Chapter 49 Michael
Michael
I go up to my room, where, ironically, I find my suitcase waiting for me—the one I left in the taxi when I arrived.
I put on my suit, the only one I’ve had with me this whole time, and which, among other things, I wore for the evening in Florence with Elisa.
I can still smell her perfume on my shirt.
It’s so intense and penetrating that it takes my breath away.
I’m practically wearing our love story, but it doesn’t feel like mine.
I could change and wear one of the T-shirts I bought here, but in the end I close the armoire. Those clothes belong to a Michael who isn’t me anymore. In London, I wouldn’t know what to do with them.
I think of Elisa and me together and then, immediately, picture her with George. A pang tears through my chest. I slam my fist against the bathroom door, and the sound resonates across the ceiling, while the door swings on its squeaky hinges.
The taxi that Donatella called arrives earlier than expected. I don’t have time to put on my tie. I dunk my face under freezing water. I don’t even dry myself. I take my never-opened suitcase and leave.
In the car I resist the urge to look back. I won’t ever be back here, and within a year, there will be a golf club instead of a vineyard.
My gaze falls on the knuckles of my right hand, still clenched, red, and bruised with crusts of dried blood.
I don’t feel the pain. I’m completely numb with anger.
I’m only sure of one thing: I plan to send money for Linda to Mariana. Elisa would never accept it, but her mother is too practical not to.
As for the rest, there’s nothing else here that concerns me.