Chapter Six #3
All I need to do now is drift off before Benito gets back.
I’ve shared beds with many people platonically before.
This would be no different than that family vacation in San Diego when I shared a bed with my cousin, Michelle.
We talked for hours every night before we fell asleep—well, it would be a little different than that, but the point stands.
This won’t be Benito sleeping inches from me. It’s Michelle.
I hear the shower turn off and I’m still not asleep. The sink runs for a toothbrush and I am wide awake. A few more minutes pass and the door to the bathroom opens. Benito shuffles around, putting items in his overnight bag before coming back to bed. I keep my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep.
It’s just Michelle. It’s just Michelle. It’s just Michelle.
I feel the warmth of his body as he settles in next to me. We’re so close that the edges of his clothes are probably touching mine. What does Benito wear to bed? Is he a long pants and soft button-up kind of guy or is he right here next to me in his boxers and a worn-out T-shirt?
And what is that smell? Pine and lemon. Why does he smell so good?
I have the sudden urge to reach out and touch him.
It’s probably just the fact that I haven’t been this close to someone in a long time.
Yes, that’s it. It’s merely a biological reaction to having a good-looking, good-smelling man in the same bed as me.
Of course my animalistic instincts are taking over.
Of course there’s a sudden swelling of something in my gut. It’s natural.
He rolls over and sighs. He must be facing me now, because I feel his cool breath on my neck. My stomach swirls. This is not an ideal time for my latent but ever-present horniness to make an appearance.
“Ugh, you’re way too close to me,” I say, trying to put a stop to the thoughts. I yank the sheets off of me, throw them over the top of Benito, and roll over on my back. “It’s so hot in here. Why doesn’t this place have AC?”
He sleepily moves the sheets off of him and they form a barrier of sorts between us.
“You have way more room than I do. I’m basically falling off.
” He turns to his other side, away from me.
“I thought you’d appreciate the lack of air-conditioning, since you love embracing Italy’s traditions so much. ”
He kind of has me there. “You’re right. I love this.
I’m sweaty like Caesar right now. Dying of heat stroke but in a timeless, historical way.
” I turn my head and notice the outline of his strong shoulders, my face flushes and a bead of sweat drips from my forehead.
“Nope. This sucks. I’m miserable. No wonder everyone was so stabby back then. ”
I think I hear him laugh, but his pillow muffles the noise. “Please don’t stab me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, sitting up. “Given the limited resources, I’d obviously smother you.”
Benito clicks on the bedside lamp and turns to me, and I finally get to size up his bedtime appearance: a worn-out Cambridge T-shirt and soft gray pants, his hair askew from the pillow.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, stiffening like he’s bracing for impact.
Like whatever he’s about to say will cause him physical pain.
“I don’t think you’re going to leave because I want you to leave. ”
I relax. “I’m not actually going to murder you. I saw what happened to Amanda Knox, and she wasn’t even guilty. It’s the last thing my reputation needs.”
He frowns and looks at me seriously. “I’m just being realistic.”
I turn so I’m facing him. “But that’s just it. . . you think me leaving is inevitable,” I say. “I thought I was starting over, not taking a vacation.”
He uses his arm to prop himself up. His forearm flexes and I have to actively force myself to look away. He continues, “Can you really blame me for thinking someone like you wouldn’t want to stick around a nothing town like La Musa?”
“Someone like me?” I ask. I put on a valley girl accent, “A dumb, like, American.”
Benito shakes his head. “No.”
His eyes lock into mine. My heart picks up its rhythm. I try to find my bearings before the stirring can start again. “If you hate La Musa so much, why did you come back?”
He looks down at his hands. “It’s—”
“Complicated?” I ask, finishing his sentence. “I know complicated. I also know that you don’t walk away from your dream unless you have no other choice.”
Benito flits his eyes back at me in recognition.
“My father. . .” he starts. “He was the mayor here for many years. Decades, really. For longer than I can remember.” Benito fiddles with the edge of the sheet.
“The mayor’s home has always been my family’s home, and when he left, my mother was going to have to move out.
She loves that house. She’s too proud to admit it, but to leave would’ve crushed her even more than she already—”
He trails off but takes a deep breath, regaining his composure. “There was only one solution. I move back and run for mayor. I knew I’d win because I analyzed the data and ran the polls. Now I’m the mayor and she gets to keep living in her house.”
My head goes fuzzy and my vision blurs, like my body’s trying to rationalize the tremendous sacrifice with the curmudgeonly man I’ve known the past two weeks. “Benito. . . that’s. . .”
“Pathetic. A grown man gives up everything he’s worked for, his whole life, so his mommy doesn’t have to move.”
