Saturday, May 20
My phone has been ringing every few days, and I keep letting it go to voicemail, but today, Liv texts me before she calls.
can you talk?
With Marco, I am so blissful if I wasn’t lying down, I would be floating. We are two stars in the galaxy, light-years away
from everyone else’s bullshit.
I watch him step out of the shower, a white towel hanging heavily around his hips, and comb his hair away from his face.
I try to imagine the aftermath of all this. It’s foggy, as far off and unbelievable as the days I lived before all of this.
So, I decide while lying in his bed that I won’t think about what comes after—at least not for another hour.
I delete Liv’s text.
“I should probably...”
I don’t want to leave Marco—and I certainly don’t want to leave his uncle’s house with its impeccably curated coastal decor
and eastern-facing sunroom that has become my own personal bayside retreat. But like any good Catholic, I’m suspicious of
this happiness—this time slip I’ve fallen into with Marco.
I need to get ready for my real life—which is approaching faster with every day—and I need to do laundry, and I’m sick. I can act like I’m not, but I have a monthly standing doctor’s appointment with Marco’s cousin next week. What’s more real
than that?
I’m in a cold war with my sister; shouldn’t I be thinking about that?
Not that I’ve tried to call her—or even thought about answering one of her texts or calls. But I should think about it—how
I’ll explain all of this to her in a way that gets her to finally apologize.
I jab my thumb toward the front door and click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “You know, pound sand.”
Marco looks up from his phone. He’s wearing reading glasses. Big, wire-framed reading glasses. My heart melts in my chest.
I almost drop my suitcase handle. “Why?” he asks.
“I don’t know, I’ve just sort of been... here. In your hair.”
He furrows his brow at me. “By all means, if you need to get going—but you’re not in my hair.”
I chew at my bottom lip for a moment. I really don’t want to leave. Why can’t he just be an asshole, make this easy on me? “Don’t you need to work out or call your wife?”
Marco rolls his eyes at me before spinning his laptop around. “The lab just sent me digital scans of these photos from Rome.
I want your thoughts on an arrangement.”
What’s happening? I can’t tear myself away. A sudden pang of anxiety hits me square in the solar plexus. I can’t even leave Marco for a night.
“I can’t help you with that.”
I know the sensation in my stomach has reached my face because Marco’s standing, crossing the room toward me. “You okay?”
“I just really think I need to do some laundry.” This sentence comes out louder, harsher than I want it to.
He freezes, a hand reflexively jumping to pull at his hair. “Sure. Of course.”
“Right.” I swallow roughly and yank my suitcase back to my side before turning toward the front hall. “I’ll see you.”
“Nadia...” I feel Marco’s force field as he comes up behind me, hooking a finger under the strap of my purse and pulling
at it lightly until it falls from my shoulder. Then, he slowly spins me, without really using any force, back around to face
him. “Can you tell me what’s actually going on?”
I drop my eyes to the Persian rug underneath our feet. It’s beautiful, ornate. So unlike anything in the house waiting for
me on the other side of the island. “I have to get used to this.”
“To what?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“Being without you. Leaving you.”
Marco falls into a respectful stillness, but when I lift my gaze to meet his, there’s a bright smile in his eyes. Not mocking
me but amused in a way that makes me feel like he’s not getting it. “A dry run for when you lace up your running sneakers
in ten days?”
“It’s not funny,” I snap. “This isn’t a fucking joke.”
Without another word, Marco closes the space between us, pulling me flat against his chest and wrapping his arms around my
neck as he presses his lips to my temple.
“You’re right,” he whispers, lips moving against my hair. “I shouldn’t have said that.”