Roman Crazy (9 page)

Heart heavy and weary, I slid the ring back into its box with a snap. Then into the darkest corner of the furthest edge of my suitcase, which I then tucked behind the bed and out of sight.

Out of sight was one thing. Out of mind was another story.

When I left the relative safety of my bedroom, I walked into a zone where nothing was safe or relative.

It should be against the law for someone who looked like Marcello to be allowed to run free in a city as sexually charged as Rome. He was so very tall, towering in the small entryway. His body filled my entire vision: long, lean lines; sharp, see-everything eyes that were only beginning to show the tiniest hint of time; sinful-looking lips carved into an even line.

“
Buongiorno
.”

That was the first word he'd spoken directly to me in nine years.

“Marcello,” I replied, and the fist around my heart squeezed a little tighter.

Our eyes locked and a thousand apologies were on my lips. Yet none of them came out. “You look well.”

He huffed and shook his head a little. Taking a step back onto the porch, he said, “I know a place we can talk”—he glanced to Daisy—“privately.”

I nodded, girding myself for, well I didn't know for what. Marcello was passion personified and the conversation was likely going to be fueled by hurt and anger.

“There is
such
a big part of me that wants to tag along on this, but I'll just stay home and organize my sock drawer. Avery, you've got my address written down somewhere, right?”

“Address?” I asked, my voice sounding dreamy and stupid even to my own ears. Shaking my head to clear it, I looked away from the Roman in the shrinking hallway and focused my attention on Daisy. “Yes, I have your address. I'll be fine.”

“If you get lost, just find a cab. You've got money, right?” she asked, threading her arm through mine and tugging me away from the gravitational pull that was Marcello.

He turned to her, and with a kindness clearly reserved for anyone
but
me, he calmed her down. “Daisy,
cara,
you've known me how long? We are just going to talk.”

“I've known you for years, Marcello, and through all of those years I've adored you as a dear friend. But this is my girl, and for me, she comes first.”

This little Western-style standoff needed no more oxygen, so I waded in to set everyone straight on what exactly was happening here. “This is long overdue,” I whispered, stepping between them.

“I've got your address, I've got money, and I'll be home before dinner.”

“Okay, but just make sure that—”

“I love you; good-bye,” I said, giving her a quick hug and joining Marcello by the door.

Sidestepping him, I stood against the railing until he closed the door behind us.

“Well, this is unexpected.” I sighed, rolling my shoulders a
bit. And I became aware of my hand on his arm. I didn't remember putting it there, but there it was. His skin felt warm, and he felt strong. And my hand looked dainty and ladylike resting there. My left hand, which felt lighter than it had in years.

I wanted to stay there all day, admiring how fantastic my hand looked on his skin once more, but instead I wisely started walking down the winding staircase to the front door that opened up to the street, knowing he'd follow. As I reached for the knob, he moved next to me to hold the door open. My shoulder brushed his chest as I walked past him, his scent filling my nose and making me tense up. I held my breath, keeping the air in my lungs until it burned.

We headed down the few front stairs in silence, but not an empty silence. No sir, this silence was filled with unspoken words. It was charged, heavy, a living, breathing thing. The world only heard the sound of our footsteps, one before the other. But what I heard was
Is this real, is this happening, am I actually here in Rome, walking casually down the stairs and now the street with Marcello, my Marcello? My Marcello who could make me laugh and cry and gasp and sigh and feel all of the feelings that remind me that I'm a part of this planet and experiencing good wonderful things as I was meant to? But, as quickly as I remembered all the good things, I remembered everything else.

As we walked down the street, our eyes would meet in fleeting glances and I had the chance to admire him once more. To take in the strong hand running nervously through his thick dark curls. To remember what it was like to run my hands through those curls, not because I was nervous but because I desperately needed the anchor.

To watch those eyes light up at the simple sight of a fat yellow
cat perched on a windowsill, enjoying a bath in the sun. I'd seen those eyes light up while I performed an impromptu striptease while shopping for bikinis on a lazy Spanish afternoon, caught half in and half out of a dressing room while his hands roamed across my body and his mouth alternated between laughing and kissing.

There was always that little nugget of hope that somehow, someway our paths might cross again and I'd be granted the privilege of seeing this man once more, to remember what I knew so well, what I loved so deeply. It was a hope I could only entertain in fleeting moments and passing thoughts, or they'd make it impossible to stay in my well-crafted life where passion was something I was no longer acquainted with.

But here I was gliding down the cobblestones of Rome only inches away from the man who could have been the love of my entire life, and it was a lesson in pure torture. With a green T-shirt snug across his chest and khaki shorts, he looked every bit the young man I fell in love with. Even knowing that the conversation would be painful, I was still happy to see him again.

“I know my timing isn't right, but I wanted to say something.”

He stopped, turning to me with a blank expression.

“Is it terrible of me to say I'm actually really glad to see you?”

He looked up at the sky, then back to me, allowing a small smile. “It is not terrible.”

HE TOOK ME TO A tiny café
off via Francesco a Ripa, something I made him repeat so that I could find it again. I also made him repeat it several times, because good god damn, I'd forgotten the lilt of his voice, the impossibly attractive rolling of the R's. I'd
once thought it was something he played up to seduce me, but over time, I'd realized it was simply the way his mouth was made to speak English—and what a blessing it was.

