Roman Crazy
Page 17

“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.