Chapter 2 Aurelia
Aurelia
Enzo’s phone didn’t make a peep, but he was somehow worse.
Far more distant, far more irritable, barely looking at me even when I spoke directly to him. We were in the most beautiful place in the world, but it felt as if we were in a graveyard. Awkward and tense, like every fiber of his being didn’t want to share the space with me.
Was it because I snapped at him a few days ago? Or did he just get fired for taking the time off when his boss told him they had too much work to do? Whatever it was, he seemed to resent me for something.
We sat together at dinner, a restaurant I made reservations at months in advance, but it was clear neither of us had an appetite.
We sat on a balcony with a view of the water, but the ocean was invisible in the dark.
A small candle was on our table, and it flickered every time the breeze picked up.
It almost went out a couple times, but it somehow managed to hold on.
The way we were barely hanging on.
Enzo kept his gaze elsewhere, hand on his glass of wine, tension dripping off his body in waves.
I’d officially had enough of this. “I’m done.”
His eyes flicked to me for the first time that evening. And he had the nerve to look confused by the statement.
“You’re here, but you aren’t actually here.
Every time I confront you about your distance, you always have some kind of excuse.
I’m done with excuses, Enzo.” I noticed the waiter approach our table to take our order, but he must have caught wind of my words because he awkwardly turned around and addressed a different table instead. “So what the fuck is your problem?”
“Could you keep your voice down—”
“Could you be a man and tell me the truth?”
He slowly straightened in his chair, his hand leaving the stem of his wineglass as his arms folded underneath him.
There was a pause, a heavy one under the weight of so many things he’d never said before.
His eyes shifted away as he organized the words he was about to present. “It’s time we end this.”
“No shit, Enzo.” There was a slight sting in my chest when he actually did it—when he actually dumped me.
On an expensive trip where we should be drinking and fucking and getting sunburned from falling asleep on the loungers at the beach.
“But I want to know why. Because you’ve been like this for months.
Always making excuses about work or your friends or whatever bullshit comes to mind. I want the truth, Enzo.”
He dropped his eyes again, trying to find a calculated answer.
“No thinking,” I snapped. “Just tell me. Because we were really fucking happy, until one day we weren’t. And I’m not the one who changed. I’m not the one who walked in the door one day as a different person. That was you.”
“Keep your voice down—”
I lowered my voice, not because he asked me to, but because people were turning to stare and I did feel guilty for affecting their romantic holiday just because mine had gone to utter shit. “You care a lot more about strangers in a restaurant than the woman you supposedly love.”
He searched for the waiter, and then he made a motion with his hand, asking for the check.
That somehow made me angrier, the way he wanted to get away from me like I was the problem. Like I was the irrational bitch who’d caused all of this. “Tell me what happened.”
He sat there, slumped in his chair, looking at anything but me.
“Seriously?”
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, full of exasperation, like he was at the end of his rope of patience. Like being subjected to my company was that horrible. Like I was the most obnoxious cunt he’d ever met.
“You wait until we’re on a trip to dump me? That doesn’t make sense, Enzo.”
“I told you I didn’t want to come—”
“Why?”
“I told you I have a lot of shit going on at work.”
“Another fucking excuse. Is there someone else? Just be a man and tell me. This is already a dumpster fire, so more fuel isn’t going to make it burn any hotter.”
He didn’t react, didn’t look at me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you—”
“It’s done,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm. “Let’s just pay for dinner and go home.”
“We’ve already paid for another ten days at the hotel. And the beach clubs—”
“I don’t give a shit about that. I just want to leave.”
“You mean leave me.” It was the first time my voice was truly calm.
The quiet acceptance hit me, having stared the truth in the face for months.
It didn’t matter what had compromised our relationship, if it was someone else or he really had just fallen out of love with me, if he really had just stopped being attracted to me.
I meant nothing to this man. And every time I opened my mouth, every time I asked for the dignity of an explanation, I just irritated him more.
