Page 82 of Audiophile

Tales of Galin: Natalia’s Pixie Powerby Petronia Diamante.

Before Reed, I never would’ve dreamed of using my full name, but it feels right.A world-changing name, Reed said, though he’s the one who changed my world. I brush my fingers over the title.

Natalia, Natalia, Natalia.Her name doesn’t shatter me. Finally, I have a memory of her that’s more than grief, heartbreak, or bitter dreams. This is my love for her in ink.

The weight of it hits me. I’ve done something incredible. I took an idea and made it real. I finished it, unlike how I never finished school, or got married, or raised Natalia. Not all my dreams are outside my grasp. Not anymore.

The tears climb up my throat before I can check them, and Reed’s voice fills my ears.Just cry, baby.

And I do. I bury my head in my hands and sob. The sunlight bakes into me as tears pour out. Each one is a drop of grief, depression, anger, fear—all the emotions that held me hostage and tied me down over the last nine years. Each breaks the hold they had on me.

I want to share this with Reed. He knows what it means to create. Knows the terrifying and thrilling knowledge that it will be in someone else’s hands. That my words will live outside of me. I glance to my side, expecting to see my best friend joined at my hip, but there’s just an empty space. That’s what he is. A sexy best friend, definitely, but someone who saw me, called me out on my lies. Held me. I hope he felt seen, understood, and valued, too.

But Reed is a world away. In a pathetic and desperate effort to be closer to him, I get a waffle from Imelda’s Diner and nibble on it in my car while I reread Natalia’s story. Galin is as vibrant as ever: Natalia’s little woodland village, her pastel unicorn, even the way I imagined she’d look at eight years old. All of it is vivid in my mind.

It’s a short read for an adult, perfect for the ten-year-old bracket, and packed full of adventure. The obstacles are huge forlittle Natalia, but she and her friends use kindness with a warrior’s ferocity to overcome them.

More changes need to be made, but since I have a large number of installments written, I can weave bigger arcs throughout the series. Its flaws don’t diminish its beauty. These winged pages will carry Natalia’s name into the future, instead of whispered quietly through tears in the dark.

Hope fills the place inside of me that was cold and empty. I curl up on the seat, with my book tucked to my chest, and fall asleep in full sun. Warm and whole, all on my own.

When I wake, the sun sits low on the horizon. I park in the street, surprised to see so many cars in front of my parents’ home. I arm myself with my manuscript, but hesitate on the porch. My family might hate it. Worse than that, they might notwantto remember Natalia, or understand what she means to me. I hide it in my tote to share later, when I’m ready. If I’m ever ready.

Laughter spills out the front door, and I steel myself in the hallway.

“Troni!” a voice squeals. I’m engulfed in a tight hug, and Silla’s smiling face presses to mine. She’s emphasized her tight curls, with a short haircut that makes her appear even more mischievous than before. We could’ve passed for twins as children, but now we’re complete opposites, from hair to clothing to confidence.

“Silla.” I clutch her shoulders and blink back fresh tears.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me.” Silla laughs weakly, and I nod against her.

“I’m ecstatic. What are you doing here? It’s not Sunday! Where’s Josie?”

“She had to work. But Livi and I decided it was time for a visit. It doesn’t have to be Sunday to have family dinner, you know? I’m staying tonight, and I’ll head back to Seattle tomorrow.”

Silla drove four hours to be with me. “Thank you,” I say, pulling her in for another hug. Second to Reed, it’s her I want to share Natalia with. But before she can let go, everyone barrels into us with hugs, as though we’ve all been apart too long. Maybe we havebeen—me disconnected by my grief, Silla by distance, Tommy by secrets.

As one big Diamante family, we take a collective inhale. Everything fits into place, though there are gaps around the edges—Reed and Josie—and those passed on: Nonno, Nonna, Zio David, Natalia. But the links around me are strong. I shouldn’t have neglected them when all they wanted was to help carry my burdens.

Like a dam, I burst open, all my feelings pouring out into their arms. “I’m sorry.” I sob through tears that blind me. “I cut myself off. I forgot how to lean on you. I lost myself. I’m so sorry I forgot how to be part of this family.”

“No need to say you’re sorry,stellina,” Papa says, rubbing my back.

Mama squeezes my shoulder. “The words you’re looking for are, ‘I love you.’”

It’s been too long since we’ve said it.

“I love you,” I say, and then Livi does, and then it echoes all around me. There are murmurs over and over, like the Rite of Peace at church. Even Antonio and Lilly’s little voices join in, giggling, unsure of exactly what we’re doing. Our chorus merges into one, and love moves through us like magic.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Sunday Mass comes to us, and church lives in our kitchen.

Chapter thirty-two

Petra

When we wipe awayour tears, I clutch Livi to me. Our behavior as children isn’t a valid reason to keep shutting her out. She’s right here, showing an interest in my life, wanting me to be happy, bringing Silla home. I’ve done her a disservice by pushing her away. “Thank you.”

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