Chapter 33 #2
“I think you should stay, and if you feel like a piece of you is still missing after all that time, you need to try to forgive,” Lily says.
I look through the window. Her words should feel like a plan, but they only spread an ache through my chest. I came here to forget. “I want to stay, but I can’t stay in his house.”
“Of course, you can.” Saar waves my objection away.
“You have to stop rejecting everything based on the right and wrong you accepted at one point in your life,” Celeste says. “Do you love the house?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
“You can stay there for free for as long as you want. What objections can you possibly have?” Saar asks.
“I’d still feel I owe him something.”
Celeste covers Amelie’s ears. “Fuck that. He owes you more.”
The vineyards stretch in front of me, their bare vines rising in neat rows from the frost-kissed earth. Winter has stripped the valley to its essence—no flowers, no fruit, only the quiet dignity of rest. The rest I needed more than I realized.
I tug the wool blanket tighter around my shoulders. My stomach growls, but I’m too cozy to go down to the village yet.
I haven’t prepared a proper meal in weeks. The idea of doing anything in the kitchen, other than making a cup of coffee, has been anxiety-inducing.
I have some sort of kitchen-related PTSD. I would rather attend a silent retreat with Xander’s grandmother than cut another tomato in my life.
Xander.
Staying at Xander’s house alone this past week has been amazing. The stillness. The peace. The creative flow.
It’s been agonizing. Because if I thought staying in Tuscany would help me forget, staying in his house makes that impossible.
But I stopped fighting it, because I don’t think it matters where I live—Xander Stone etched himself on my mind, and forgetting him is not an option. I’m not even sure if learning to live without him is possible.
But I try. I try hard. When I go for a walk. When I write. When I mindlessly scroll on my phone. When I wake up. When I go to bed.
At all other times, I hope he’ll just show up. In that scenario, I try to move past my hurt. The picture usually breaks apart.
To make things worse, ever since the girls left, I’ve been receiving a bouquet of sunflowers and a fresh pistachio Danish from my favorite New York bakery every day.
I hate him for that.
But I also love him for it.
Fuck.
I take a sip of my tea, and then reach for my notebook and pen.
The air smells of damp stone, cypress, and distant woodsmoke. The comfortable wooden chair creaks, the only sound on the veranda. It’s just me here, the hush of the hills, and the whisper of ink on paper.
My pen hovers for a beat before I let it drop onto the page. The first lines spill out like breath:
The eagle didn’t remember when it had forgotten how to fly.
Only that one day, the wind no longer came when it opened its wings.
I pause and reread the lines. I have written four more stories since the girls left. Maybe I’ll finish another book before the first one is out.
I smile and put the pen to paper again, when I hear my phone from inside. Sighing, I enter the house and find the offending device on the dining table.
It’s Tessa. My finger hovers over the green button, but I hesitate. My sense of duty pushes me to answer, even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure the sole purpose of the call is to complain about the bistro.
About the vendors, the customers, the workload. All the while she’s enjoying the drama. I think my sister thrives on playing the victim.
I also think she is the best that could ever have happened to the bistro. I just don’t feel like today should be tainted by her attitude.
But I shouldn’t avoid her. We’ve just started communicating better. The phone stops ringing before I cave in.
I grapple with my guilt for a moment, almost calling her back. Instead, I return outside, send her a quick message that I’ll call her later, and pen a story about a kitten that learned to set boundaries.
The story pours out of me, and I don’t even realize the dusk falls over the hills.
Needing more light and warmth, I bring everything inside. In the kitchen, I re-read the story.
Xander would like this one.
The thought jerks me out of my creative stupor. Goddammit. As much as I try to forget him…
It’s this house. Or maybe it’s the guilt I feel about using him after the funeral.
Maybe I’ll never move on.
With a trembling hand, before my mind gives me a gazillion reasons not to, I pick up my phone and type.
Thank you for letting me stay at your place. I just wanted to let you know I will be moving out on Monday.
I hit send and immediately regret it. I’m not ready to return to the States. I don’t have another rental lined up.
But if I don’t take the step toward a thorough exit from this Xander-infused world, I will never move on.
The three dots dance in front of my eyes, and my heart is ready to evacuate my chest.
Xander
Are you returning to New York?
Goddammit. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to tell him that… that what? I have no plans?
I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.
Okay, that’s an honest answer, at least.
Xander
You’re always welcome to stay for as long as you want.
That is a nice concept, but it doesn’t help heal my heart. Said heart is pounding like a spooked horse right now. From anxiety. And if I’m completely honest, from a bit of excitement.
Talking to Xander after all this time is still thrilling. Even though the conversation itself is just a very awkward dance.
I love it here. Thank you.
My leg is bouncing of its own accord.
It’s a beautiful estate.
Xander
Have you tried the restaurant in the village?
I smile.
Several times.
Xander
Whatever they’re adding to the food, it’s addictive.
Do you come here often?
The dots appear and disappear for what feels like hours, while my heart echoes in my temples.
Xander
The food is worth it.
That took him so long to write? My fingers hover above the keyboard, and then I take the leap.
Maybe one day we can have dinner there together.
I hit send. There. It’s done.
What the hell is wrong with me? I started this conversation to cut the ties completely. And here I am suggesting dinner together.
Jesus. A few lines between us in some impersonal texts and I… Well, I didn’t pretend.
For a few brief beats, while typing and reading his messages, I forgot about the betrayal and went with the flow.
He doesn’t respond, and my tentative excitement, which is overshadowed by my current freak-out, deflates, because he’s not even writing and deleting like before.
And what was I excited about? It’s not like I could ever trust him again.
You forgave your father. You’re focusing only on the dark side of yours and Xander’s story.
My eyes land on this morning’s sunflowers, and I close them. Like I could ever unsee what they represent. They never come with a note. No words of coaxing, of manipulation, of influencing.
He just sends them.
Because they are my favorite flowers.
The roar of an engine and the shriek of tires yank me from my emotional spiral. This estate has a secured gate—so who the hell just barreled through it?
I don’t even make it to the window when a persistent knock on the door stops me. I approach it with careful steps, as if I could stop an intruder.
Craning my neck, I glimpse a large truck in front of the house, the driver’s door open, but I don’t see who is at the door from this vantage point.
They left the car door open.
Maybe they need help.
I swing the door open, and my knees buckle.