Roman Crazy
Page 19
“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.”
YOU 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.
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.”
YOU 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.
