Roman Crazy (16 page)

I could see how strongly Daisy's team tried to preserve the original structure and design of the building while bringing in the new features. What was incredible was how they merged the old and new together so seamlessly. I had trouble spotting which was which.

I circled the room, taking in the colors, trying to decipher the story from the wall art. The old, musty smell filled me with memories of Barcelona, where the two of us had explored museums and churches and structures like this. Since seeing Marcello again, nearly everything was bringing up a memory.

Walking hand in hand down a Barcelona street as we laughed. Sitting in countless cafés as he patiently tried to teach me Italian. On my tiny bed, curled around each other with the sun slanting across our naked bodies.

I turned, looking for Marcello, and found him leaning casually against a wall, studying me. His arms were crossed over his broad chest and the knowing smirk was back, along with that sexy, knee-buckling grin that had me immediately scouting for available horizontal surfaces.

“What are you looking at?” I asked, feeling the blood fly to my cheeks.

“Nothing,” he said, pushing off the wall. “Everything.” He circled me like prey in the jungle. “You,” he said with an honesty so bare that my hand flew to my neck, where I knew my skin was now flushed.

I was aware of every step he took; I could feel him as he walked around me. Having seen, touched, and tasted every inch of this man, I knew what I was dealing with. His voice was
dark, husky, and goddamn it washed over me in the best possible way.

Reaching out, he took my hand in his. “Come,” he said roughly. He cleared his throat and led the way out of the antechamber and into another small room that was blocked off with velvet queue ropes and a sign in Italian that I assumed meant barred entry, but that Marcello ignored.

He lifted a leg and hopped over the rope. Turning, he held a hand out for me.

I gestured down at the tight green silk wrapping around my hips and thighs. Bending down and slipping underneath it would result in either flashing him (bad), or splitting it up the back since it was so damn tight (very bad). “No way.”

Without a word, he reached around my waist and lifted me effortlessly over it. I slid down his body until my feet brushed the old floor. He could have let go. He
should
have let go—but he didn't.

Marcello's rough thumbs found the sliver of skin between my skirt and the tight top I was wearing. Sweeping it across, he rubbed the skin
just so
. Back and forth, searing into my skin.

His breath whooshed out, and I knew what would follow. The low rumble deep in his chest that I'd always heard just before he kissed me. My tongue slipped out, licking the last of the stickiness from my wine away. His eyes caught the movement and there it was. The deep resonant sound, the clenching of his fingers against my side as he tugged me the tiniest bit closer.

My breath caught. I was afraid to move, scared that whatever bubble we were in would pop and we'd realize we were out of our depth here.

His nose brushed mine, with his lips hovering close. He was almost there. It was so natural. I knew these lips. I knew what
they felt like, how they moved over every inch of me . . . God, I wanted him! It was as if no time had passed, and the woman I am joined the girl I was then in wanting this to happen more than almost anything.

Because in that moment, there didn't seem to be anything at all wrong with letting nature take over. Wanting so badly to take that final step, I brought my hand up to his hair, twisting a curl around my finger. The arm that circled my waist pulled me even tighter to his body.

I was always a girl who loved to be kissed. Sweet little pecks that said I love you quickly or deep, searching ones that you felt through your body like a live wire over your skin. It had been a long time since I'd felt someone's lips against mine in such a needy way. It had been an even longer time since I felt a kiss that made my toes curl and that had me throwing caution to the wind.

Maybe because we were at a party filled with people he worked with and it happened to be in a building that used to be a monastery, but I was wild with desire and it was terrifying just how much I wanted this. But then I heard a tour group coming toward us and something changed, I changed. I didn't think, I reacted and pushed him away.

I exhaled shakily, then took a much-needed breath. This was exactly what I didn't plan to happen and I let it.

The twinkle in his eyes vanished and was replaced by that same hurt he had shown me that day at the café. “Marcello, I'm—”

“Sorry. I know.”

“Marcello, wait,” I called out, but he'd already taken off.

I searched the party for him, but much as I had that first dinner, he did everything he could to avoid me.

“What happened?” Daisy asked, pulling me over to the side.

“Things almost got out of hand. I have to apologize. Again.” I ran my hand through my hair, frustrated. “I feel like all I do with him is say I'm sorry.”

Y
OU'RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?”
she asked, eyeing the envelope with skepticism and disbelief.

“Listen, I don't know where he lives. I'm not going to corner him in the office, either, so I need you to do this.”

“If there are check boxes in here asking if he likes you Yes or No, I'm kicking your ass when I get back.”

I didn't dignify it with a response.

An apology was necessary, so I did what any self-respecting, practically divorced woman of thirty would do. I sent a letter with my best friend, asking him to call, email, or text me. I gave him every option.

Being in the apartment all day wasn't how I planned to spend my time, but I didn't want to miss him, so I caught up on email. My in-box was flooded with curious questions from friends, more leading questions from acquaintances still determined to get the dirt, and no fewer than four emails from my mother.

She hadn't approved of me running off to Rome, even though both she and my father were 100 percent in my corner when it
came to leaving Daniel. But leaving Daniel didn't have to mean leaving the country, or so my mother's first email told me.

Her second email wondered why I couldn't have simply escaped to their house; I shouldn't be alone right now. She'd make me my favorite brisket, she'd rent us some funny movies, she'd buy me chocolate ice cream (my mother's problem-solving methods were all straight out of a Julia Roberts rom-com), and she'd get me through this crisis, by God.

