Roman Crazy
Page 81
He stood in the heart of the room looking lost.
“Just tell me the truth, Mar—” I choked on a sob. Hearing her call him Cello was another slap in the face. Even though he’d said he wasn’t serious, it clearly was. They had a shorthand. She was invested.
I was invested, too.
“What does it matter?” he said, stepping back to lean against his desk. His head was in his hands while he spoke. “I don’t remember. I don’t care. There was no you and I then.”
“While I was falling in love with you all over again, you were fucking someone else who loved you.”
I looked up, expecting to see more of the detached response. But wait a minute—he had the nerve to look angry?
“Yes, and that should be very familiar to you,” he said, anger thickening his accent. “In Barcelona, how long for you?”
My head snapped back, startled.
He was pacing now, his hands in his hair, eyes wild, hurt and filled with pain. “How many times did you call Daniel from Spain while I was in your bed, Avery?”
“What? What are you talking about?” I was struck cold.
“When we were in Barcelona, you would leave your bed—our bed, Avery—in the middle of the night to call your boyfriend back in the States. You think I did not know? You didn’t say anything about him, but I knew. You didn’t tell me about him; I didn’t mention Simone. How is this different?”
My cheeks burned, my face flooding with anger. “It’s different because we were kids! I was—” Oh, God. Everything he was saying about Barcelona, about Daniel, was all true.
“What? You were not serious with him? You never said that we were then, and you didn’t say so this time,” he stated, thumping his chest, enraged. His eyes were so cold it felt strange to look at him, to see that coldness directed toward me. “You could have left at any moment. I had no idea if you were going to stay in Rome, to stay with me. I’d been sure that you would stay with me in Barcelona. Or that we would figure out a way to make it work when you left. That maybe you would come with me back to Italy or that I would come to America. So yes, I was still with her. I didn’t know that you wouldn’t leave again.”
“So, you did this to what, hurt me? To get back at me for what I did? Jesus Christ, Marcello, we’re adults. You should have known this was different,” I sputtered. “Running into you again after all of these years, how could that have happened unless we were supposed to be together—don’t you see? This was our second chance!”
“I am not a mind reader!” he thundered, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I ended things with Simone because of you when I knew you were staying. You didn’t do the same for me. You cheated on your boyfriend with me, and now you stand here and accuse me of doing the same thing?”
Oh, God. He was right. All those years ago, I’d cheated on Daniel. And I’d tried to keep him a secret from Marcello, but he’d known all along.
“But why didn’t you ever say anything about it?”
“Because I assumed you would choose me,” he choked out bitterly. My hand flew to my mouth.
What had I done?
Whatever it was, I’d done it twice.
Wordless, panicked, ashamed, I backed out of the apartment and headed into the streets.
I FELT EXPOSED, RAW, AND gutted as I stood in the chaotic Piazza Venezia.
Cars, Vespas, and buses zipped by, narrowly missing one another around the frenzied circle. Numerous roads fed into the piazza, much like a roundabout at home, with each car jockeying for position and making it a maddening sight. People milled about taking photos of Il Vittoriano, the beautifully lit white building that loomed in front of me.
My phone buzzed again in my purse.
“I assumed you would have chosen me,” he had said, and a sob ripped up from my chest, startling a few couples sitting on the wall.
“Scusi,” I mumbled.
Looking back, maybe it was easier for me to compartmentalize, to rationalize my time in Spain because I knew that I was in the wrong then. Daniel and I weren’t in a great place when I took off for Barcelona, but we were very much still a couple. Much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was wrong. I’d willfully pursued Marcello, knowing that Daniel was at home waiting for me. I’d been unfaithful.
I stopped and dug out my phone, then ducked into an alley to call Daisy.
“Hey, I was trying to get ahold of you. Do you guys want to meet us?” she answered, and I could hear voices in the background shouting. “Hang on, I’m down the street at that little café.” She paused, and it sounded like she stepped outside. “Okay, sorry. Grab your man and come have a drink. I’m out with some of our friends from work.”
“Can you head home? I’ll meet you there?” I checked the signs around me and calculated. “In about fifteen? I know you’re out and busy but I need an ear. Probably both. I just have to flag down a cab.”
“Are you okay?”
“Just meet me at home and I’ll explain.”
* * *
SHE WAS ON THE STOOP when I got there, looking a bit worse for the wear. “Are you pickled?”
She held up two fingers. “Lil’ bit. I locked myself out.”
When I stepped under the glare of the lamplight, she gasped at my mascara-messed face. “What the hell happened—”
“Simone,” I interrupted, not wanting to say her name anymore. Digging out my key, I fumbled with the lock before letting us inside, a confused and drunk Daisy on my heels.
