quarantuno
Lucia watched as Alex began to stir, his eyes eventually blinking open. He squinted through the early-morning light, and Lucia could tell by his furrowed brow that he was trying to orient himself.
‘You slept,’ she said, gazing across at him, her left hand resting under her cheek on the pillow.
Looking around the apartment, his eyes came to rest on the window with the sun beaming through the voile curtains, and he smiled. Reaching up, he ran his hands through his hair, and Lucia couldn’t help but be drawn back to those toned, muscular forearms.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That hasn’t happened since before . . .’ He turned onto his side to face Lucia. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For helping that happen.’
Lucia didn’t know whether he was referencing their passionate encounter downstairs, or the cathartic release he had experienced when finally sharing his story and voicing his traumas and triggers, all of which might have led to him sleeping. It didn’t matter, she decided. ‘Last week . . . when I stayed . . . did you sleep?’
He shook his head and closed his eyes. ‘I lay here all night awake, tortured by the knowledge that I wanted to tell you about our connection but not knowing how you would take it.’
Lucia’s face fell. ‘ Scusami .’
‘It doesn’t matter now.’ He turned to reach for his watch on his bedside table. ‘It’s seven.’
‘I need to be leaving. Classes to prepare.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
Lucia slipped from the bed. Still half-dressed in the clothes she had brought upstairs from Alex’s studio the night before, she padded her way to his side. She took his left hand into her own and gave it a squeeze. ‘What will you do now? Will you work?’ She gestured to the blue cloudless sky out of his window.
Exhaling slowly, he returned the squeeze and said, ‘I’m going to try.’
Lucia didn’t know if by the light of the new day their connection, or whatever it was that was stitching them together, required a kiss goodbye. That kind of acknowledgement seemed emotionally invested. And Lucia didn’t know how she felt in the moment.
Perhaps reading this confusion, Alex pressed a sweet, warm-lipped kiss to the back of her hand. ‘ Buona lezione ,’ he said, making to get up.
‘ Grazie , but stay here. Rest. I can show myself out.’
‘ No , Lucia . . .’
‘Please, I want you to enjoy this moment.’ She smiled. ‘Baby steps, Alex.’
It wasn’t until Lucia was back across the calle , with Foscari fed and content upon her return, that she felt somewhat present once again.
Had it all been a dream? Some kind of surreal fairytale?
Stepping under the stream of hot water pouring from the showerhead, the smell of Alex returned. It had become imbued in the layers of her skin and the lengths of her hair. She brought her hands to her face to splash it with water, only to find him there too. Wherever he had touched Lucia, her skin remembered his smell.
And now, tangled with the memories of their sex, that scent taunted her.
She closed her eyes and stepped back under the water, allowing it to sluice its way through her long tresses and down her slender frame. Lucia hoped that it might wash away some of her confusion and bring clarity to her clouded mind.
The revelations Alex had shared last night, coupled with his outpouring of truths, had established a more intimate bond between them. Hearing how his trauma had triggered a devastating and unique way of living for Alex had brought up mixed feelings in her; shame for some of her earlier actions towards him, but also great comfort. She wasn’t alone. Knowing that someone else out there knew and understood how she felt on a truly personal level was deeply reassuring.
Two different rhythms had caught her heart mid-pulse: the first, that new beating drum that echoed Alex’s name, with its intoxicating mix of attraction and the haunting reminder of her previous contempt; and the second, the tick-tock of the expiration date of Edoardo’s deadline, just twenty-one days away now.
Lucia finished showering, dressed and was munching her way through a cornetto when Francesco arrived. Down went the key out the window with a wave and a smile, and catching her reflection in Alex’s window across the calle – smiling, bright-faced – she knew Alex was the reason.
If he could make her feel so seen, so understood, perhaps others might accept her in the same way – in spite of what had been written about her of late, despite the years of interest and intrigue. What if telling her story – her way , with clear parameters in place to protect what she wanted to keep private – might actually bring some good? What if telling her story could release her from all the torment – and buy her the rest of the school?
Hearing Alex’s story had made her realise that survival simply wasn’t enough. She wanted to take back control. All of it. And it would be on her terms.
Just as Francesco appeared at the landing and welcomed Foscari into his arms, Lucia pounced. ‘I’m going to do it.’
‘ Buongiorno to you too,’ he quipped sarcastically. He offered her cheek kisses. ‘Do what , exactly? Did you shower?’ He reached for a lock of her still-damp hair. ‘You never shower in the morning.’
‘That’s because I had sex with Alex last night, and I slept over at his place, and I am taking back my life.’
‘Wha—?’
But it was too late. Lucia was holding her phone to her ear and held up her index finger to silence him as the call connected.