The third email allowed that perhaps I did need some time alone, but that if solitude was what I needed, then I could move into the Cape house and not see a soul if I didn't want to. Furthermore, if solitude was what I needed then why, for pity's sake, was I in Rome, a place crawling with summer tourists?

The fourth and final email told me that she was ready to give me my space, that she and my father would continue to support me any way that they could, but for the love of all that is holy, could I please return an email like a good daughter should?

She had a point. I had sort of cut and run when I left, and I know it didn't make much sense to her. I quickly fired off an email promising that yes, I was fine, and yes, I was settling in, and that yes, once they got their Skype up and running I'd love to have a “video phone call or whatever.”

I emptied out the rest of my in-box, painted my nails a beautiful shade of Roman Red—fitting—and then proceeded to ruin my new manicure by deciding to grab my easel and head outside to the courtyard.

I'd been experimenting with different mediums, mostly colored pencils and pastels, but on a second visit to the art store I'd invested in a set of new acrylic paint and some great brushes. Not yet knowing what I was going to paint, or how good I'd be
after such a long time, rather than investing in canvas I opted to go with some less-expensive cardboard. Some I'd purchased, some I'd scrounged from around the neighborhood. When you wanted to capture an idea, a concept, an anything, the bottom of a shoebox, once flattened, can be a great canvas.

I propped everything up on a cheap easel I'd also bought, tucked it into the corner of Daisy's guest bedroom, and spent time every day just painting whatever came to mind. The light on the tiny patio, the trash cans on the corner I could just make out from my window, anything and everything to get my hands comfortable holding the brushes again.

Today I needed to get out of the apartment, away from thinking about whether or not Marcello would accept my apology, so I gathered up my supplies and headed out into the courtyard, determined to capture the exact color of those potato vines cascading down the balcony planters.

By ten I had captured the color.

By noon I had successfully layered the purples for the bougainvillea planted alongside the potato vines.

By two I had painted the planter itself along with the two on either side, the bricks below, the sky above, and was starting in on another round of trash cans when I began to think he wouldn't call. Or text.
Or
email.

I brought my things inside, washed my hands, checked my phone one last time, then began to circle my laptop.

Should I? Should I not?

I had just sat down to email him when there was a knock at the front door.

Pulling off the apron, I held my breath, and my hope, in my chest. I opened the door, peeked around the corner, and let out a sigh when I saw him standing there.

“I was starting to think I wouldn't see you for another nine years,” I said, stepping to the side so he could come in.

He stayed on the stoop, hands in his pockets. He looked every bit the boy I remembered, and the man I was beginning to know. Confident, handsome, and
happy
to see me?

“Am I interrupting?” he said, glancing at the colors splashed against my arms. “You have some”—he waved his hand near my cheek—“just there. Painting eh,
melanzana
?”

“What is that?” I asked, wondering what color was on my face. “Melons?”

He smiled, taking his thumb and smudging the still-wet paint from my cheek. “Viola, big, uh—purple vegetable.”

Then it dawned on me. The bougainvillea was purple. “You mean eggplant.”

Nodding, he rubbed his painted thumb between his hands. “Avery,” he began, but I stopped him by pulling him into the house.

“Can I say some things? First? Before you say anything.”

He thought a moment, then nodded.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you away,” I explained, choosing my next words carefully. “I wanted you to kiss me. At the bank.
Below
the bank. Whatever.”

I could feel the blush rising but I didn't care. I needed to get this out and make sure he knew why I stopped him, why I had to stop him. His eyes were searching, piercing; they always could level me. I studied my hands instead. If I didn't look right at him, I could say it. “I got spooked when it sounded like someone was coming. I kind of panicked, I guess.”

How there was skin left on my hands I will never know, the way I was wringing them. But I went on.

“I didn't want you to kiss me, I mean I did, but not for the
first time anyway, with people right around the corner. It's been a long time since . . . well . . . since anyone looked at me the way that you did. At the bank.”

“
Below
the bank,” I heard him say, his voice full of teasing, but warmth, too. My eyes swung up to find him smiling at me.

“I thought you were embarrassed,” he said, glancing down to my lips.

“What? How could I possibly be embarrassed of
you
?”

He nodded and his mouth curled up in the tiniest of grins. “I've got an idea.”

“Hmm?” Was I forgiven? Again?

“You take off the apron, wash off the eggplant, and you and I? We take a walk.”

A walk. Yes. I could walk. I had a request, though. “I'll go wherever you want, but I want you to do something for me.”

“What is this you ask?”

“Talk to me while we're walking. Explain everything. Where we're turning, how old something is. All of it. Left, right, north, south. Don't leave out any details.”

DAISY AND MARCELLO
had very different methods of showing me their city. Daisy's was an adopted sense of pride, so she prattled on incessantly as if it were a travel show. She loved Rome's beauty and history, but she explained everything in an academic way.

“
Did you know that Rome has over three hundred fountains?”
she'd said as she tossed a coin into one on the outer wall of a McDonald's. It was one of those instances where I was contemplating the fusion of old and the new.
“And something like nine hundred churches? That's a lot of holy.”

“Maybe you should get a part-time job as a tour guide.”
I'd been
teasing her one night when we were walking past a guide with a lime-green flag and a trail of eager tourists. “
I'm sure that tour group Dark Rome would take one look at your résumé and hire you in a second.”