Chapter 13
T he lobby, hell the whole villa, is a flurry of activity when I head back downstairs. Wedding prep is in full swing and Francesca looks like she’s a mite ticked off. I shoot her a sheepish smile and she holds up her index finger urging me to wait a minute. Leaning against the wall I take in the chaos.
Some are already dressed in their finery—suits, and lightweight dresses fluttering around high heels. Gossamer fabric dances on the light breeze coming through from outside. Behind the double doors of the lobby is a ballroom leading to the grove out back. A wall of French doors has been opened in the ballroom to let the light and air in from the grove side, a gorgeous backdrop to the nuptials.
Someone is putting the finishing touches on an arch in the center, at the end of the aisle. Rows of chairs face the grove, champagne-colored bows tied around them. It’s a whirlwind of bridesmaids and well-meaning family members. I haven’t been to a wedding since I was a child. Despite being “Italian”, my family is small—cut off from the rest—a result of parents who valued societal connections over familial ones. My friends are all still too busy dicking around to settle. Which is a blessing since it would only end in their messy divorces. New York isn’t for lovers. Not like Italy. Not like Puglia.
Eventually, Francesca finds time for me and I amble over to her, pulling my thoughts away from the wedding.
“I know you guys are swamped with wedding stuff, but do you know of any delivery services running out here? We’re trying to plan for dinner and we’re both a little drained after the drive.”
No UberEats out in the middle of nowhere farmland. I could drive back into town but then I’d have to admit I forgot about feeding us and I’m a terrible human being.
“Unfortunately, not. We’re a little too out of the way. Let me see what I can figure out for you. The chef is catering the menu so I’m not sure if he can fit another two plates, but I can try. I’ll be right back.”
She walks into the ballroom, her heels clicking against the floor with each purposeful step and I feel a little bad for lying. Francesca is going out of her way to help us because she thinks this is some life-changing event and it deserves to be special. Which I appreciate. But it’s also kind of shitty.
Kind of? You know damn well that it’s wrong. But when has wrong ever stopped you?
“Shut up,” I hiss under my breath and someone nearby speaks.
“Excuse me?” It’s a young woman. Blonde hair cascades over her shoulders in bouncy curls with her makeup done, but she’s in a set of silk pajamas and a robe.
“Not you, sorry. Talking to myself.”
“Well, ‘yourself’ must be quite an asshole if you talk to him like that.” She gives me a wry smile and I can hear the familiar hug of her accent.
“American?” I ask.
“Yeah, you?”
I nod, shrugging as if to say “what can you do?”
“Not too many of us out here in the countryside. At least not any I’ve encountered.”
“You here for the wedding?” I ask.
“Ha, yeah. Yes, I am.”
“Wedding party?”
“Yup! You can say that.”
“Cool.”
It’s fucking stunted and I feel awkward as hell. All this does is remind me how little I converse with people back home when I’m sober. And it throws into relief how easy it’s been to talk to Giuliana these past few weeks. I’ve been parched for little bits of her, even mere conversation.
“Hey, you look kind of familiar. Or it could be I’ve been around Italians all week and you’re an outlier, a new face. Where are you from? What’s your name?”
Fuck.
Fuck. Okay. Okay. Breathe.
My chest constricts—heart pounding as if I’m running from the red and blue lights of my lies, no getaway car this time. I clench my fists, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of my palms. It will be fine. I just have to wait a few minutes until Francesca gets back and then I can lock myself in the bathroom.
I’m not necessarily a household name. Palmer Enterprises is niche enough. We’re not like the Hiltons or the Vanderbilts or other more familiar family names. Still.
“New York. Matt. You?”
“Virginia. Kelsey. What brings you out here?”
God, can I please escape this conversation to go and collect myself? My skin feels like it’s ready to peel off, tiny slithers crawling under my flesh and in my veins. Energy builds with nowhere to go. There’s no way to ground the lightning driving the thunder of my heartbeat.
“Uh… In the lobby? Waiting to find out if the kitchen can make a plan for dinner. In Italy?—”
“He brought his girlfriend here to propose! It’s so romantic. She has no idea. It almost didn’t work out because of the wedding today, but he’s willing to postpone his proposal plans until tomorrow.” Francesca. Sweet savior Francesca.
I turn to give her a relieved smile and the woman in front of me emits a little squeal of excitement.
“Oh my god. Please don’t change your plans on my account!”
Her account…
Oh shit. I’ve been chatting with the bride and making an ass of myself the whole time.
“It’s okay. I don’t want to overshadow or anything. It can wait. Besides, we’d be in the way.”
“Nonsense. I have close to a hundred guests coming, more than half of whom I’ve only met this week. You’d hardly be in the way. What name is the room under? I’ll have Daddy send up a bottle of champagne after to celebrate!”
No. No. This is bad. This is horrendous. Giuliana is going to kill me.
“Palmer,” slips out of my parched throat before I can think better of it. It’s what’s on my credit card. Couldn’t be avoided. I’m just glad Giuliana was outside at the time.
Something in her face changes.
“Matt Palmer?”
Sensical thoughts in my brain descend into incoherent internal screaming.
“Uh huh.” I squeeze through my rapidly closing throat and her excitement ratchets up a few more degrees.
“Holy shit! What are you doing here? You have to come to my wedding! No one is going to believe me when I tell them Matt Palmer was at our wedding.” It’s fired off in quick succession, no time for me to think or process.
“How”—I clear the gravel sitting on my vocal cords—“How do you know who I am?”
“Hottest Bad Boy Bachelors of New York. Buzzfeed did an article! Although you’re technically not a celebrity . I guess they were counting heirs and heiresses to American fortunes.”
