Chapter 14 Santino #2
"And nudist resorts! See, this one is clothing-optional." She points enthusiastically at Hidden Beach. "I thought maybe you might have interests I don't know about yet. As your wife, I want to be supportive of your needs."
"You think I want to go to a swingers resort for our honeymoon?"
"I don't know what you want! That's exactly why I'm asking." She pulls out another brochure. "Or if you're not into that lifestyle, there's also this place that specializes in couples' workshops. Tantric yoga, sensual massage classes, communication exercises—"
"Stop." I hold up my hand. "Just stop talking."
"Stop what? I'm trying to be open-minded about your potential interests—"
"This is insane. This entire thing is insane."
"What's insane about wanting to be a good wife?" She looks genuinely confused and a little hurt. "I read articles, Santo. Actual research articles about keeping marriages exciting and fresh. About being adventurous and maintaining intimacy. About proper communication."
"Communication doesn't mean color-coded spreadsheets and swingers resort brochures!"
"Well, what does it mean then?" She challenges.
I don't have an answer for that. I genuinely don't.
She takes my silence as permission to continue. "Actually, speaking of being adventurous..." She reaches into her tote bag again. "I stopped by a shop today."
"What kind of shop?" I ask with deep fear.
She pulls out a large box. A suspiciously large box.
"An adult shop on Via Garibaldi. The woman there was incredibly helpful."
No, no, no.
She opens the box with the enthusiasm of someone opening a birthday present.
Inside are... items. Many items. In various shapes and sizes and colors that should not exist in nature.
"I wasn't sure what you'd like," she says, pulling things out and setting them on my dining table. Right next to the pasta. "I got a variety to choose from."
There's a dildo on my dining table.
Several, actually. Multiple dildos of various sizes.
"This one vibrates," she says, holding up a purple one like she's demonstrating a kitchen appliance. "And this one has different speed settings and patterns—"
"Liana, what are you doing?"
"Preparing! For marriage! For our intimate life together!" She sets them down carefully, reaching for something else in the box. "Oh, and the woman at the store suggested this one—"
She pulls out a leather harness with multiple straps and buckles.
A strap-on. She bought an actual strap-on.
She holds it up, examining it with a confused frown.
"I'm not quite sure how this works," she admits, studying the straps. "I think it goes... here?" She holds it against her hips experimentally. "Or maybe—does this strap go around the leg? The instructions are not very clear about the assembly—"
"Put that down. Right now."
"I'm just trying to figure out the mechanics—"
"Liana. Put. It. Down."
She sets it on the table with a sigh. Right next to the carbonara.
I stare at the collection now spread across my dining room table. The schedule with its color-coding. The birth control charts. The swingers resort brochures. The sex toys of various sizes and purposes.
"Let me get this straight," I say very slowly, very carefully. "You think I want scheduled sex on Tuesday mornings at 9am, a honeymoon at a swingers resort, and—" I gesture at the strap-on. "That thing in my ass?"
"I don't know what you want! That's exactly why I'm asking all of this!" She looks genuinely frustrated now. "I'm trying to be prepared. To be a good wife. To be open to whatever you might need from our marriage."
"I don't need a spreadsheet with cancellation policies!"
"Then what do you need?" She's getting emotional now.
"I don't know! Spontaneity? Normal human interaction? Not having sex toys displayed on my dining table while we eat pasta?"
"You don't like any of this?" She gestures at all her careful preparations.
"No! None of it! This is—" I stop, looking at her face.
She looks genuinely upset. Like she actually thought this was helpful. Like she put real effort and thought into this.
Either she's the best actress I've ever encountered, or she's completely serious about all of this.
I honestly can't tell which option is worse.
"Liana." I sit back down, trying to be calmer. "Why did you do all this?"
"I told you. To be prepared for marriage—"
"No. Really. Why did you actually do this?"
She's quiet for a moment, her expression vulnerable. "Because I want to be a good wife. Like my mother is to my father."
"Being a good wife doesn't mean scheduling intimacy like dental appointments."
"Then what does it mean?" She sounds lost.
"It means being present. Being real. Being..." I gesture helplessly. "Not this. Not schedules and charts and plans."
"Oh." She looks down at her laptop, at the schedule she clearly worked hard on. "You don't want the calendar system?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Or the birth control comparison charts?"
"We can discuss birth control later. Privately. Without charts and graphs."
"What about the honeymoon options?"
"We're not going to a swingers resort. That's final."
"So that's a no on the toys too?"
I look at the collection on my table, struggling to process. "Take this away. All of it." I gesture at everything. "The schedule, the charts, the toys—everything. Take it all away."
"But I worked really hard on this—"
"I don't care."
She starts packing things back into her tote bag slowly, methodically. Looking completely dejected.
I should feel victorious. I should feel relieved.
Instead, I just feel confused and suspicious.
Because part of me—a very small, very cynical part—wonders if she did this on purpose. If she showed up with sex toys and swingers resort brochures knowing exactly how I'd react.
But why would she do that?
"Liana," I say as she's packing away the last of the toys. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you messing with me? Is this some kind of game?"
She looks up, genuine confusion on her face. "What?"
"All of this. The schedule. The toys. The charts and brochures." I gesture vaguely. "Everything. Are you doing this on purpose? To drive me crazy?"
"Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm asking you."
She zips up her tote bag with finality. "I was trying to be helpful. Prepared."
