1. Sly
The moment the wheels of Sully’s plane touch down, I am immediately displeased. The small window shows me everything I need to know about San Francisco, and I cannot wait to continue my travels.
“Sir,” the stewardess says quietly so as not to disturb me too much. Which is funny, considering I could feel her eyes on me throughout the entire flight. “We’ve arrived in San Francisco. It’s been a pleasure to serve you today. Can I get you anything before you disembark?”
Dragging my gaze across the fog-locked tarmac, I slowly shift my eyes to hers, which are nearly too large for her facial structure.
It is jarring. She looks like a character from a cartoon movie.
“No, grazie,” I tell the woman, whose name I haven’t bothered to remember, as I unlatch the seat’s buckle. She nods and walks away, looking over her shoulder as she goes.
Sighing, I pull my phone from my pocket and power it up. Numerous missed calls and messages pop up on the screen: Sully, Mamma, Papà, Vinnie.
My stomach lurches to my throat when I see message after message appear with Vincenza’s name, but I cannot bring myself to open them.
Not yet.
Slinging my black backpack over my shoulder, I exit the plane, taking the stairs down to the tarmac, where a car is waiting for me.
As my foot lands on the asphalt, my phone rings. Lifting my hand, I see it is Mamma again.
“Pronto, Mamma,” I greet as I reach out and take my suitcase from the overly-attentive stewardess. I nod at her, and she hands me a small piece of paper before scurrying away.
I open it to find a set of numbers scrawled over it—numbers I will never use.
Crumpling the scrap of paper, I shove it into my pocket to toss into a trash can later.
Mamma’s voice pulls my attention back to the phone as she booms through the other end, scolding me as though I am a small child again. “Sylvester Lucchetti, come hai potuto alzarti e andartene senza dire una parola?” Sylvester Lucchetti, where are you? How could you just up and leave without a word?
The driver steps out of the waiting car, and I shake my head at him, motioning for him to get back in.
This call might take a moment.
“Mi dispiace, Mamma.” I’m sorry, Mamma.
I begin to pace in front of the stairs, regretting picking up the phone. I should have waited to answer.
“Sei dispiaciuto? Questo è tutto quello che hai da dire a tua madre? Per quanto tempo pensi di stare via questa volta?” You”re sorry? That”s all you have to say to your mother? How long do you plan on being gone this time?
“New York mi ha spezzato il cuore, Mamma. è ora che me ne vada per un po”. Ciò non significa che non ti rivedrò mai più. Semplicemente starò via per un po”.” New York has broken my heart, Mamma. It is time for me to leave for a while. It does not mean I will never see you again. I will just be away for a while.
“Dove sei?” Where are you?
Expelling a breath, I begin walking toward the car again.
“California.”
A small whimper leaves her, the sound sinking my heart. “You are across the country?”
“Sì. I will stay in touch. This is only temporary,” I assure her, but the lie feels bitter on my tongue as I say it.
The truth is, I have no way to predict how long I may be here—perhaps until the pain of losing the love of my life subsides, if that pain ever truly leaves.
“Please check in with me from time to time, Sylvester. Don’t shut me out.” The plea in her voice is palpable, carrying all the way from the East Coast.
“Ti amo, Mamma,” I tell her. What little is left of my heart feels like it’s dissolving into dust.
“Ti amo, Sylvester.”
I don’t wait for her to hang up before I end the call, gripping the phone tightly as I close my eyes. Guilt plagues me, and I begin to feel myself struggling with emotion once again.
Forcing myself to banish the guilt, I drop my phone to the ground below me, and as I reach for the door of the car, I slam my foot on top of the device so it shatters, grinding the sole of my shoe onto it to ensure it will no longer work.
Then I slide into the back seat of the car with only one thing in mind.
“Good evening, Sir. Mr. Rochester has arranged for me to take you wherever you’d like to go.”
“Grazie. Please take me to a dealership. It’s time for me to purchase a new motorcycle.”
A grin overtakes the driver”s face as he tips his hat, but I don’t feel like idle chitchat, so as he begins to drive, I raise the partition and look out the window of this God-forsaken city, wondering how anyone could ever live here.
Thankfully, it is not the city I mean to stay in. When I flipped the coin onto the state map, it landed on a town about an hour north of here that I wasn’t familiar with but am eager to explore.
Perhaps it would be the place I call casa dolce casa.
Ridgewood, California.
What a waste of potential.
When I arrived here and saw the town, my plan was to only stay a week—maybe two—then travel down the coast to see what else The Golden State had to offer.
Just because this was where the coin landed didn’t mean I was obligated to stay here if it didn’t suit me.
Which I thought it didn’t.
But that was four weeks ago.
I never expected to get so comfortable so quickly, and a lot has changed.
I’ve considered calling this place my home long-term. Small-town living surprised me, though Ridgewood isn’t exactly a small town.
Nor is it a big city.
Still, I find comfort in my surroundings and have everything I need here.
Almost everything.
Through my few short weeks in Ridgewood, I’ve picked up some habits that some would consider out of character, but I will simply call it the reinvention of one’s self as he tries to pick up the pieces of his life.
Sì, it may be ironic for a man who studied medicine to enjoy a couple of cigarettes per day, but I find them to relax me. And if there is one thing my mind needs, it’s relaxation.
