in a pirouette. Her arms were raised above her head, her hands touching ever so slightly, her upper body titling to the side just a bit. She had a blue ribbon in her long auburn hair.
The wooden ballerina was framed by what seemed like a frosted window, except the glass was an illusion, a trick to make you think separation existed where it did not.
Music started to play, an instrumental version of “Ballerina Girl.” The delight that reached my heart was wild, uninhibited, and I smiled with abandon, laughed with it too, when a wooden carved man, who could’ve been Brando’s twin (leather jacket included, hands in pockets), appeared from what seemed to be a trap door at the bottom of the box, and set his dark eyes on the ballerina while she twirled.
I hadn’t even realized that Brando had cranked the knob until I caught his stare. For some reason, the box seemed magical, as if it could do all of these things on its own.
“Open the little door at the bottom,” he said.
I hooked my fingertip in the small, round entrance, a little golden handle, pulling it out slowly. The wood slid at an odd angle, revealing only a hint of the gift inside. A little more…tucked inside the velvet-lined compartment was another box.
This one I held in my palm, the outline a promise in the heated glow of the fire. I kept it there for some time until Brando reached forward and opened the top of the box.
The ring inside sat against black silk; so white, so stunning. Set in the center of the platinum ring was a classic round diamond, haloed by a square row of smaller diamonds. Encircling the center was thirty or more tapered baguette diamonds, set in such a way that one rose just a breath above the other.
Seen as an entire entity, the ring reminded me of a tutu in motion, all of the soft, frilly layers that move so effortlessly with the dancer. In the fire, it almost seemed to undulate, as magical as the music box it had been housed in.
The facets of the diamond caught the light, throwing off a dazzling rainbow. I had never seen anything so bright, a piece of jewelry that sparkled with such a fierce shine.
Brando took the ring out of the box, pulled my right hand forward, and slipped it on my third finger. It fit, but it felt a bit tight. It wasn’t meant for that finger. That didn’t take my attention though. I had never seen the boy in Brando, only a man, and nothing had changed in that moment except for the hopefulness in his eyes.
Yes, there was hope there, and that lent him a more peaceful look, almost revealing a bit of youth. “Almost” being the operative word. Life had hardened him long before a boy should ever turn into a man. This, I was sure of.
As he stroked the finger with the new ring, he explained where the music box had come from, a man called the “Music Keeper,” his shop in New Orleans, along Canal Street, and how it was custom made, just for me.
“The ring,” he continued, “is from France. A ‘Ballerina’ ring from the 1950s. The certification is in our room.” He pulled my hand to his mouth, placing a hard kiss on my skin, directly in front of the ring. “Keep it close. It’s a tangible part of me.” His breath came out in a warm rush against the chilliness of mine.
The lines between us had become blurred. Two tears slipped down my cheeks—no more, and they came at the cost of internal blood. He moved forward, wiping them with a finger, and then rubbed the moisture against his lips. He kissed me afterward, a kiss that left a tingling behind after he put separation between us again.
As much as I loved all of his gifts and the thoughtfulness behind them, a sense of foreboding refused to leave me. The gifts felt rushed for him, extremely rushed, as though everything had to be given at once to sustain years of absence. That troubled me. The weight of his unspoken vow pressed down on me like an immense pressure against my chest.
He reached up and smoothed the creases from my forehead. I blinked at him, remembering where we were and why we were here. I swallowed down the thick taste of uncertainty but didn’t respond. Not for some time.