Roman Crazy (8 page)

“Park Güell. Good-looking Italian. Naive yet attractive
American. Never told a soul even though her best friend is awesome. Comes home for a job.”

“That was succinct.”

“Yeah, but you left out all the good stuff, all the in-between. Gimme that part.” She tucked her legs underneath her and got comfortable. There was no way I was getting out of this.

But I found that in the light of day, sitting here with a great cup of a coffee and a ridiculously good pastry, I
wanted
to tell the rest of this story. Give it some air and some light and see if it was as bad as I remembered it. Well, only the ending was bad. Everything leading up to that had been . . .

“It was fucking magic. Daisy, I can barely describe it, it was just . . . God it was good.”

“Now when you say
fucking magic,
I assume you mean that the
fucking
was
magic
?” She mimed a finger going very specifically into a hole conveniently created by two other fingers, then was quite surprised when a pillow hit her smack in the face. Peeking up over the edge, she blinked. “Too soon?”

“Promise me never to do that again with your fingers and I'll promise never to hit you again with a pillow. And no, not too soon. And yes”—I covered my face with my hands, knowing I must have been blushing every shade of red—“the fucking was magic.”

“I knew it!” she cried, kicking up her heels. “I always knew that man had to be killer in the sack; just look at him! I mean, I'm not interested in him, we've only ever been just friends, but come on! You just know a guy that looks like that knows how to hit it!”

“Oh he hit it,” I admitted, still blushing, but determined to give Marcello his due. “I mean, I'd only been with Daniel, who was always quite nice in bed, you know, but this guy. This guy was . . .” I paused, trying to put it into words.

“What, what? This guy was what? Huge? Awesome? A freak? What?”

This. This is what was missing last time. I never got to squeal and scream and laugh and giggle over Marcello with my girlfriends because as far as my girlfriends were concerned, he never existed. Somehow, getting to talk about this now even all these years later reminded me that what had happened was real, it was tangible.

But how could I describe Marcello in bed? I'd need hours to recount all the wonderfully filthy things he'd done to me, and encouraged me to do to him. How he'd made me gasp, moan, groan, and cry . . . all in the same moment.

“. . . talented,” I finally finished, keeping most of it for myself and letting Daisy draw whatever conclusions she wanted from that.

“I love it, I fucking love it!” She bit into her pastry with gusto, little bits of powdered sugar blowing this way and that as she chewed. “So were you together the entire time you were there?”

I nodded. “Pretty much. We were practically inseparable, and naked a lot of the time. Don't get me wrong, we were enjoying everything that Spain had to offer, but we were also enjoying each other, too. A lot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. This story really makes me regret spending that summer working with my dad at the accounting office. Continue,” she teased, and sipped more coffee. “How did you leave things with him when you left Barcelona? Is he why you came home early?”

“Kind of. My advisor called, a call I'd been dodging since I'd been spending so much time out of the program and in bed with Marcello, but it turned out to be a great call. Here I thought I'd
be in trouble for skipping classes and hurrying through assignments, when the truth was, what I'd been turning in had been some of my best work yet. Something about that time in Barcelona, even though a lot of it felt like playtime, actually focused me, made the time I spent in the studio super sharp. And somebody saw something in the work I was doing, and just like that . . . I got an offer to intern at the museum back home.”

“Right, that's right, at the Gardner!” Daisy cried, her face scrunched up as she put all the pieces together. “And when you came home you were all tanned and glorious and gypsied out and you were talking about traveling for the rest of your life and wanting to get your master's at that university in Italy and boy did that piss Daniel off but then . . . wait a minute.”

Her voice trailed off, still putting puzzle pieces together. I watched and waited as understanding came over her face. “Daniel.”

“Yep, Daniel. Once I was home and settled in, well, that path was pretty well set.”