“Just tell me the truth, Mar—” I choked on a sob. Hearing her call him Cello was another slap in the face. Even though he’d said he wasn’t serious, it clearly was. They had a shorthand. She was invested.
I was invested, too.
“What does it matter?” he said, stepping back to lean against his desk. His head was in his hands while he spoke. “I don’t remember. I don’t care. There was no you and I then.”
“While I was falling in love with you all over again, you were fucking someone else who loved you.”
I looked up, expecting to see more of the detached response. But wait a minute—he had the nerve to look angry?
“Yes, and that should be very familiar to you,” he said, anger thickening his accent. “In Barcelona, how long for you?”
My head snapped back, startled.
He was pacing now, his hands in his hair, eyes wild, hurt and filled with pain. “How many times did you call Daniel from Spain while I was in your bed, Avery?”
“What? What are you talking about?” I was struck cold.
“When we were in Barcelona, you would leave your bed—our bed, Avery—in the middle of the night to call your boyfriend back in the States. You think I did not know? You didn’t say anything about him, but I knew. You didn’t tell me about him; I didn’t mention Simone. How is this different?”
My cheeks burned, my face flooding with anger. “It’s different because we were kids! I was—” Oh, God. Everything he was saying about Barcelona, about Daniel, was all true.
“What? You were not serious with him? You never said that we were then, and you didn’t say so this time,” he stated, thumping his chest, enraged. His eyes were so cold it felt strange to look at him, to see that coldness directed toward me. “You could have left at any moment. I had no idea if you were going to stay in Rome, to stay with me. I’d been sure that you would stay with me in Barcelona. Or that we would figure out a way to make it work when you left. That maybe you would come with me back to Italy or that I would come to America. So yes, I was still with her. I didn’t know that you wouldn’t leave again.”
“So, you did this to what, hurt me? To get back at me for what I did? Jesus Christ, Marcello, we’re adults. You should have known this was different,” I sputtered. “Running into you again after all of these years, how could that have happened unless we were supposed to be together—don’t you see? This was our second chance!”
“I am not a mind reader!” he thundered, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I ended things with Simone because of you when I knew you were staying. You didn’t do the same for me. You cheated on your boyfriend with me, and now you stand here and accuse me of doing the same thing?”
Oh, God. He was right. All those years ago, I’d cheated on Daniel. And I’d tried to keep him a secret from Marcello, but he’d known all along.
“But why didn’t you ever say anything about it?”
“Because I assumed you would choose me,” he choked out bitterly. My hand flew to my mouth.
What had I done?
Whatever it was, I’d done it twice.
Wordless, panicked, ashamed, I backed out of the apartment and headed into the streets.
I FELT EXPOSED, RAW, AND gutted as I stood in the chaotic Piazza Venezia.
Cars, Vespas, and buses zipped by, narrowly missing one another around the frenzied circle. Numerous roads fed into the piazza, much like a roundabout at home, with each car jockeying for position and making it a maddening sight. People milled about taking photos of Il Vittoriano, the beautifully lit white building that loomed in front of me.
My phone buzzed again in my purse.
“I assumed you would have chosen me,” he had said, and a sob ripped up from my chest, startling a few couples sitting on the wall.
“Scusi,” I mumbled.
Looking back, maybe it was easier for me to compartmentalize, to rationalize my time in Spain because I knew that I was in the wrong then. Daniel and I weren’t in a great place when I took off for Barcelona, but we were very much still a couple. Much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was wrong. I’d willfully pursued Marcello, knowing that Daniel was at home waiting for me. I’d been unfaithful.
I stopped and dug out my phone, then ducked into an alley to call Daisy.
“Hey, I was trying to get ahold of you. Do you guys want to meet us?” she answered, and I could hear voices in the background shouting. “Hang on, I’m down the street at that little café.” She paused, and it sounded like she stepped outside. “Okay, sorry. Grab your man and come have a drink. I’m out with some of our friends from work.”
“Can you head home? I’ll meet you there?” I checked the signs around me and calculated. “In about fifteen? I know you’re out and busy but I need an ear. Probably both. I just have to flag down a cab.”
“Are you okay?”
“Just meet me at home and I’ll explain.”
* * *
SHE WAS ON THE STOOP when I got there, looking a bit worse for the wear. “Are you pickled?”
She held up two fingers. “Lil’ bit. I locked myself out.”
When I stepped under the glare of the lamplight, she gasped at my mascara-messed face. “What the hell happened—”
“Simone,” I interrupted, not wanting to say her name anymore. Digging out my key, I fumbled with the lock before letting us inside, a confused and drunk Daisy on my heels.
