20. Cassandra
— ? —
Cassandra
The beach is exactly how I remember it.
I stand at the edge of the parking area, looking down at the crescent of sand and the water beyond, and for a moment I’m eight years old again, running toward the waves while my mother calls after me to be careful.
The memory is so vivid I can almost taste the salt air of that long-ago summer, feel the sand between my toes, hear my father laughing as I shriek at the cold water.
This was before LA. Before modeling. Before Antonio and the Rome villa and everything that came after. This beach belongs to a version of me that existed before I learned to disappear.
“You’re early.”
I turn. Antonio is walking up from a different part of the lot, hands in his pockets, looking slightly nervous in a way that’s endearing despite my best efforts to stay neutral.
“So are you.”
“I didn’t want to be late. Seemed like the wrong message to send.”
“What message did you want to send?”
“That I take this seriously.” He comes to stand beside me, looking out at the water. “That I know how much this place means to you.”
The sunset is still an hour away - we timed it carefully, Odette helping me look up the exact moment when the light would be best. Odette, who insisted on booking me a room at a small inn up the coast, “just in case you need somewhere that isn’t his rental or your parents’ house.”
I didn’t ask what she meant by “just in case.” I didn’t want to know.
“There’s a path down to the sand,” I say. “Unless you’d rather watch from up here.”
“Lead the way.”
We walk down the winding trail together, the scrubby coastal plants giving way to dunes and then to the beach itself.
The sand is warm under my feet - I kicked off my shoes at the top - and the sound of the waves is exactly as I remember it: steady, rhythmic, the kind of sound that smooths all your rough edges if you let it.
“This is beautiful,” Antonio says.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t we come here before? When we were married, I mean. Properly married.”
“We were always properly married. We just stopped acting like it.” I find a spot where the sand is dry and settled, and I sit down, wrapping my arms around my knees. “And we didn’t come because there was always something else. A premiere. A shoot. An interview you couldn’t reschedule.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. You’ve said it approximately a thousand times in the past three months.”
“I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
“I believe you’re sorry. That’s not the same as…” I stop, trying to find the right words. “Apologies are easy, Antonio. Change is hard.”
He sits down beside me, leaving a careful foot of space between us. “Have I changed?”
“I don’t know yet. You’ve been different. But different for three months isn’t the same as different for a lifetime.”
“What would convince you?”
“I don’t know that either.” I watch the waves roll in, white foam against blue water. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I’ve been hurt too many times to trust that this version of you is permanent. Or maybe I’m just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of believing again. Of letting myself hope, and then having it all fall apart.” I finally look at him.
“You broke my heart, Antonio. Not with an affair - I know there wasn’t an affair.
But with absence. With making me feel like I didn’t matter.
That kind of hurt doesn’t heal just because you show up for a few months. ”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because sometimes I think you’re waiting for me to say ‘okay, all is forgiven, let’s go back to normal.’ And I can’t do that. There is no normal to go back to. We have to build something new, and I don’t know yet if we can.”
The sun is lower now, starting to color the clouds at the horizon. Antonio is quiet for a long moment.
“What if we don’t try to build anything?” he says finally. “What if we just… are. For now. No pressure, no expectations, just two people who used to be in love watching a sunset.”
“Used to be?”
“Are. Were. I don’t know what tense to use.” He almost smiles. “The feelings haven’t gone anywhere, Cass. At least not on my end. But I’m trying not to pressure you with them.”
“Very considerate.”
“I’m working on it.”
The sun touches the water.
We watch in silence as the sky transforms - gold to orange to pink to that deep burning red I remember from childhood. The colors spread across the clouds like watercolors bleeding into wet paper, and I feel something loosen in my chest, some tight-held thing finally letting go.
“It’s exactly like you described,” Antonio says quietly. “The fire sky.”
“Some things don’t change.”
“Some things shouldn’t.”
His hand is resting on the sand between us. Not reaching for me - just there, available if I want it. I study his profile in the fading light, the familiar angles of his face, the way he’s watching the sunset like it matters, like this moment matters.
I don’t take his hand. But I move slightly closer, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
“Tell me about the movie you quit,” I say.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Why it mattered so much. Why you were willing to let it consume you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“It wasn’t supposed to be special. Just another period drama, decent script, good director.
But then they started filming, and something shifted.
The character felt real in a way they usually don’t.
His grief, his…” He stops. “He’d lost his family.
The character. And he was trying to rebuild something from the wreckage. ”
“That sounds familiar.”
“It felt familiar. Too familiar. I was using his grief to avoid dealing with my own.” He looks at me. “Does that make sense? I was pouring everything I couldn’t say to you into a performance, and telling myself it was just work.”
“And the woman? Bianca?”
“She was never about attraction. She was about convenience. She showed up when I was falling apart, and she seemed to understand - or I thought she understood. Looking back, I think she was studying me. Learning what I needed so she could use it.”
“For what?”
“I still don’t know. Career advancement? The publicity of being linked to me? Genuine delusion that we were destined to be together?” He shakes his head. “Whatever she wants, she’s still pushing for it. That victim interview - she’s not done trying to control the narrative.”
The sun has slipped below the horizon now, leaving streaks of purple and pink in its wake. The first stars are appearing, faint points of light in the darkening sky.
“We should head back,” I say reluctantly. “It’s getting cold.”
“Cassandra! Antonio!”
The voice comes from up the beach. I turn, squinting in the dim light, and see two figures walking toward us - one I recognize immediately.
“Odette?” I scramble to my feet. “What are you doing here?”
“Surprise!” She’s grinning as she approaches, and the woman beside her-
I stop breathing.
“Solenne?”
Solenne, my friend from the LA years, the woman I shared my showbiz days, terrible apartments, and dreams of futures that seemed impossibly far away.
I haven’t seen her in person in three years - she moved to Sicily after getting married, and our friendship has been reduced to sporadic video calls and birthday texts.
“Surprise,” Odette says again, looking immensely pleased with herself. “I may have made some calls.”
Solenne closes the distance between us and pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and tastes like tears. “Look at you,” she says, pulling back to study my face. “You’re glowing. Is that pregnancy glow or happiness glow?”
“How do you…”
“Odette asked you weeks ago if she could tell me,” Solenne says, squeezing my arm. “She wanted to make sure you were okay with it before she shared. You said yes, remember?”
I do remember - a phone call, Odette asking carefully if Solenne could know, me saying of course, she’s family. I just didn’t expect Solenne to appear in person.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I manage.
“That was the surprise part.” Solenne grins. “The pregnancy I already knew about. The ambush was Odette’s idea.” She turns to Antonio, her expression cooling slightly. “And you. I’ve heard stories.”
“All true, probably,” he says. “I’m working on doing better.”
“See that you do.” But there’s no real hostility in her voice - just the protective wariness of a friend who’s heard too many sad phone calls.
“How long are you here?” I ask, still reeling from the surprise.
“Just tonight and tomorrow. The kids are with my husband, and I couldn’t pass up the chance to see you in person.” She links her arm through mine. “Now. Tell me everything about this atelier I’ve been hearing about. And don’t leave out the good parts.”