“And Marcello—”

“Marcello was still in Barcelona. Waiting for me.” I blinked, feeling my throat begin to close up a bit, a lump forming. “Daniel, not my parents, had picked me up from the airport when I flew home. Daniel, the golden boy I'd left behind when I went off to Spain. Daniel, the boyfriend I truly and deeply loved and was convinced I'd miss terribly the entire time I was abroad. Daniel, the boy I let conveniently fade into my background when a man showed up.

“Marcello happened, and then that was it for me. But when I came down the escalator at Logan Airport, and Daniel was waiting for me at the bottom with balloons and flowers and a sign that said Welcome Home Baby! . . . there was a part of my heart
that hadn't entirely been given to Marcello that softened once more for him.

“Make no mistake, I was still determined to follow the plan. Get home, get settled, get into a groove at the museum, and then once all my ducks were in a row, break the news to Daniel. Looking back now, I should have reversed that entire order. Because once I was home, and settled, and into my groove, my ducks became fucks. Well, one last duck, for old times' sake.”

Daisy interrupted me, shaking her head. “You don't have to talk about this part, Ave.”

“No, I do, though, you know? It's all part of the story.” I wiped a tear with the back of my hand.

“I thought, what could it hurt, right? Daniel was a wonderful boyfriend, and we'd been together for such a long time, and being back at home stirred up some of the feelings that had been dormant the entire time I was in Spain. And that one night I spent with Daniel, with every intention of breaking things off once and for all . . .

“Things are never black and white. I'd planned on telling Daniel about Marcello, I really had. But it turned out I'm not this fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-love-can-conquer-all kind of gal, at least not outside of that little bubble with Marcello.

“I chickened out. I panicked. I spent every waking hour at work, dodged Daniel as much as I could, and strung him along for three entire weeks. And that whole time, I avoided Marcello, too. He'd call, I'd email back. He'd reply to the message, I'd call when I knew he was asleep or in class and leave a voice mail. I was confused and scared and I had no idea what to do.”

Until a little blue plus sign changed the trajectory of three lives.

I didn't have to say that part out loud.

“Well, you at least knew that part of the story.”

She nodded, patting my hand, her own eyes bright with tears.

I never told anyone what had happened while I was in Spain, but when I found out I was pregnant, and I knew enough time had passed that it was Daniel's, I had to tell someone, I couldn't go through this alone. So I told my best friend, who knew even before I told Daniel.

“And then it all just happened so fast. Once Daniel knew he was going to be a father he went out and bought a ring the next day. Our families were toasting the proposal at the country club by that weekend. I flat-out panicked, one hundred percent, no question about it. And I made the biggest mistake of my life by not telling Marcello the truth. I couldn't face him. And like a coward, I stopped returning his calls.

“It wasn't a slow fade with promises of calls or emails. We detonated and it was all my doing. He was blindsided.

“But I'd made my decision that this was my path, this was what had to happen for the good of my new family.”

She nodded her head. “And you never got back in touch with him?”

“It just felt impossible once everything happened. It hurt too much. And besides, I was going to have a baby! Who the hell tells their ex–Italian lover they're knocked up?”

“Yeah, speaking of that—”

“It wasn't his. I know it wasn't.” I shook my head. “Believe me, I went over the math a thousand times before I told you, definitely before I told Daniel. I got my period a few weeks after I got back from Spain, and it was actually that excuse I used to get out of sleeping with Daniel when I first got home.” I smiled ruefully. “How funny is that?”

And what you never told anyone, what you will never tell anyone, is how for a split second you thought, you hoped, you prayed that it
was
Marcello's . . .

“Anyway,” I said, blowing my nose and running my hands through my hair, “enough of that. You know all my secrets, one day maybe I'll know half of yours.”

“Oh honey, I wish I had secrets.” Daisy chuckled, gathering the coffee cups and pastry bags, taking my cue that the heavy stuff was over for now.

“Listen, get showered and dressed. We'll grab an early lunch and spend the day out and about in Rome like two crazy kids.”