‘ Pronto , Benedetta? It’s Lucia. Trevisan . . . Bene, grazie. Senti , when is the earliest you can come to talk about your offer? . . . Yes . . . Thank you, I would prefer in person. I have some requests to make that are of a sensitive nature. Monday after lessons? Perfect. Thank you.’
She dropped the phone to her desk and the incredulous look on Francesco’s face begged for answers.
Noting this, Lucia stifled a laugh, and said, ‘ So much to tell you.’
‘We’re starting with the Alex-sex, then we’ll move on to the book deal.’
‘Not without caffé first.’ She checked the time. ‘We have half an hour.’
‘Let’s cancel the day. I’ve waited a lifetime for this!’
‘Checco . . .’
Turning to direct his next comment to Foscari, he said, ‘ Piccino , I think our girl’s turned a corner.’
Filling the bottom chamber of the moka with water, Lucia turned and rolled her eyes at him. ‘I’m just sick of hiding around corners.’
After Lucia had got on with her day, she noticed Alex slip out with his paper flowers later than usual. In fact, it was during the school’s morning tea break. Lucia noted the time on her watch and smiled, knowing that he would usually have been home asleep at this time.
Happy Thursday, Alex.
The next forty-eight hours were punctuated with hope and the delicious potential of the future. It was something Lucia had never really thought about. So much of her life had been spent looking behind her to the past, or stuck in the present, trying to put one foot in front of the other without falling flat on her face.
But both the situation with Alex – whatever that was turning into – and the forthcoming meeting with Benedetta filled her with hope. She hadn’t really ever allowed herself to hope for anything. Her subconscious guilt and ever-present fears usually quashed any daydreaming or future-planning. But buoyed by this new effervescent spirit, not even a glimpse of Vittorio Gatti walking past the school during their lunchbreak, or the vision of Edoardo’s papers still sitting on the corner of her desk, could stifle her optimistic mood.
And Lucia had also noticed a new pattern to Alex’s comings and goings.
By night, the lights that usually backlit the upper windows of La Commedia were out. No suggestion of any night-time activity or work schedule at play. And this brought her great joy.
Perhaps he’s found a new rhythm . . .
She stood by the school’s front window on Saturday morning, with Foscari for company. He looped around her ankles as she turned to look at her family’s portrait hanging behind the welcome desk. The fiery bite of the bougainvillea made the photo pop. It was a vibrant burst of colour and life in an image that held so much of the dead past.
‘I’m trying,’ she said, with a gentle smile.
A tap on the glass pane of the front door made her turn suddenly.
And there was Alex.
Lucia walked over and opened the door, and with the breeze that wafted in from the calle came the heady kick of his cologne. It weakened the tender spots behind her knees.
‘ Buongiorno ,’ she said, leaning into the doorframe. ‘Did you . . . sleep well last night?’
He nodded. ‘I did. Again. Three nights in a row now.’
She closed her eyes and exhaled a short breath of relief. ‘That is incredible.’
Cocking his head to the side self-consciously he asked, ‘Anyone else in?’
‘Just me and the big guy.’ She dropped to collect Foscari, whose muzzle extended in Alex’s direction to demand a pat.
Alex obliged, but his gaze stayed on Lucia. ‘Can I take you to lunch? It’s Saturday. I’d really like to get you out of here. Away from the calle .’
The prospect of any time spent with Alex was welcome. She beamed and replied, ‘I would love that.’
Foscari nuzzled his way further towards Alex, nearly pawing his way into his arms. Alex accepted Foscari and positioned him mid-air so that he could look into the dachshund’s eyes. ‘Do you mind if I take Lucia out today? Is that fine by you?’ Foscari yapped and his tail wagged with glee. ‘Would you like to come too?’
Lucia giggled. ‘Don’t start a trend you’re not willing to continue.’
With a flick of his head to the calle , Alex said airily, ‘Who said I wasn’t willing for this to continue?’
They locked eyes for a moment, exchanging a look that acknowledged what was between them, but also the potential for more, for hope, for dreaming.
‘That depends on what you mean by this ?’ Lucia said, collecting her bag and jacket from the welcome desk.
Setting foot onto the calle , Alex stopped and turned, his eyes sweeping across her face, up to the building behind her, then down to Foscari in his arms. ‘By this , I mean everything.’
Lucia smiled and said, ‘Then everything it is.’
Alex set Foscari down and accepted the leash Lucia offered him. Connecting it to Foscari’s collar the two set off, leaving Lucia to lock up.
Just as she was slipping the key into her bag, Lucia caught sight of the fresh green and red-leafed buds of the bougainvillea in the large pot beside the door. Finally succumbing to the pull of the spring, the mapped lines it trailed up the soft pink of the building’s facade had begun to reawaken.