Page 108 of October
"I love you October and I will love you in all the ways time cannot touch. With hands that never tire of reaching, with eyes that never stop seeing you. As deeply as I do now, and deeper still as the years unfold."
Her breath caught, just a little.
Then, without a word, she leaned forward and kissed me—soft, slow, and sure. Like she was anchoring us in this moment, in the life we had remade. Her hand found the folded pape and tucked it into her bra. "Close to my heart," she whispered, then grinned. "And safe from toddlers."
We laughed, and in that quiet room, with party crumbs still on the table and Lola's frosting handprint on my shirt, I knew that this was the only kind of success I'd ever need.
*********
Fridays.
That became our promise, no matter what the week threw at us, we'd make time. Just us. A standing date, every Friday. It started as a way to celebrate making it through hell together but somewhere along the line, it became sacred. Our reset button. Our quiet vow.
It all started one friday lunch at my job. She had barely arrived when I saw that electric look in her eyes. The kind she got when something was already blooming in her head before the words caught up.
"I found one," she said, breathless with excitement. "Two, actually. They're small, but the light is perfect and the lease terms are clean. Nothing sketchy. I called the agent already."
I blinked. "Found what?"
"A space," she said, stepping closer. "For the shop. For my shop."
It hit me all at once, "You're opening the perfume shop?" I asked.
"Well... starting the process," she said with a grin that didn't let up. "I'm not launching tomorrow, but yes. I'm doing it. I spoke with Lina, the cosmetic chemist I met through the course forum, and she said her lab can handle small-batch safety testing. She's willing to consult until I get my diploma."
She sank into the armchair opposite me and pulled out her notes, already in motion. Her hands moved fast, flipping through sketches and ingredient lists, as her mind leapt two steps ahead. "I'll still finish the certification, of course I will, but legally, I can start retailing as long as I'm working with a licensed partner. I already run my own IFRA checks, and my labeling is compliant."
"I'll use the money you gave me to start," she said, her voice steady but lit with quiet resolve. "And yes, of course I'll finish my studies, getting that diploma matters to me. I want that closure. I want to earn it."
She paused, then looked up with something fierce and calm in her eyes.
"But I'm not going to wait for a piece of paper to tell me I'm allowed to begin. I've spent so long feeling like I wasn't quite there yet. Like everything had to be paused until I was officiallyenough.But I'm ready now. I can feel it in my bones.
I gently cupped her face. Her skin was warm under my palm, her eyes shining with something unshakable.
"I'm so proud of you, October," I said. "So damn proud. Watching you build this from scratch, watching you fight for it, it's incredible."
She smiled, eyes glistening.
"So," I said, brushing my thumb against her cheek. "Let's celebrate."
"Where? How?" she asked, half-laughing.
"Leave it to me," I said. "I've got an idea."
That night, I made a reservation at the rooftop place she used to love, the one she hadn't stepped foot in since the kids were small. She wore a pink dress that floated around her knees and looked at me across the table like she didn't know whether to trust me or cry. She didn't cry. Not that night. She laughed. God, she laughed.
After that, it became a rhythm. Something sacred.
One Friday, I blindfolded her and drove us to a small ceramics studio downtown. We sat side by side, our hands covered in cold clay, trying to mold something beautiful and failing completely. She made a lopsided bowl. I made something unidentifiable. We laughed so hard the instructor told us we were disrupting the class. When we left, I carried our "art" like it was precious cargo and told her we'd serve popcorn in it someday.
Another Friday, I packed a basket with her favorite cheeses, fresh strawberries, and a bottle of wine that had dust on it from the back of the cabinet. We drove out to the olive fields, spread a blanket under the trees, and let the sun find us. We didn't talk much that day. We didn't need to.
Some Fridays were small, sushi takeout on the couch while a documentary played in the background. Her feet on my lap, my thumb brushing circles over her ankle. Some were indulgent: a night at the planetarium where she cried softly under a sky made of stars and projection lights after I whispered: "We made it, love. We're still here." She didn't say anything. Just pulled my face toward hers and kissed me like gratitude, like forgiveness, like time rewound.
Another Friday, I took her to a quiet bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat. We spent an hour picking books for each other. She gave me a novel about scent and memory. I gave her one about a woman who left everything behind to chase her own name. We read them under a tree in the park, trading pages like secrets.
There was a kind of magic in the ritual.