I nodded, letting her ruffle my hair a bit as she made her way back into the kitchen. I was here, he was here, that part wasn't changing. But what I could change was the way I smelled. I needed a shower.

I padded into a surprisingly modern, stark white bathroom. It was floor-to-ceiling tile that glowed from the sunlight pouring in from all directions. This was not a bathroom that you wanted to use when you were nursing a hangover or suffering from jet lag and emotional baggage. No, this was the “kick you in the face with beaming Italian sunshine” until you were awake enough to function.

“Stupid complicated European showers,” I muttered to myself, cataloging the myriad of knobs and buttons. After a few minutes of naked tinkering, I stepped into the steam/hot water/massage jet combo and let the water wash away the exhaustion in my bones. But for all the jet lag and late nights and emotive outpourings, I felt oddly . . . refreshed?

It was good to talk about this, exorcise the demons a bit as it were. Next time I saw Marcello, I'd be ready for it.

Daisy was chatting on the phone when I stepped into the
kitchen, my hair air drying for the first time in ages. I pulled up a seat at the counter, picking up the notepad from the night before and looking at the sketch I'd done.

Not bad. Not too bad at all, actually.

I was just turning the page and settling in to start a second sketch when a loud knock sounded on the front door.

Daisy hung up the phone as she sprinted silently down the hall toward the front door, and tiptoed back wide-eyed. “It's Marcello!” she whispered.

Another knock came, this one harder, angrier. “I know you are home. I saw you at the peeking hole.”

Only Marcello could make a phrase like “peeking hole” work for him. I could literally feel his voice through five inches of ancient wood and not-so-ancient steel, could feel it slip across me like brandy. But this wasn't going to be smooth. It wouldn't be the reunion I imagined.

“I came to talk to Avery.”

Averrry.
How did I ever think I would get over the way he pronounced my name.

Daisy's head whipped back and forth between the door and me as I considered.

“Let him in,” I said, heart racing. I'd had nine years to think about what I would say to him. How to apologize, explain. In hindsight I should have written it all down because now, faced with the opportunity to make peace, I couldn't focus on it.

“Tell him I'll be ready in ten minutes.”

I PULLED MY DAMP HAIR
into a high ponytail, slicking everything back with a little bit of pomade to keep the curls from getting
too
curly. I dressed quickly, choosing a smooth white
button-down shirt and a red-and-pink-striped skirt, not too tight but not matronly, either.

I could feel heat blooming in my cheeks, and when I took a quick glance in the mirror, I could see bright eyes and rosy lips struggling to contain little nerve-filled breaths.
Get it together, Avery.

I was getting coffee with Marcello and I needed to calm way the hell down. But my heart was bursting from my chest and running wild.

Stop. Full stop.

My heart joined back up with my chest as I stood in front of the nightstand, where I'd taken off my jewelry last night. My ring, and all it represented, sat tucked in a velvet-lined box waiting for me to put it back on. But why? Why would I still be wearing my wedding ring?

Because you're still married.

My heart did a little flip. A small tremor for what Daniel and I had. The truth was that my heart never busted out and raced wild for him.

Not when I fell in love with him—and I had—and not when I fell out of love with him, which I was still processing.

I sank to the edge of the bed and gazed at it catching the light from the stained-glass window in my bedroom. There was a time when I wouldn't have left the house without it. I felt naked even though there was a permanent faint ring on my skin reminding me. It was an extension of my relationship with Daniel, and I wondered how long it would take for the line to fade.

I picked it up. It slid easily onto my finger, where it had lived for so many years.

It surprised me how easily it slid off again. Holding it between
my fingers, I studied its flawlessness. If only the marriage was that perfect.

The rings were supposed to symbolize the marriage. Thinking of Daniel and the secretary, I forced myself to replay the scene. He was gripping the desk, knuckles white, and sure enough—the ring was on.

I wondered what was worse, that he had left it on, or if he had been one of those men who took it off and kept it in the glove compartment or desk drawer when they met their lovers.