ as you lean over to kiss her temple, and she laughs as she brushes her cheek against yours. Orange and gold washes over the horizon; a soft, jazzy voice croons over the radio.
God, the sun is so bright, and melodies keep tumbling out of Adelais’ mouth and merging with her laughter. This is all you want, you think, but the sun, the sun, it feels unbearable all of a sudden — the music dips like you’re listening to it underwater, and Adelais’ voice rings out in concern. You hear her clear as anything, but you find that you can’t tell her what you want — and the thought sits in your throat in place of all the words you want to say, until it burns, until it flames, until oh god, until oh no, until love you! becomes I’m sorry and love you! becomes don’t leave me until, until, until you lose everything all over again.
You wake to the languid murmur of noon.
You lie on a mattress on a warehouse floor. The air is chilly and thick with dust. Your eyes sting with hurt but you hastily wipe away the sleep, along with anything else it brought with it. That’s right, you think, your smile mirthless and broken. You can dream all you want, but in the end, this is the path you chose.
You are not spectacular. You have no wings. You are glass, broken glass, but for all your pains, Adelais sang louder. She, your comet. She, your peace. She, your goldfinch with her clever fingers, covering all the pin-prick holes in your heart, enough for you to pretend you weren’t cracking apart. Know that for all the memories left in your head, so many of them are hers. She made you so happy, you could have torn her apart. And you would have, you really would have, if you hadn’t loved her so. She, brilliant, bright-eyed being. She, shooting star.
She, yours.
(In the end, take comfort in knowing that you loved her.
Take comfort in knowing that she loved you, too.)
