Chapter 65 Michael
Michael
Elisa and I have been living in a bubble, and, like all bubbles, when it bursts, it happens suddenly.
Saturday is ours alone, no work, no commitments, nothing, and we’re already in it from the moment we wake up, with breakfast in bed. We’re enjoying waffles topped with chocolate syrup when my phone rings.
“Sorry, I know I promised I wouldn’t answer any calls, but it’s Bingley. He must be back from Paris.”
“Even prisoners have the right to a phone call,” Elisa concedes. “But don’t blame me if your waffle’s gone when you get back.”
The problem is that the content of the call concerns her, so when I come back to the bedroom, she can’t help but notice my troubled expression.
“I was good. I saved you the waffle and the French . . . what’s that face? What happened?”
I sit on the bed, repulsed at the thought of eating.
“The Bingleys want to sell to Bogdanovic as soon as possible. They asked me to reschedule the meeting with him for this Monday so he can sign the preliminary agreement. I told him that rushing would put Bogdanovic in a position of power to dictate the terms and price, but Charles said it doesn’t matter. ”
“What?!” she exclaims, dropping her still-untouched croissant. “But how? I thought I had until the end of November.”
“I know, but Charles talked to his sister, who wants to sell immediately, and . . . you know how he is.”
She squeezes her eyes shut as she shakes her head in disbelief. “So everything I did was for nothing?”
“It was still worth trying,” I try to console her, though I know the right words don’t exist.
She gets out of bed and starts gathering her things and putting them in her suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Your flight is on Wednesday.”
“Sorry, but I have some loose ends to tie up.” She continues to fold clothes and put them in her case without pause. “I could be homeless by Wednesday. I have a family to think about. I can’t stay here. Not after this Bingley twist.”
“That’s exactly why you can and must stay!” I say, trying to stop her. “This is your home.”
“My home?” She looks at me coldly. “It’s barely yours, Michael.”
“I promise you won’t regret it. I swear on my parents’ grave, I want you here with me. I want Linda here; I want your mother too. I want you in my life.”
“Michael.” She takes my face in her hands. “I don’t want to be in your life. I want to share our lives.”
“And we will!” I insist. “Why do you want to go back to Italy when your security is here?”
“Because, Michael, I have nothing to do with this. It’s not my house, it’s not my pace, it’s not my lifestyle.” She sits next to me, her hands in mine. “You come to Italy.”
“And do what?”
“Anything. I’ll have to reinvent myself too, so let’s do it together. Let’s start again together; let’s take risks together.”
“Why? I have a life here.”
“No, Michael, you have your brother’s life, your brother’s job, your brother’s apartment, to the extent that you can’t even see yourself!
You live inside boxes: the office box, the apartment box—you even play tennis in a box.
You exit one and enter another. When was the last time you felt the warmth of the sun on your skin?
Or breathed air that didn’t smell like smog? ”
“What are you saying?” I blurt out.
“The truth. Your job is boring by your own admission. You only do it to prove you’re better than George.
There’s no need, you’ve always been better.
Why sacrifice yourself for a cause that isn’t yours .
. . And this apartment? You own it, but it doesn’t belong to you.
You’re nowhere; these walls don’t reflect you.
You don’t even have your own photos in the picture frames. ”
“Good thing you said you’d stop being judgmental,” I mutter, standing up suddenly and breaking contact between us.
“I’m not judging. I’m just showing you what you don’t want to see.
What are we doing here? You work nonstop, and I wait for you in an empty house.
When you come home in the evening, you’re exhausted, and we eat takeaway until .
. . I don’t know, until one of us can’t take it anymore?
” This time she’s the one coming at me, as I’m standing by the window, staring into space.
“Going to events because we have to make an appearance? Talking to bores? Me dodging your exes’ barbs while waiting for those twice-a-year dinners to spend time with your very busy friends? ”
“Oh, sorry if everything sucks. What a hellish week you’ve had. Maybe you should have gone home after the fair if you’re so disgusted with everything I have to offer you.”
“Listen to me”—she forces me to turn around, pulling me by the arm—“I don’t want to simply be with you. I want to be happy with you. I wouldn’t be happy here, but what’s worse is that you’re not happy either.”
“You’re asking me to give up everything.”
“We’ll be together. You and me. The two of us,” she replies, more convinced than ever. “Or are you scared?”
She stares into my eyes, waiting for me to accept her challenge as I’ve always done. But this time it’s different. “I can’t.”
“Michael . . .” her voice trembles.
“I can’t,” I repeat, adamant. What am I going to do in Italy? Restore old cars? Make fresh pasta? Give English lessons?
She looks away and bows her head, surrendering. “I’m going to shower and get dressed. Can you call me a taxi?”
I feel like we’ve taken ten steps backward.