Just pushed him further and further away.
I’d rather he tell me he fucked someone else and beg for my forgiveness. I’d rather he tell me he lied to me and promise to earn back my trust. But this indifference, this annoyance, this undeniable urge to leave and never think of me again . . . was fucking cruel.
Especially when I didn’t know why. And I would never know why.
We didn’t look at each other as we waited for the waiter to bring us the check.
It was one of the lowest moments of my life, my chest so tight with indescribable pain.
The agony didn’t come from the end of the relationship.
It came from the way he looked at me—or didn’t look at me, because I still remembered how it used to be.
Remembered overhearing him talk to his friends and tell them he could see himself marrying me someday.
The way he used to talk about us having three kids together.
The way he asked me to move in by giving me one of his keys on my birthday. He put me on a pedestal.
And then he yanked it out from underneath me.
Back at the hotel, he packed his things in a hurry.
Threw everything inside without discrimination.
Threw his razor right on top of his blazer and then piled his shoes on top.
His toothbrush was shoved into the side of the bag.
An open tube of toothpaste was haphazardly shoved into one of the sleeves, and it would probably ruin a batch of his clothes during the flight.
But he didn’t give a shit.
“You’re going to stay here?” he asked as he zipped up the bag.
I wasn’t going to sit on a plane with him. Wasn’t going to return to the apartment we shared. I didn’t have a plan for my next move, and I’d already sunk some serious cash into this vacation. I wasn’t going to waste that, along with the last two years of my life. “Yes.”
“I’ll pack up your things.” He put his suitcase on the floor and popped the handle so he could roll it out. “Let me know when you’re ready to come get it, and I’ll make sure I’m out.”
“So you just assume you keep the apartment?” I asked spitefully.
He stopped by the door and stared at me. “You moved in with me, so yes.”
What a gentleman. “All right, then.”
He lingered in the doorway, as if he felt he should say something for the first time. Some goodbye words, provide some kind of closure.
I sat on the edge of the bed in my dress and heels. “Just go, Enzo.” I was utterly defeated, somewhat relieved I didn’t have a battle to fight anymore. Didn’t have to wonder what would happen with us because I’d watched the ending credits of the film.
He hesitated for another moment before he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The heavy door shut behind him the instant he was gone.
The curtains to the window were pulled open, and I couldn’t see much in the darkness, just the light from the streetlamps against the leaves of the trees across the street.
One of the lamps on the nightstand was on and cast shadows in the corners of the room.
I felt the gravity of my loneliness in that moment, but realized I’d been lonely for a long time, long before Enzo had packed his bags and walked out.
I sat there for at least an hour before the tears flooded my eyes. The waves of agony hit me like ocean waves during a full moon. Why had I put up with this for so long? What had I done that made me so undesirable? What could I have possibly done to be so worthless in someone’s eyes?
How could he tell me he loved me . . . and then make me feel so unwanted?
Walk out of my life without even an apology, let alone an explanation.
I wasn’t worth either, apparently.
I didn’t leave my hotel room the next day. Stayed in bed. Didn’t look at my phone—not that I expected him to call or text. Didn’t reach out to any of my friends to tell them what had happened. Even though I knew the end was drawing close, I still wasn’t ready to describe how cruel it had been.
I didn’t have an appetite, so I didn’t order room service or go for some granita and brioche.
I watched streaming programs on my device in the dark because I kept the curtains closed over the window.
It wasn’t until the next day that I took a shower and headed into town, but the idea of sitting alone in a restaurant made the situation feel too real, so I sat on the steps by the fountain and people-watched for hours.
Everyone seemed to be having a great time on their holiday, while I lived through one of the darkest moments of my life.
By the third day, I was ready to get out.
I packed my camera and took pictures of the town. Went to the beach and climbed rocks and headed to Isola Bella to snap photographs. I was a professional photographer, and getting lost in art was the only coping mechanism I had.