And he accepted my apology, chalking up our tangled web to the messy side effects of love.
It helps that he’s happy and in love now.
He’s married. Again. This time to a woman that’s a bit older than him, a successful artist. They have a baby together, Alice, named after Marco and Luciano’s mother, who sadly died six months ago, after her breast cancer returned. I hate saying that people “battle” cancer like they’re at war, since it doesn’t care if you’re weak or strong or brave or how much of a “warrior” you are—it takes what it wants. But their mother did fight till the bitter end.
It was the reason why Luciano didn’t come see me in Houston.
He came once, about two weeks after I returned to the city and was trying to sort out the ashes of the life I left behind. We had a bittersweet week together, and he wanted to stay longer.
But then she fell ill again. At this point, she was living by herself on Madeira, Tomás and her having separated. I guess when the going got tough for him, the rat bastard decided to opt out, leaving Luciano and Marco to take care of her. So, Luciano spent his summers in Madeira until he retired as captain of Real Madrid about a year ago. Then he moved there and took care of her until the end.
Anyway, I think Marco enjoyed the fact that he saw me before Luciano would. I’m sure he’s been rubbing that in Luciano’s face the entire time I’ve been in the air.
The plane comes to a stop and we start the deboarding process, which takes forever, and all I want to do is be off this plane and in Luciano’s arms. Alas, everyone stands up all at once, taking their bags out of the bins in mass chaos, and I have to sit here squished by the window, waiting, and then waiting some more when my elderly seatmates take their sweet time getting into the aisle.
By the time I’m off the plane and into the airport, I’m breathless.
My pulse is ticking along in my throat, my stomach a whirlwind of nerves.
It’s happening.
I’m here!
I’m also super early, so I prepare myself to not see Luciano right away. I grab my bags from the carousel, my whole life packed into one suitcase, which isn’t too different from when I first stepped foot in Europe twelve years ago.
Since I already went through customs in Lisbon (which was a nerve-wracking experience as they scanned my passport, but luckily I had no problems), I go right through the exit and into the crowd of people waiting at Arrivals.
Nervously, I scan the heads, looking for Luciano. Part of me is scared that he’s changed somehow and I won’t recognize him, but I have been Facetiming with him every single day for the last three years, so somehow I doubt it. Still, finally seeing him in person, finally being able to touch him in the flesh, makes me feel like I’m going on a first date or something. I am a giddy mess of butterflies.
But I don’t see him. I keep walking around and searching, but I don’t see him.
Then again, the flight was early, and Luciano did say he was quite far from the airport.
That gives me another nervous thrill.
For the last year he’s lived on this ranch, but it’s only now that I’m realizing, like really realizing, in the heart of me, that this is going to be my home.
This island, this country, this is home now.
It brings tears to my eyes.
I wipe at them hastily, not wanting to lose it and cry before I even see him.
I drag my suitcase out into the dry, hot sunshine outside and look around.
I bring out my phone and check for any new texts.
There’s one from him.
Almost there.
I smile, slipping the phone in my pocket, and I wait in the pick-up area, turning my head up to the bright blue sky, marveling at how crazy it is that I’m here on this rock in the Atlantic, Africa to the east of me.
And then I hear the rumble of an engine.
It sounds like an old car, and my ears know it from all the phone calls we’ve had, that it belongs to the vintage truck that Luciano drives around.
My heart stills.
My body becomes alive, like it’s been dormant, sleeping, waiting for the right person to ignite it again.
He’s my person.
I lower my chin and look right across at an old blue two-seater truck.
I watch as Luciano gets out of the driver’s side.
He doesn’t walk around the front of the truck.
No, he runs.
He runs right for me.
I burst into tears at the sight of his face.
I cry as he picks me up off the ground, his arms around me, my arms around his neck.
“Ruby,” he whispers into my neck, his voice breaking. “Ruby, Ruby.”
I hold him tighter and he spins me around and everything else drops away, it’s just me, this crazy mess of dark stars orbiting around the sun.
“Luciano,” I cry out. “God, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”
He pulls his head back and grins at me, tears running down over his beautiful face, over his lips, getting caught in his beard. He kisses me and I taste his happiness, I taste our longing, our years of patience that led up to this very moment.
“You’re home, Ruby,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You’re home.”
My face crumples, the sobs running through me, my shaking hands at his face, marveling at him. Even with seeing his face on my screen every day, it never held a candle to what I’m seeing right now. The dent in his nose, the slight bump on its ridge after Marco broke it, the curve of his lips, his beard—which is thicker and darker than ever. His hair is still unbelievable, thick and shiny and wavy, pushed off his
