Enzo let me inside.
No argument.
No attempt to touch me.
No assumption that because the scandal had turned, everything between us had magically repaired itself.
We sat in his kitchen.
The same kitchen where he'd once burned garlic bread because he was distracted by me doing impressions of his business associates.
That memory hurt.
“I love you,” I said.
His eyes lifted.
It was the first time I'd said it.
Not exactly romantic timing.
I almost laughed.
“Of course this is how I tell you.”
“Natalie…”
“Don't interrupt. I'm emotionally vulnerable and I have a limited return policy.”
His mouth moved.
I continued.
“I love you.”
His eyes shone.
“And I'm still angry.”
“I know.”
“You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“You don't get to protect me by removing my choices.”
“I know.”
“You're agreeing too much. It's unsettling.”
That finally produced a quiet laugh.
Then he became serious.
“I don't know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Love someone without trying to make sure nothing can reach them.”
That was the most honest thing Enzo had ever told me.
I leaned back.
“Things are going to reach me.”
His jaw tightened instinctively.
“See? That face.”
“What face?”
“The face where you're considering purchasing the concept of danger and closing it permanently.”
“I wasn't.”
“You absolutely were.”
He rubbed his jaw.
I reached across the table.
“People will criticize me. Shows will fail. Deals will collapse. I'll get sick. I'll make mistakes. You cannot build a wall high enough to keep life out.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Stand next to me.”
His eyes met mine.
“That's it?”
“No. Occasionally bring coffee.”
“I can do coffee.”
“And absolutely no secret investments.”
“Understood.”
“Or surprise security-company acquisitions.”
He looked mildly offended.
“That happened once.”
“Once was weirdly enough.”
He took my hand.
“I love you too.”
I smiled despite myself.
“I assumed.”
“Arrogant.”
“You canceled dinner for me after knowing me for forty minutes.”
“You were funny.”
“I'm hilarious.”
“You are.”
We didn't magically fix everything that night.
That's not how trust works.
Trust isn't a light switch.
It's a house.
When somebody damages it, you rebuild board by board.
Enzo started telling me things before acting.
Sometimes I said yes.
Sometimes no.
The first time he asked whether I wanted security for a late-night show in Detroit, I nearly cried.
Not because I wanted security.
Because he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He blinked.
“Yes?”
“Don't make me regret rewarding healthy communication.”
He smiled.
The tour came back together without Grant.
Thirty-six cities instead of forty.
Then ticket demand added six more.
Forty-two.
The streaming platform reinstated the special.
Jasmine stayed.
Marcus negotiated a better contract and became so smug I considered firing him on principle.
Rebecca lost me as a client and faced professional consequences for what she'd done.
Grant's business relationship with Bellandi became public.
Bellandi discovered that revenge was less satisfying when accompanied by lawyers, investigations, and every entertainment reporter in the country asking questions.
Enzo didn't retaliate.
That surprised everybody.
Including me.
“Nothing?” I asked.
We were having breakfast.
“Nothing.”
“You're just letting the legal process handle it?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
He drank his espresso.
“I've been receiving feedback.”
I laughed.
Rosa nearly adopted me officially after that.
“You fixed him,” she told me during Sunday dinner.
“I did not.”
“You helped.”
“He's not a dishwasher.”
Enzo looked over.
“I can hear you.”
Rosa waved him away.
Lucia whispered, “She has been trying to fix him for thirty years.”
“Again,” Enzo said, “I can hear you.”
Family dinner became one of my favorite things.
So did touring.
Enzo attended when he could.
But he stopped sitting in the front row every time.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because people began watching him instead of me.
He noticed before I mentioned it.
“Back row?” he asked one night.
I understood what that question cost him.
“Back row.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Destroy them.”
“Professionally.”
“Obviously.”
Giuseppe the flamingo traveled with us.
Somehow.
Fans began bringing tiny flamingos to shows.
One woman knitted a flamingo scarf.
A guy in Denver showed up wearing a pink flamingo costume.
I told Enzo this was his legacy.
He looked deeply offended.
My special taped in Chicago eleven months after I first roasted him.
The theater held more than three thousand people.
Before I walked onstage, I stood behind the curtain.
Marcus appeared.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“You're always nervous before the important ones.”
I peeked through the curtain.
My family was there.
Rosa.
Lucia.
Marco.
Jasmine.
And Enzo.
Not front row.
Six rows back.
Exactly where we'd agreed.
He caught me looking.
He smiled.
I smiled back.
Then I walked onto the stage.
Ninety minutes later, I finished with the story of Giuseppe.
“I told a terrifying man flowers were predictable,” I said, “so he bought me a four-foot flamingo. Ladies, standards matter.”
The audience roared.
Then I told them something I had never said publicly.
“The funny thing is, I thought the dangerous part of dating Enzo was his reputation.”
Laughter.
“It wasn't.”
I looked toward him.
“The dangerous part was being loved by someone who thought loving me meant preventing every bad thing from happening.”
The room became quiet.
“And the dangerous part for him was loving a woman whose entire personality is basically ‘watch me do this bad idea myself.’”
Huge laugh.
Enzo lowered his head.
“But we learned something.”
I paused.
“Love isn't standing in front of somebody so they never get hit.”
My voice softened.
“Sometimes it's standing beside them when they do.”
The audience applauded.
Enzo didn't look away.
After the show, I found him backstage.
“You used me for material.”
“You knew what this was.”
“Did I?”
“First date was literally a comedy show.”
He kissed me.
Then Marcus appeared.
“Sorry to interrupt whatever emotionally expensive thing is happening, but the platform wants to talk numbers.”
I groaned.
Enzo stepped back.
“Go.”
I looked at him.
“You don't want to hear?”
“Your career.”
Two words.
Simple.
But they meant everything.
I went.
The special became the biggest thing I'd ever done.
Within a month, I had offers for television, another tour, a book, and a role in a comedy film.
It terrified me.
In a good way.
One night, after returning from Los Angeles, I found Enzo in my apartment feeding my neighbor's cat.
“You don't like cats.”
“I don't dislike them.”
“The cat is sitting on you.”
“It made a decision.”
“You're afraid to move.”
“Yes.”
I laughed until he threatened to leave.
He didn't.
Later, we sat on the couch.
Giuseppe occupied the armchair like a pink witness to our relationship.
Enzo looked strangely nervous.
I noticed immediately.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a tell.”
“I don't.”
“You reorganized the coffee table twice.”
He looked at it.
Then at me.
“Come with me tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“The Lantern.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Historically dangerous phrase.”
“No financial transactions.”
“Good start.”
“No secret security.”
“Continue.”
“No surprise business decisions.”
“Now I'm suspicious.”
He kissed me.
“Eight-thirty.”
The exact time I'd told him the night he'd first asked whether I was performing again.
I should have understood.
I didn't.
The next night, the Lantern was closed.
Except the lights were on.
I walked downstairs.
Every table was empty.
Except one.
Front row.
Center.
Enzo sat waiting.
And beside him, on the little round table where he'd once kept his sparkling water, was a small black box.