Roman Crazy
Page 86

This was different, though. None of those paths would have included Marcello. This had to be different.
But could I give up who I was, again, just because he was my One?
I stayed up all night, watched the sun rise, and knew that I had to tell him the truth.
* * *
STILL WEARING HIS SWEATER, I was sitting in the chair on his side of the bed. I couldn’t be in bed with him when I told him this.
“I can’t go with you to Brazil.”
As hurt filled his eyes, I said, “But before you say anything, please hear me out.”
He nodded.
“I love being here. It’s so busy and boisterous; there’s so much energy and so many people. I never know what’s going to happen next here, and I love that. I don’t know where I’m going to live, I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep a job if the work visa falls through. My life is upside down and inside out, and it’s exciting and scary as hell—but I love it.”
He said nothing.
I smiled at him. “And I love you. I love you so much, and I feel so lucky not only to have found you again, but to actually be with you.”
Stand firm, Avery.
“Then you give me this incredible news about this job, which is wonderful, and I am so very proud of you. But I can’t uproot my life to follow you halfway across the world. I’ve just started growing roots, Marcello. They’re barely in the ground.”
He sat quietly, taking it all in. When he finally spoke, he sounded confused. “Then I would think this would be the best time for a move like this—no?”
I sighed. “That could be true—except for one thing. After everything that happened with losing the baby, I put someone else’s career, happiness, and choices ahead of my own and I buried myself. If I go with you to Brazil, I’d be doing it all over again. Even though I’d be with the man I love this time, I can’t do that to myself.”
He was silent. Listening. Comprehending.
I climbed out of the chair and onto his lap, wrapping my arms around him. “Marcello, I love you more than anyone on this planet. And I will wait for you here. I’ll come to visit, I’ll call you every day, I’ll Skype you and dirty text you and send you naked pictures, and I’ll do everything I can do to make this work. But I can’t live someone else’s life. Not again.”
“You are not going with me to Brazil.”
I shook my head, trying to hold back the tears that were already falling. “I love you so much,” I whispered, kissing his sweet, sad face all over, eyelids, cheekbones, eyebrows, tip of his nose and all along his lips. “But I can’t.”
He kissed me back, but said nothing.
* * *
I SPENT THE NEXT FEW weeks second guessing, third guessing, fourth guessing, and yes, fifth guessing my decision.
Pros for Going to Brazil
The food is incredible
The beaches are supposed to be great
Carnivale
Caipirinhas
The man of my dreams asked me to move there with him, and who the hell says no to that . . .
Pros for Staying in Rome
Me
There were other reasons, sure. But what it all boiled down to was creating a new life for myself that would be complemented by a man, but not defined by one.
This is what I told myself the entire time Marcello was house hunting in Rio de Janeiro, Skyping with me, and showing me pictures of homes overlooking the ocean and the Christ the Redeemer statue in the background, blessing the city and all those lucky enough to live there.
This last part was uttered by a certain Roman.
And I had to tell myself this again when the nights came, and I was lonely and missing him in my bed. And the mornings, when I was missing him with my coffee.
But other than that, I was getting along. Classes were wonderful, work was great, I was meeting some new friends and establishing a little circle of my own.
God, I missed him saying my name, stretching it out while he stretched above me, thrusting low and deep and telling me how much he needed me, how much he loved me . . .
I considered printing up my Rome Pro list and having it laminated for exactly these moments.
For all the guilt he was giving me, which was a lot, Marcello was being as supportive as he could be with my decision to stay in Rome. He was proud of his testa dura (which I found out through Google meant, a hard head) and said we would figure everything out even if I was stubborn. That he and I were in it for the “far run” and he could see us “walking off into the horizon as the sun was setting.”
Oh, God, it was torture. And the closer it got to the date he was leaving for good, the worse it got. We spent every minute we could together, saving up memories for when we wouldn’t be together.
I was trying like hell to keep things light and bright and easy breezy, but it was so hard to do sometimes. But I didn’t want him to leave sad.
So I decided to throw him a party.
WHENEVER I WAS NERVOUS about a fancy party in Boston, I pregamed it with my parents in the sunset lounge of the club. A glass of wine or a shot of Jack with my dad, and things didn’t seem so bleak.
But I couldn’t get sloshed tonight, no matter how much I thought it would make Marcello’s going-away party more bearable. I’d save the heavy liquor and tears for after his flight left to Buenos Aires.
I smoothed my dress, loving the feeling of the linen beneath my hands. He loved this dress, since I had worn it to the giant family dinner in Pienza. He lightly touched the linen cutouts before he told me that he loved me.
“Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,” I chanted, trying to abate the tears. I didn’t have time for another full face of makeup.