My eyebrows knit together, confusion overriding my panic.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Kelsey shakes her head and I half expect her to whip out her phone or some shit to prove it.
“Wait, if you’re here to get engaged ,” she whispers the last part, pleased to be in on the secret, “then why are you on the bachelors list?”
“Honestly, I didn’t even know the list existed, it’s not like they consulted me. I’ve been here in Italy trying to keep things on the DL.”
“Because of the press?”
Because of Alan, and Thomas Palmer, and the ghosts that have chased me halfway around the world. Because I’ve been trying to find a way to keep my selfish existence and I’m not sure I can. Or if I should.
“Partially. I wanted privacy, and the space to get to know her away from everything back in New York. Away from my name and reputation.”
“Wait… does she know who you are?”
Jesus Christ. If this woman gets anywhere near Giuliana, I’m done for. Doesn’t she have a fucking wedding to get to? I can’t say that though, not when both her and Francesca are staring at me like I’m the most compelling piece of gossip they’ve encountered in weeks.
“Not really. Not in the way you mean. She knows me”—I tap my chest—“but the Palmer stuff… I wanted to make sure she knew the real me first.”
It’s not a lie. I’ve been enjoying getting to know Giuliana and her family, and Italy—without the weight of the company and all that comes with it to drag me down.
“Oh my god! This is exactly like Crazy Rich Asians . This is unbelievable!” She bounces, like actually fucking bounces up and down in excitement.
“Sure… yeah. Just like Crazy Rich Asians . So, I need you to be discreet about this because I don’t want to mess it up. She’s important.”
Both women look up at me with something between crazed enthusiasm and sympathy. They nod though, sincere.
“Thank you. It means a lot to me.”
“So, you’ll come to the wedding, right? You guys don’t have dinner plans anyway. Plus, I’d just die to get to see your proposal.”
What can I do but nod? It seems like the path of least resistance at this point. Kelsey has an energy I’m scared to cross; especially given she knows who I am. She claps her hands in excitement.
“Do you have the ring?”
I reach into my pocket, offering the box I bought in town for the women to scrutinize and they get close to teary.
“It’s so beautiful,” Kelsey breathes. “Ceremony starts at six and should finish a little after seven so we can take wedding pictures at sunset. That’ll be your best bet! Only a few people from the wedding party will be in the grove and you’ll have some privacy.”
My panic ramps up, palms clammy around the ring box. Sweat gathers around my temples and forehead.
What the fuck are you doing? Are you really this goddamn stupid? Stop this, you piece of shit. This is too far.
I’m inclined to agree and it’s pretty scary when the hateful voice in my head starts to make sense—when it sounds like the voice of reason.
“I… uh. I need to get back upstairs. Giuliana is waiting and I don’t want to tip her off.”
Kelsey smiles in understanding, tapping the end of her nose—my secret safe with her.
“Of course. I’ll see you at the wedding, starts at six! Can’t wait!”
Yeah. Yeah.
It’s going to be fan-fucking-tastic.
I make it back to the room on shaky legs and if Giuliana notices something is off with me, she doesn’t say.
“I have dinner sorted out.” Bland. Benign.
Come on, just need to keep my shit together a tiny bit longer.
“Oh, yes?”
“We got invited to the wedding, by the bride herself. She heard me asking Francesca about needing dinner and was nice enough to include us.” For the very small price of more secrets and lies.
“I have nothing to wear.”
“There’s a dress in the bag, I guessed on your size so it might be a little off.”
Giuliana reaches into the bag on my bed, untouched. Her phone’s plugged in so she was probably dealing with work calls and emails. For a brief moment I panic about the journal, but she shows no indication of having read anything.
The dress she pulls out of the bag is red. Is red a bad wedding color? I don’t know, I’ve heard it somewhere. One of those stupid traditions or old-wives’ tales. Bad luck or something? I fucking hope not.
“I’m…uh. I’m going to go shower if that’s okay.”
“Sure, I’ll go after you.”
In a different moment my brain might have latched onto that—ran with the idea of her being naked in a space I’ve just been naked in, and the intimacy it suggests. Instead, I do my best not to stumble into the bathroom and lock the door with shaking fingers. Setting the ring box on the counter of the sink, I tug the clothing from my body—every fiber of fabric rubbing me raw. It’s all too much.
My heart gallops, nausea building, roiling. For the first time in a while the urge to vape is overwhelming and I realize how much I relied on it to try and calm my nerves. A fat lot of good patches are doing to help me now. My ribs feel like how I imagine a corset does, pulling tauter and tauter until I can feel my stomach in my chest cavity.
Breathe. Fucking breathe.
Black and white dots dance across my vision. My hand wraps around my phone, turning on the first song I can find to cover the sound. Resting it beside the ring, I close myself into the space and let the panic overtake me.
I manage to turn the faucet, water sputtering on from the showerhead. Cold pelts me as I step into the shower. My shallow breaths morph into gasps I shove my fist against to quiet.
Drowning.
It’s been weeks—fucking weeks since I’ve felt like this. It’s wretched. Somehow this is worse for having that break and now being shoved back into my skin after freedom. My shoulders hit the small tiles of the shower wall, slick with water, and my knees give in. Sliding down, the wall slows my descent enough to prevent me from straight up falling.
The water’s turned, scalding my flesh. It’s blistering in its intensity and I know when I step out my skin will be pink. But I don’t care. I can’t keep going like this. What does it matter? What does the inheritance and the grove and New York matter when it’s me that’s the problem? No matter where I am or what I call myself, I can’t escape it. The least I can do is not pull her down with me.
Tears mix with water as I struggle to breathe air that’s too heavy to take in—as I try not to throw up. I lean my head onto my knees and sob. What the fuck am I even doing at this point? And why does it hurt so much?