“No. It’s. . . a beautiful and loving thing to do.” It turns out Benito and I are alike. We both ended up back in La Musa because it’s the only place we can be. “I’m sure your mother would understand if your heart is really in London.”
“I don’t know that it is,” he says, almost laughing. “I don’t know where my heart is, where I’m supposed to be or what I’m supposed to do.” He rubs his hands against his knees. “And what about you? Where’s your heart?”
My mind flashes to the Capitol building, the house in Beachwood, the La Musa clock tower. “I guess I don’t know either. Maybe it’s still searching for where it feels most at home.”
He nods, fixating his gaze on me. We sit there silently, but it’s comfortable.
Maybe we understand each other. Maybe the friction we felt between us was because I resented Benito for wanting to change La Musa when I am so desperate to return to it exactly as I knew it, and he resents me for having the ability to go anywhere in the world and choosing the place where he feels imprisoned.
Or maybe the friction is caused by something else entirely, and I didn’t notice it until our bodies were almost touching.
I look down at his hand; it wouldn’t take more than a few inches of movement for my fingertips to graze the tops of his.
Maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because his hand shifts slightly, narrowing the distance between us.
A loud knock startles me.
We both look at the door, but neither of us moves. There’s another knock, this time more aggressive. “Maybe your butler’s come around?” I ask.
“It’s probably the wrong room. Ignore it,” he says. Was that an invitation? I try to grasp the bearings of my various limbs. Where are they and where would they be better suited?
The knock returns. I’m closest to the door, so I fling the sheets off me and get up. A hotel worker is standing on the other side, holding a bottle of prosecco. “We want to apologize for the mix-up,” she says.
I take the bottle from her. “Thanks.”
I’m about to close the door when she stops me.
“Wait,” she says. “Are you. . . are you that congresswoman from California?” My blood goes cold.
“Congresswoman Rhodes!” she shouts. I nod, barely able to move my head among the sudden ringing in my ears.
“I thought so! I study political science at the university. I’ve watched videos of you.
” I nod again. She leans in. “Keep fighting the good fight, ok?”
I nod again, desperate to get back into bed as soon as possible. “I will.”
When I close the door, Benito is standing next to the bed. That’s not really where I want him to be. Why isn’t he waiting in bed for me to resume whatever tension was brewing between us? But then, like a lightning crack in the sky, I remember: London, girlfriend, Sutton.
Sutton.
It was easy to forget about the girlfriend when his skin was so close to mine, but whatever I felt toward Benito moments ago was clearly one-sided.
The prickling of my fingertips like a current of electricity running through his body and into mine wasn’t real.
He has a girlfriend. He’s not into me. It wasn’t real.
Why are my feelings always so wrong?
“Do you want a glass?” I ask him, shaking off the shame of my delusion and hoping he didn’t catch on to my brief but powerful yearning.
Benito smiles smugly. “Interesting how you agreed to keep fighting the good fight.”
I start twisting the cork out of the bottle. The faster I can get this popped, the faster we can have a glass and I can forget the humiliation. “Is it?” The cork doesn’t budge. “I’ve never been good at this. Damn it.” I twist it with more force.
Benito walks over to me. “It’s just interesting how that was your gut reaction when pressed.
That you’ll keep going, keep fighting.” The cork pops and flies out of the bottle, hitting the ceiling then flying across the room.
I start toward the empty glasses, but Benito holds on to the bottle, stopping me.
“It’s almost like you know deep down that you’ll be going back. ”
I stare at him for a moment. Is he so for real right now?
I put the bottle down and smash my head into my palms half out of frustration, half for allowing myself to forget why I disliked him so much in the first place.
“Oh my god. You’re relentless. What else am I supposed to say?
No, I won’t, actually, nice Italian college student, because I don’t care anymore? ”
Benito’s still smug and I want to crack the bottle over his head. “I’m just saying, it’s interesting.”
I let my face accurately reflect the rage I feel inside.
As a woman, especially a woman in politics, I so often have had to hide how I really feel, but I won’t be doing that now.
“You have to drop this. I’m not going back to DC.
I am going to live in La Musa and work at a flower shop or something and just be happy and fulfilled forever.
I’m not going back to my old life. Ever. ”
My expression must be effectively stormy, because Benito looks like he’s about to take cover. He struggles to find his words for a moment, then very evenly starts speaking. “I said the same thing even one year ago, but—”
“I’m not you. I’m not going back.” I take the pillow from his side of the bed and toss it on the floor. I do the same with the pathetically thin runner.
Benito shakes his head, admitting defeat, and lies down on the floor. I get back into bed and turn off the bedside lamp. This time, the darkness finds me quickly.