22. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The drive home takes three days, and I wouldn’t trade a single hour of it.
We leave the Visconti groves on a Tuesday morning, after Serafina presses bags of lemons and oranges into our hands and makes us promise to come back when “all this ugliness is behind you.” Don Rafael watches from the doorway with an expression that suggests he’s still not entirely sure why he allowed this and would like us to leave before he changes his mind.
The ferry from Messina to the mainland is crowded with travelers and families heading north, and Rocco and I find a spot on the upper deck where we can watch Sicily shrink behind us and Italy grow larger ahead.
“I’ve never taken this ferry before,” I admit, leaning against the railing. “All those years living in Florence, and I’ve never actually crossed the strait.”
“Neither have I.” He stands beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “We should have done this years ago. Taken a road trip. Seen the country.”
“We should have done a lot of things years ago.”
“I know.” He turns to look at me. “But we’re doing them now. That counts for something, right?”
“It counts for something,” I agree.
The wind off the water is cool and salty, and I close my eyes and let it wash over me, thinking about all the trips we never took, all the adventures we postponed because Rocco had work or I had responsibilities or life just kept getting in the way.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“All the things we missed.”
“We’ll make up for them. I promise.”
“You make a lot of promises lately.”
“I’m trying to be the kind of man who keeps them.”
I open my eyes and find him watching me with an expression I recognize from our early days - hopeful, earnest, slightly terrified. Like he can’t quite believe I’m still here and he’s waiting for the moment I realize I could do better.
“I believe you,” I say quietly. “I didn’t think I would, but I do.”
His face does something complicated - relief and joy and something that might be the beginning of tears.
“Thank you,” he says. “For giving me another chance.”
“Don’t waste it.”
“I won’t.”
***
We drive north through Calabria as the afternoon fades into evening, the rental car eating up miles of coastal highway while the radio plays a mix of old Italian standards and newer pop songs that neither of us knows the words to.
“This one’s terrible,” Rocco says, reaching for the dial.
“Don’t you dare. I like it.”
“You like this? It’s three chords and a synthesizer.”
“It’s catchy. Not everything has to be a masterpiece.”
“Said no serious musician ever.”
“Good thing I’m not a serious musician, then.” I turn up the volume and start singing along to the chorus, deliberately off-key just to annoy him.
He laughs - really laughs, the kind that comes from somewhere deep - and after a moment he joins in, harmonizing despite himself, turning my bad singing into something almost musical.
“See?” I say when the song ends. “You can’t help it. You’re constitutionally incapable of not making things sound good.”
“It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“It’s annoying, is what it is.”
“You married me anyway.”
“I married you despite many things. Your inability to let bad music exist was just one of them.”
He grins at me, and something about the expression - open and easy and so unlike the guarded, exhausted man he’s been for the past eighteen months - makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
“What else did you marry me despite?” he asks.
“Oh, where do I start? Your terrible coffee-making skills. Your habit of leaving shoes in the middle of the hallway. The way you hum when you’re thinking, which is cute for about five minutes and then becomes incredibly distracting.”
“I hum when I’m thinking?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“I had no idea.”
“See, this is why marriage is important. Someone has to tell you the annoying things you do.”
“And someone has to love you anyway.”
The words land between us, heavier than he probably intended.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Someone has to love you anyway.”
***
We stop for the night at a small hotel in a town whose name I immediately forget, somewhere in the mountains of Basilicata. The room is simple - a double bed, a tiny bathroom, a window that looks out over a valley filled with olive trees - but it feels like a palace after three weeks of chaos.
“Shower first, or should I?” Rocco asks, setting down our bags.
“You go. I want to call Elena, let her know we’re on our way back.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and I sit on the edge of the bed and dial Elena’s number.
“Senna! Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m okay. I’m with Rocco. We’re driving back from Sicily.”
“Sicily? What were you doing in Sicily?”
“Hiding. Regrouping. Figuring things out.”
“And did you? Figure things out?”
I think about the past few days - the citrus groves, the conversations, the slow thaw of something I thought was frozen solid.
“I think so. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s very decisive of you.”