Trying not to think of the love of your life every moment of every day is incredibly difficult. Living in an age where the internet is at your fingertips also makes it a challenge when you can simply Google a name and find out everything you need to know about a person.
Even if it shatters your soul to see.
I will never forget the night last week when I searched Vincenza Paladino and found a website article highlighting her recent engagement to August.
Dropping to my knees in the middle of the empty apartment I had just rented, I fought the urge to completely crumble beneath the weight of the realization that she hadn’t called off the wedding.
Such a fool I had been to think she was ever truly mine.
Needing to numb the pain, I impulsively wandered into a tattoo shop and found myself at the mercy of a local artist. Four and a half hours later, I had cherry blossoms cascading down my shoulder and looping around my bicep.
We plan to sleeve out both of my arms, creating a flow of artwork that symbolizes my life story.
Now, I am three hours into my third session, letting the rhythmic sensation of the tattoo gun pull me into a state of relaxation. My eyes lull closed as I zone out but quickly open again when the man in the chair next to me asks a question.
“You a biker?”
He was here when I arrived today and tipped his head in a curt greeting when my artist led me to the chair next to him. He looked friendly enough, but there was an air about him I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
My head turns to him as I take in his appearance. Clean-cut, he wears a black t-shirt with a black leather vest over it. An insignia patch catches my eye: a skull with a large blossoming rose and brass knuckles.
I’m unfamiliar with it, but I assume it is a local club.
“Sì,” I tell him, my voice void of emotion.
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my appearance. “Club?”
“Not a part of one.”
“New to town?”
His stream of questions put me on edge. Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Do you make it a habit of asking so many questions to a stranger?”
A boisterous laugh bellows from him, and he holds a hand up to his artist, prompting him to stop tattooing. Leaning over, he extends his hand. “I’m Nixon.”
My artist lifts the needle from my skin, allowing me to shake Nixon’s hand. “Sly. And sì. Recently relocated from New York.”
Both of our artists resume their projects.
“The Big Apple, huh? What brought you to this small ass town?”
For a moment, I focus on the tattoo my artist is embedding into my skin, contemplating how much I want to reveal to this man, but by nature, I find it difficult to be untruthful.
My gaze flicks back to him, watching me intently as he awaits my answer.
“Ready to start anew.”
“Woman troubles or somethin’ else?”
Cristo, this man is nosey. But something in his eyes tells me I can trust him, although I’m not sure why. “The woman I love is engaged to another man, and I couldn’t bring myself to stay and watch it.”
Nodding, his eyes narrow. “Been there too, my man. It’s not a fun feeling. I’m sorry you’re dealing with that.”
That was not the response I expected. From the outside, Nixon looks rough around the edges—someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alleyway. But the way he speaks tells me he wasn’t always as hardened as his appearance makes him out to be.
Changing the subject, I ask him a question this time. “Have you lived here long?”
“Born and raised.” He smiles briefly, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Left for a while, but my aunt got into some trouble and my cousin, Preston, had to move in with my parents. Times were tough, so I came back to help them out with bills. Never left again.”
“You are kind to do that for your family.”
“Family is everything. Even the ones who aren’t blood.”
I’m not sure what to say to that last sentence, so I just bob my head, nodding along. It’s quiet for a while, only the sound of the tattoo guns drifting buzzing through the space around us.
“What do you ride?” Nixon asks me, cutting through the near silence.
Inwardly, I groan. I come here to relax and ink my skin, not engage in conversation and answer questions I have no interest in answering. Still, it’s been weeks since I’ve had a proper conversation with someone who is not assisting me at a grocery store or restaurant.
“My first love is Ducati.” The image of my beloved blacked-out bike, sitting lonely in the garage of my apartment, pops into my head. “But when I arrived in California, I purchased a Harley. It is nice, but the ride is different. Took some getting used to.”
Nixon grows quiet again, and before long, my artist has finished the piece he’s been working on. Looking down, I admire the black and gray New York skylineand watch as he wipes it down with soap and water. He reminds me of the care procedures, and I pay him, adding more than necessary to cover a generous tip.
As I tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my pants, Nixon catches my eye as he tilts his chin up at me. “Hey, Sly. You like helping people?”
The question startles me, sinking deep into my gut as I stare at him, wondering why he would ask me that.
Helping people is engrained in me—a passion I love and miss terribly. When I first arrived in Ridgewood, I considered finding a space to start another clinic, but ultimately dismissed the idea. As much as not helping people hurts, I decided to leave that part of me in New York.
Aside from my name, everything about me will stay in New York.
La famigilia.
My passion for helping people.
My knowledge of medicine.
The love of my life.
I want nothing to do with any of the things I once cherished and held near and dear to my heart. They bring too much pain.
Everythingreminds me of Vincenza.
And I need to do whatever it takes to push the reminder away.
Still, the honest answer floats to the tip of my tongue, and I turn to Nixon. “Sì. Helping people is what I do best.”
A grin overtakes his face from where he sits in the chair, still receiving his tattoo. His energy is contagious, and I find myself smiling back at him.
Outstretching his arm, he hands me his cell phone. “Good. Put your number in. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”