"By bringing a strap-on to dinner?"
"The woman at the store said some men like exploration and variety—"
"I'm not some men."
"I'm starting to understand that now." She stands, picking up her bag. "I should probably go."
"You haven't finished your pasta."
"I'm not hungry anymore." She picks up her bag. "I'm sorry, Santo. I thought I was doing the right thing. Being proactive. Planning ahead for our future. I guess I was completely wrong."
She sounds genuine. She looks genuine.
But I still can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something important.
"Liana, wait—"
"It's fine. Really." She heads for the door. "I'll see you... when? Should I check the calendar—sorry, I mean, should I text you about next time?"
"Yes. Text me."
"Okay." She opens the door, then stops. Her shoulders shake slightly.
Is she—
She turns back around. There are tears in her eyes. Actual tears. Real tears streaming down her face.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice breaking with emotion. "I just—I wanted to be a good wife. Like my mother is. But I don't know how to do this. I don't know what you want from me."
The tears spill over, running down her cheeks. She wipes at them quickly, embarrassed.
"I thought if I planned everything, if I was organized and prepared and ready, then I wouldn't mess this up. But I did mess it up. I always mess things up." She's crying harder now, her voice thick. "And now you think I'm crazy and you probably don't even want to marry me anymore and—"
"Liana." I cross the room to her. "Stop. You're not crazy."
"Yes, I am! I brought sex toys to dinner! Who does that?" She laughs through her tears, the sound half sob. "A crazy person, that's who."
"You're not crazy," I repeat, even though part of me isn't entirely sure. "You're just... enthusiastic about planning."
"Is that what we're calling it?" She wipes at her eyes again. "I'm so embarrassed."
And she looks it. Her face is flushed red. Her eyes are swollen. She's genuinely crying real tears.
Guilt hits me hard in the chest.
She was trying. In her own weird, overly-organized, completely misguided way, she was trying to be what she thought I wanted.
"Hey." I pull her into a hug. She stiffens for a second, then relaxes against me. "You don't need to be embarrassed."
"I showed you a strap-on over pasta."
"That was definitely a choice." I feel her laugh against my chest despite the tears. "But you were trying to be prepared. That's not inherently bad."
"It's not?"
"The execution was questionable. But the intention was good."
She pulls back, looking up at me. Her eyes are still wet with tears. "You're not mad?"
"I'm not mad." Confused, yes. Suspicious, maybe. But not mad. "Just promise me no more schedules."
"No more schedules," she agrees quickly. "And no more PowerPoint presentations?"
"Definitely no more PowerPoint presentations."
"What about the honeymoon research? Should I—"
"Liana. No swingers resorts."
"Right. Okay. Got it." She wipes her eyes one more time. "Can we just pretend tonight didn't happen?"
"I don't think I'll ever forget tonight."
"That's what I was afraid of." She picks up her tote bag again. "I should really go now."
"You forgot your laptop."
"Oh! Right." She looks at it still sitting on the table. "Can I just pick it up tomorrow? I don't want to carry it right now."
"Sure."
"Thank you." She gives me a watery smile. "And Santo? I really am sorry. About all of it."
"I know you are."
She kisses my cheek—quick and soft—then leaves without another word.
I stand in my doorway, watching her walk down the hall to the elevator. When the elevator doors close behind her, I go back inside.
The apartment feels quiet. The laptop is still on the table. The PowerPoint still open on the screen.
I look at it. At the color-coded calendar. At the detailed schedule she put together with obvious care.
She cried. Real tears. Real embarrassment.
Which means either she's genuinely that clueless about how relationships work, or...
Or she's an incredible actress.
I sit down, staring at the schedule on the screen. Tuesday at 9am. Who suggests Tuesday at 9am for sex?
Someone who has no idea what they're doing.
Or someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
I close the laptop with more force than necessary.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Liana: I'm home. Thank you for being so understanding. I promise I'll be normal from now on. Well, more normal. As normal as I can be.
Her text is followed by a heart emoji.
Even after crying. Even after the most mortifying evening of her life—or mine—she sends me a heart emoji.
I type back: Don't worry about it. Get some rest.
Liana: You too. Goodnight, Santo.
I set down my phone and pour myself a large glass of wine.
The guilt is still there, sitting heavy in my chest. Sharp. Uncomfortable.
She tried so hard. Put in so much effort and research. And I shut her down completely.
Made her cry.
I drain the glass and pour another.
Tomorrow, when she comes to get her laptop, I'll be nicer. More understanding. Less quick to judge.
Tomorrow, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt.
But tonight?
Tonight, I can't shake the image of her tears. The way her voice broke. The genuine embarrassment on her face.
It felt real.
It looked real.
But so did everything else she's done. The steak-eating. The gun-grabbing. The grandmother-inviting. The moving-in-without-asking.
All of it looked genuine in the moment.
I walk to my window, staring out at the city lights spread below.
Twenty-four days until the wedding.
Twenty-four days to figure out if I'm falling for a woman or falling for an elaborate performance.
And twenty-four days to figure out why, despite everything, I felt worse seeing her cry than I did seeing sex toys on my dining table.
I finish my wine and head to bed.
But sleep doesn't come easy.
Because somewhere between the schedule and the tears, between the chaos and the vulnerability, Liana Costa has gotten completely under my skin.
And I have no idea if that's exactly what she planned all along.