3. Portia #2
Pivoting on my stiletto heel, I stride off toward the double doors of the ballroom. Several more people have stopped in the middle of their conversations to aim scandalized looks at me, gaping with wide-eyed blinks and slack jaws, like they’ve never seen someone so uncouth.
But I don’t give a damn. Even if it means I’m fired. Even if it means I’ll never work in an official capacity in media again.
I’d rather walk barefoot on glass than ever stomach another condescending, demeaning conversation with Chuck Whitmore or anyone else like him.
I’m turning the corner into the hall outside the ballroom when I collide with someone much taller and sturdier than I am. My balance is wiped out as I teeter in my heels, about to fall flat on my ass. But then large, strong hands clamp shut around my arms and hold me steady.
Familiar notes of a spicy, woody cologne inundate me all at once. A scent I’ve smelled dozens of times.
My eyes flick up to meet the dark, penetrative gaze of a man I’m more than just familiar with. It’s the same man I’d started to envision a future with; the same man I’d started to fall for in a way I didn’t think was possible after Lincoln…
Rafael Calderone stares down at me, as handsome and polished as ever in his all-black suit and tie, appearing out of nowhere like a ghost from my not-so-distant past.
My heart practically stops beating inside my chest as we hold each other’s gaze and I question whether I’m dreaming.
“Hello, dolcezza.”
A few seconds go by where I’m flustered, trapped in Rafael’s arms.
Rafael Calderone—the man who broke my heart and stomped it into tiny, bite-sized pieces only a few months ago—has me in his arms.
I scramble to tug myself free of his grip, so desperate I only tip over in the opposite direction. Every breath I draw is difficult, my eyes wide and mouth agape.
He pockets both hands in his pants. “I have to be honest, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe this.”
“But I’m happy that you are,” he continues. His gaze roves over me. “You look gorgeous.”
“Rafael, save it! Save the compliments, the flattery, all the flirting. I’m not interested.”
“You’re upset. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I turn to about-face away from him, then change my mind midway through. I round back toward him, pinning him with a hard glare. Any shock I had has faded for the anger and resentment that’s built up over the past few months.
He seems to sense what’s coming and tries to get ahead of it.
“Look, dolcezza?—”
“Don’t call me that!” I snipe. “Don’t ever call me that again!”
“Portia,” he corrects somberly. “I deserve your anger. I understand that. Be as furious with me as you need to be.”
The sound I let out is between a scoff and a laugh.
“Oh, you understand? Is that so, Rafael? You mean you get what you did was fucked up? You get you proved every preconceived notion I had was true? That my reservations were correct from the start? You’re nothing but a player…
a fucking asshole who gets off on making women lower their defenses and fall for you!
You’re just like every other man out there!
You use, you take, you manipulate, then you grow bored and move onto the next one!
God, I was so fucking stupid for falling for it a second time. How could I be so naive?!”
A few others in the hall glance over at us, but I don’t give a damn. I’ve had enough for the night and it’s only just gotten started.
Rafael remains where he is, hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed.
“Is that what you think? That I was playing you? That none of it was real?”
“What am I supposed to think?” I shoot back. “You said you’d never make me a fool again… and what did you do? You proved I was wrong for ever giving you a second chance! I should’ve known you get off on it—making women fall for you and then dropping them!”
“There hasn’t been another woman since you.”
I open my mouth for a rebuttal, then clamp it shut when I process what he’s said. A flicker of uncertainty passes over my face and I take another half-step back. He’s thrown off the speech I’ve rehearsed in my head from the moment we broke up.
He presses forward, countering my reaction by taking a step toward me.
“You’re the woman for me, Portia,” he says in a frank tone.
“After Sicily, I waited for you. Every day of that year and a half we were apart, you were on my mind. And I’ll wait for you now.
For a better time when we can be together.
But if you expect me to say I regret that letter I wrote you—if I regret letting you go like I did—then no.
I won’t pretend I do. Because I made the right decision for us both.
You may not understand it right now, but it was in your best interest that I let you go. ”
I’m dazed, remaining silent for a long moment, I blink and then glance elsewhere at things like the passing waitstaff or crown molding on the walls. All subtle reactions that buy me time but really communicate I’m not sure what to think or say.
Finally, I shake my head and let out a shuddering breath.
“It’s not your place to decide what’s in my best interests,” I croak, taking another step back.
“Even if I believed you, I refuse to play this game, Rafael. I refuse to let you come and go when you want. I wanted a committed, long-term relationship. Not some on-and-off game where we play cat and mouse. I’m…
I’m better off without you. And… don’t expect me to ever give you another chance. ”
“You’re right,” he admits, withdrawing a hand from his pocket to scrub his beard.
“I’m not sure I deserve another chance. If some other man swooped in and snatched you up…
I’d have no one else to blame but myself.
But you should know you’re still on my mind.
I still think of you every day. And my feelings for you… have gone nowhere.”
I fold my arms tightly across my chest and divert my gaze to the ground beneath our feet.
“What’s on your mind?” he presses. “You were marching out of the ballroom. Tell me and I’ll fix it.”
“You mean how I’m probably fired after I went off on Chuck Whitmore?
He thought my career in Newport was a joke and expects me to be some smiling bimbo while he buries the real news!
” I blurt out in frustration. “I don’t need you to fix my problems. I don’t need you to rescue me or make decisions for me.
I make them on my own… and that’s how I want it. ”
Rafael’s expression darkens, if only for a brief moment. He says nothing for a second, then finally, in a stilted voice, he offers, “I’m sure you’re not fired. You’re passionate about what you do. You should be. It’s important work.”
“Chuck disagrees. Anyway, I’m not venting to you. We can’t do this… this isn’t supposed to happen.”
“But I’d like to keep in touch. You have my number. If you ever wanted to talk… even if it’s just text?—”
“It’s best if we don’t. We’re through, Rafael. You’ve fooled me for the last time. You go back to your world. I’ll go back to mine. Enjoy your time in DC.”
I pivot on my heel and escape the hall before he can call me back.
I don’t let myself look over my shoulder even once as I prematurely make my way home from the Dominion Gala, fully aware I’m skipping out on work and could incur the wrath of Joe Germanotta. But he never calls and neither does anyone else from the American News Channel.
…neither does Rafael. He lets me go, clearly deciding to take me at my word as I make my escape.
Every word I’ve said is true—it’s time he sticks to his world and I stick to mine.
We gave our relationship a try and it turned out to be a mess. He broke my heart not once but twice, and I can’t ever let it happen a third time.
I lock the door to my apartment, feeling as if I’m doing more than securing my home. I’m securing my heart too. I’m protecting myself from Rafael and whatever other forces from the past might be coming for me.
Stepping out of my heels, I move from the hall into my bedroom with a hot shower on my mind. My phone buzzes on my bed as I’m turning on the water and grabbing a towel from the linen closet.
It’s the same damn unknown number.
I sigh and consider blocking the person, but then I read what the message says.
are you meeting me tomorrow?
I shake my head, finger hovering over the block button. At the last second I change my mind and type a response instead.
You won’t even tell me who you are. How can I know I can trust you?
its a risk we’re both taking
i’ll be there tomorrow
10 am
smithsonian
i’ll bring the proof with me
I don’t know what else to say except to ‘thumb up’ the message. But as I stare down at it, I realize I’ve had a sudden change of mind. I’m not going to block the number. I’m going to go ahead and take a chance.
I’m going to show Joe Germanotta, Chuck Whitmore, and the others that they’re wrong.
The Belluccis are in DC, and I’m going to prove it.