but I try to let go. I sense she wanted me to hold her hand, so I regrip, but then she lets her hand loosen. We go through this embarrassing sequence a few times before I simply tighten my hand around hers and jokingly pull her over as if I’m trying to drag her.
While we walk around the harbor I point out various things—Federal Hill, the National Aquarium, the converted Power Plant, the iconic Domino Sugar sign—mostly so she’ll look in those directions, for every time she does, I use the opportunity to stare at her, to be able to gawk without making her feel embarrassed. You’d think after all these years of watching her exist I’d have no problem putting aside viewing her this way—but it’s a habit developed and mastered over the course of my life, acts like a drug I cannot surrender.
A breeze rushes over us and causes her sundress to fly up, and though she may have wanted to smooth it back, she shivers and crosses her arms. She looks down at her dress and her sandals and says, “These are lovely clothes, Jonathan. Thank you.”
I hold her hand, look into her eyes for a while before I answer. “They’re only lovely because they’re on you. On the mannequins… just looked like clothes.” She swallows and smiles. “I could see you in them, though. Like they were cut and sewn for you.”
Melody turns and faces me square. Without thinking I take her other hand in mine as well. We look like we’re getting ready to exchange vows. She gazes into my eyes with anticipation, like I have something I’m about to offer—but the offer was already made: Through her freedom I am trying to give her the greatest gift I could conjure, but it’s not enough, could never be enough.
As I hold her hands in mine I feel the gentle tug of emotion, temptation disguised in a robe of passion. It may not be what she wants—absolutely not what she needs—but I want to tell her what is building in my heart. I have now drifted beyond trying to correct, fall aimlessly toward trying to inspire. I have no justifiable reason to go there, no right to take her there. Yet here I begin making a terrible mistake, of letting myself drop a guard that I erected with great purpose, spent a lifetime constructing. Here I am about to perform that greatest example of losing self-control, of instantiating selfishness in Bovaro history. I open my frigging mouth:
“You’re flawless, Melody. Beautiful, smart, funny. Everything about you is right in every way: your height, your hands, your…” I keep going, talk about her legs and body and lips, snapping off generic compliments like a grocery list. I’m sure I lost her at flawless. She smiles like I’m one of her students, a kid with a crush who finally got the courage to confess his desire.
I slouch back, think for a moment, stop trying to drive the nail with a sledgehammer. I finally speak what’s on my mind. I look down, stare at her painted toenails. “You know, for the first time in my life I understand every man who’s died for a woman.” I return my eyes to hers, whisper so only she can hear. “I would die for you, Melody.”
She freezes for a few seconds, then bites her lip a little as her chin wrinkles. She drops her head, gently wipes her eyes and sniffles, does that thing where she fake-tucks her hair behind her ears, which dissolves any last thread of hope, of strength I might’ve had. She moves her head from side to side as if she’s trying to sort something out, then looks up at me with wet eyes and wet lips. She circles her hands around my palms and tightens them, stands on her toes, closes her eyes, tilts her head, parts her lips.
Now, the biggest rationalization of all time: I can’t abandon her here, with the expectation of a kiss; were I not to deliver, how embarrassed would she be? Forget the fact that I don’t recall ever wanting something this badly in my entire life.
I lean down, take in the scent of the lotions on her skin carried upward by a wave of heat rising from her body, feel the warmth of her breath just before our lips meet. Her kiss is as gentle as a drifting feather, as sweet as a candy apple. The rhythm of the movement of our