2. Mel #2
But I can’t. Because he’s in surgery. Because there’s a secret growing in my belly that I haven’t confirmed yet but already know is real.
Because despite everything, despite the distance and the silence and the slow erosion of everything we used to be, some stupid part of me still believes that the man who laughed in the dirt with me three years ago is still in there somewhere.
And I need to know if he’s ever coming back.
I wash my face. Fix my makeup. Walk back to the waiting room with my spine straight and my walls up.
Allegra is there. Of course she is.
She’s sitting in the chair next to the one I vacated, scrolling through her phone, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankle. When she sees me, she stands.
“Melanie. Are you alright? You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “Thank you. For - for knowing all that. What to tell the doctors.”
She waves a hand like it’s nothing. “I spend more time with him than anyone. It’s only natural that I’d notice things.”
More time than me, she means. More time than his wife.
“Yes,” I say. “I suppose you do.”
Her face flickers. Satisfaction, maybe. Or triumph. “The surgery should take a few more hours. You should go home. Get some rest. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
I should push back. Should insist on staying. But I’m so tired, and the nausea is rising again, and I can’t spend another hour in this room watching Allegra Costa claim pieces of my husband’s life while his mother narrates the theft in Italian.
“Fine,” I say. “Call me.”
She nods, already looking back at her phone.
I find Chiara and tell her I’m leaving. She hugs me hard, whispers in my ear that she’ll keep me updated, that she’s sorry, that this whole family is awful and I deserve better.
I don’t tell her she’s the only one who’s noticed.
The taxi takes forty minutes to reach our villa, the one Santino bought when we got married, all glass and marble and views of the Florence hills that I’ve stopped seeing. I let myself in, kick off my shoes, and make it to the bedroom before I finally break.
The tears come hard and fast, three years of them, and I curl up on my side of the bed that’s been empty for months and sob until my throat is raw.
When I finally stop, I just lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes. Allegra’s name on the screen.
Surgery went well. He’s in recovery. Asking for you.
I read the message three times. Asking for me.
He’s asking for me.
I grab my keys and run.
***
The hospital corridor is quiet at this hour. Most of the family has gone home; only Allegra remains, standing outside his room like a sentry.
“He’s awake,” she says when she sees me. “But groggy. Don’t expect much.”
I don’t answer her. I just push past and into the room.
He’s propped up in the bed now, still pale, still hooked to machines, but his eyes are open. And when I walk through the door, they find me.
“Mel,” he says, and for the length of my name he sounds like the man I married. “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here.” I cross to him, take his hand. This time, he squeezes back. “How do you feel?”
“Like someone scooped out my insides.” A ghost of a smile. “Did I scare you?”
“You terrified me.”
“Sorry.” His thumb traces a circle on my palm, and I want to cry all over again because I can’t remember the last time he touched me like this. “I’ve been… I know I’ve been…”
“Don’t.” I shake my head. “We can talk about it when you’re better.”
“No.” His grip tightens. “I need to say it. I’ve been absent. I’ve been so focused on the merger, on trying to prove to my father that I can handle it, that I forgot to…”
“Santino-”
“I love you.” The words are raw, urgent. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know I’ve been terrible. But I love you. I need you to know that.”
My heart cracks open right there in the hospital room.
“I love you too,” I whisper. “I never stopped.”
He lifts my hand to his lips, presses a kiss to my knuckles. “When I get out of here, things are going to change. I promise. I’ll do better.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
His eyes drift closed, the drugs pulling him back under, and I sit there holding his hand while his breathing evens out.
Behind me, I hear footsteps. Allegra, appearing in the doorway.
“He’s sleeping again,” she says. “You should go. You need rest.”
I don’t move.
“Melanie.” Her voice is patient, like she’s talking to a child. “I’ll stay with him. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”
And there it is again. That proprietary tone. That I’ll take care of him that sounds so reasonable on the surface but cuts like glass underneath.
I turn to look at her. Really look.
She’s beautiful, in that polished Italian way I’ll never be able to compete with. Dark hair, perfect skin, clothes cut to make the rest of us feel like we wandered in off the street. She looks at my husband in a way I can’t name, a way that makes my stomach clench.
“I’m staying,” I say.
Her eyes narrow, just slightly. “There’s only one chair. It’s not very comfortable.”
“I don’t care.”
A beat. A measuring look. And then she smiles, thin and sharp.
“Suit yourself,” she says. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
She turns and walks away, her heels clicking on the linoleum.
I watch her go, and a cold weight settles in my chest.
Things are going to change, Santino said.
I pull the uncomfortable chair close to his bedside, settle in with his hand still wrapped in mine.
But as I sit there in the dark, watching machines blink and listening to my husband breathe, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not the only one who needs to change.
The door at the end of the hall swings shut behind Allegra.
And I realize, with a clarity that feels like ice water down my spine, that I’ve been fighting the wrong enemy.