“It’s the best I can do right now.”
“Fair enough.” Elena pauses. “The press hasn’t calmed down, you know. They’re still running stories about you and Matteo. Your sister did another interview yesterday - something about how she hopes you ‘get the help you need.’”
“Of course she did.”
“Are you going to respond?”
“I’m going to do better than respond.” I take a breath. “There’s a gala this weekend. The Mercury Music Prize reception. Rocco and I are going to attend together.”
“Together? As in-”
“As in united front. As in, we’re not hiding anymore. As in, Fiorella can say whatever she wants, but we’re going to show up and face it head-on.”
“That’s either very brave or very stupid.”
“Probably both.”
“I’ll be there. For backup.”
“I was hoping you would be.”
The bathroom door opens and Rocco emerges, steam curling around him, a towel wrapped around his waist. I try not to stare, but seven years of marriage doesn’t erase the fact that my husband is objectively attractive, especially when he’s half-naked and still damp from the shower.
“I have to go,” I tell Elena. “I’ll call you when we get back to Florence.”
“Be careful, Senna.”
“Always.”
I hang up and set the phone aside, and Rocco is watching me with an expression I know very well.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking things.”
“I’m always thinking things. I’m a thinking person.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m actually an excellent liar. I just choose not to lie to you.”
I stand up, intending to head to the bathroom for my own shower, but he catches my hand as I pass him.
“Senna.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
The words are simple, direct, stripped of all the complicated feelings that have been tangled between us for months.
“I know,” I say.
“Do you?”
“I’ve always known. Even when I was angry. Even when I thought you’d forgotten me entirely. I knew you loved me. I just wasn’t sure it was enough.”
“Is it enough now?”
I look at him - really look, taking in the vulnerability in his eyes, the way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for rejection - and I make a choice.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” I say. “After we’ve gotten some sleep.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a no.”
He lets go of my hand, and I continue to the bathroom, and I don’t miss the small, hopeful smile on his face as I close the door.
***
The next day, somewhere in Lazio, the joy tips over into something else entirely.
We’ve been singing for hours - old songs, new songs, songs we wrote together and songs we learned from the radio - and my voice is getting hoarse, but I don’t want to stop.
I don’t want this feeling to end, this lightness, this sense of being exactly where I’m supposed to be with exactly the person I’m supposed to be with.
“Pull over,” I say suddenly.
Rocco glances at me. “What? Why?”
“Just pull over. Please.”
He finds a turnoff - a small overlook with a view of rolling hills and distant mountains - and puts the car in park.
“What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”
“No.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to face him. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” His voice is careful, uncertain. “I’m listening.”
“I never stopped loving you.”
The words come out in a rush, before I can second-guess them.
“Even when I was furious. Even when I thought our marriage was over. Even when I walked out that door and left my ring on the counter. I never stopped loving you, Rocco. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. It would have been so much easier if I could have just… turned it off. Stopped caring. Moved on.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“I couldn’t. Because you’re-” I laugh, a little desperately.
“You’re so frustrating. You drive me crazy.
You forgot I existed for eighteen months, and I should hate you for that, I should never forgive you, but I can’t.
Because underneath all of it, underneath the anger and the hurt and the years of feeling invisible, you’re still the man who fished my ring out of that fountain near the Arno.
You’re still the man who told me I was the most interesting singer he’d ever met because I didn’t want to be looked at. ”
“Senna-”
“I’m not done.” I take a breath. “I’m terrified of this. Of us. Of letting you back in and having you forget me again. But I’m more terrified of walking away and spending the rest of my life wondering what could have been.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then he reaches across the console and cups my face in his hands.
“I’m never going to forget you again,” he says. “I know that’s easy to say and harder to prove. But I’m going to prove it. Every day, for as long as you’ll let me.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He kisses me, and it’s soft at first - tender, questioning - but it doesn’t stay that way.
Something shifts between us, the same electricity that’s been building for days finally finding its release, and I’m pulling him closer, and he’s making a sound against my mouth that I’ve missed more than I knew.
“We should-” I manage, between kisses. “We should find somewhere more private-”