We sat, a single espresso in front of him and a whipped cream coffee extravaganza in front of me. While I'd been scrutinizing the coffee menu to decipher which would be the closest to my regular order, Marcello had ordered for both of us.

“You remembered,” I said, dipping in my spoon for some whipped cream.

Watching me raise the spoon to my lips, he just gave me a slightly smug smirk.

“I'm sure you have questions.”

“Only one,” he said. “Why you are here?”

Fair enough. He was angry and I could appreciate that, but I wasn't about to be a punching bag, either.

“My life fell apart.” It was honest, direct. “Daisy offered to help me put it back together.”

His features softened a bit but his tone remained cool. “She is a good friend of yours then?”

I smiled. “The best.”

“And that is why you came to Italia?”

I nodded, hating that we were reduced to such a humdrum conversation. “I know that my being here is an unwelcome surprise, but seeing you last night, you've got to understand that it was a shock to me, too. I didn't know you and Daisy knew each other, and to be clear, she didn't know anything about you or
us
.”

He was quiet for a minute. Processing. His brow remained furrowed, posture stiff, and he still wouldn't look directly at me, which bothered me more than I cared to admit.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he cleared his throat. “What happened?”

“With my life falling apart?” I took a deep breath. “Well, back home I—”

“No.” He shook his head. “You misunderstand.”

I could feel a chill starting at the base of my spine and working its way upward. So this is what it felt like, seconds before you were held accountable for your actions.

He finally looked me in the eye. “Tell me what happened nine years ago when you left to go back home and forgot all about Barcelona. And me.”

Y
OU HAVE TO KNOW THAT
I'm so sorry for how I ended things with us. I—”

He held up a finger when the server came over with a plate of biscotti. Through the large glass window, I watched the red scalloped awning flapping in the afternoon breeze, patiently waiting for her to walk away, letting this play out on his terms. I owed him that.

Once she left, he folded his hands together and dropped them in his lap. “You lie.”

My head snapped to him. “Excuse me?”

“You lie,” he repeated slowly, finally looking up at me. Any crack in the angry facade was sealed up tight. The romantic side of me was thinking he would be happy to see me after all this time.

He leaned over the table and repeated himself a third time before sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest, looking smug and satisfied. Whereas I couldn't remember a quarter of the apologies I wanted to tell him, he seemed to have no problem getting anything off his chest.

“If you aren't going to let me explain, then there's no reason
for us to do this.” I grabbed my purse from the back of the chair and moved to stand. “For what it's worth, it was wonderful to see you. And I
am
sorry.”

He stood quickly, his chair falling behind him with a crash. “You didn't end it,” he growled. “An ending has a finale.
Come si dice
, a resolution,” he scoffed, standing directly in front of me. “You disappeared.”

As I looked up at him, I could see he was furious, but under it all, I saw the hurt. Knowing that I was the cause of it, I was itching to comfort him and not defend myself. That was something I fell into with Daniel during arguments. Sometimes it was just easier to give in, roll over. Slowly I began hating myself for it. I wouldn't do it again.

“You're right. I did disappear but I had reasons, Marcello. Work reasons, personal reasons, just . . . reasons. I was also twenty-one, and people do stupid stuff when they're twenty-one, you know? I should've gotten in touch with you, I wanted to, but life back home was crazy when I got back and then . . . All I can tell you is that I'm sorry. What I did was terrible, and I will always regret how I ended things with you. How I didn't end things with you. I know words don't always mean much, but I can tell you that I am truly, truly sorry.”

His eyes moved over my face before settling on my eyes. Maybe he was cataloguing how I changed, the way I did to him last night over dinner. It could have been that he was trying to read me to see if I was sorry or if it was a lie like he assumed. I didn't ask, and he didn't tell.

Finally, he nodded and turned to set his seat upright. Sinking into it, he sat quietly and stared out of the window at the bustling traffic zipping by. I glanced around at the other customers; everyone had turned away from us.

With my hand on the chair, I waited. For what, I wasn't sure, but I hoped there would be some sort of acknowledgment that he understood. Maybe forgiveness wasn't in the cards for us, but I hoped that he could, at the very least, accept that I meant what I said.

Finally, he nodded at the chair, indicating that I could, and should, sit back down. Knowing him, and his temper, I knew it was all I was going to get.

Rolling my eyes, I slid into the chair. And waited. I eyed the coffee cup, watching the foam dissolve and waiting for him to say something.
Anything
. It didn't go unnoticed that we were together less than thirty minutes and had already fought more than Daniel and I had in years.

“I don't want to argue,” I finally admitted, the silence driving me crazy. “We probably should, but I really don't want to. I just had to apologize.”

He nodded, focusing on my wringing hands on the table. Could he see the white line from my wedding band? To me, it glared like a beacon screaming to all that saw it
look here
!

Married woman running around Rome with her wedding band off  !

If he noticed, he didn't comment.

“I don't
want
it. I
needed
it then, but—”

“
I
need it,” I said, making sure there was no way he missed this. “You deserve it. Then and now. I shouldn't have left how I did. I should have explained and not just . . . Jesus, not just panicked. When I got home I thought everything would go as we planned and, well, unplanned things happened and changes were made and—”

“I don't understand,” he said, reaching out his hand but pulling back quickly.

And you can't understand because I'm afraid to tell you.