24. Matteo
MATTEO
I make two coffees.
I don’t notice until I put a small glass of water beside the second one.
Claire is not coming.
She said not yet.
I stand on the terrace outside my house with one hand on the coffee pot and both cups on the table. Mine is black. Hers is a double espresso. Before noon. Water beside it.
I did it without thinking.
I leave her cup where it is and take mine inside.
By seven, I have reconstructed the entire problem.
This is not useful.
The note has a chronology. I can tell Claire which entries came before the moments she asked about, which I added afterward, which ideas I crossed out, and which ones I never used.
Ravello before sunrise was planned. Getting lost on the lower road was not. Neither were the dance or the boathouse. The line beneath the wedding story came afterward.
Usually, this much clarity helps. It does not today.
At eight thirteen, my phone lights.
Claire: Now. Ginestra.
I am at her gate four minutes later.
I make myself knock.
Two taps, pause, one.
Claire opens the door.
She is wearing loose gray trousers and a white shirt that is actually hers. Her hair is tied back. No camera. No makeup. She looks as if she slept less than I did.
“Come in.”
I do.
The kitchen table is cleared except for her laptop, a notebook, and a mug of tea she has not touched.
Her camera bags are lined against the wall, organized but not packed.
I register the distinction because apparently I am noticing everything I should not.
Claire sits.
I take the chair across from her.
For several seconds neither of us speaks.
Then she says, “Okay.”
I wait.
“Explain.”
I have been waiting for that word all night.
The first answer is ready before she finishes saying it.
“I made the note the morning after you told me the list. You said I would turn it into categories and a timeline. I did not make a timeline.”
Claire’s eyebrows lift.
I hear myself.
“That was not the important part.”
“No.”
“I wrote the ten items exactly because I did not want to remember them incorrectly.”
“And because I told you you couldn’t survive three.”
“Yes.”
“So it was a challenge.”
“At the beginning.”
Her fingers close around the mug, but she still does not drink.
I continue because stopping feels worse.
“Ravello was planned because of what you told me. You said you had never seen it before sunrise. The list made me think of it.”
“The driver?”
“I considered one. Crossed it out.”
“Why?”
“You would have hated being collected for something that was supposed to feel private.”
Claire looks down at the table.
“The lower road?”
“I thought it would be quieter.”
“It was also wrong.”
“Yes.”
“That part was real, then.”
I do not know whether she is joking.
“I was genuinely lost.”
“Congratulations.”
“I am not asking for credit.”
“That is probably wise.”
I nod, then regret it.
Even that feels like asking for credit.
“The dance was not planned,” I say. “I did not open the note that night.”
Claire’s mouth tightens.
“The reminder was already in your head.”
“Yes.”
“So was mine.”
“I know.”
“Keep going.”
I do.
“The signal at the event came from our conversation about crowded rooms. I wrote wrist signal with a question mark because I was trying to think of something you would not have to explain in front of people.”
“And then we talked about it.”
“Yes.”
“The vulnerable story?”
“I added that line after I told you. Not before.”
“Why?”
“Because telling you mattered.”
“To item six.”
I hesitate.
“Yes.”
Her eyes close for a second.
I should stop.
Instead I reach for the next fact.
“The gallery was different.”
“Of course it was.”
“I had already decided I wanted to be there.”
“And then you opened the note.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I have had all night to answer this.
The answer still sounds bad.
“Because I was still using it as a place to put things.”
“Things about me.”
“Yes.”
“Things you were doing with me.”
“Yes.”
I lean forward, then remember myself and sit back.
“The challenge had stopped mattering by then.”
“When?”
“Before the gallery.”
“That is not very exact for you.”
“No.”
She waits.
I look at the notebook beneath her hand.
“By the time you showed me the photograph of Luca, Nico, and me at the table, I was not trying to prove you wrong anymore.”
Claire says nothing.
“I opened the note after that because it was already there. I had used it for weeks. It had become somewhere I put information I did not want to lose.”
“About me.”
“Yes.”
“And that seemed normal to you.”
“Yes.”
I hate the answer.
“The cooking disaster was not the list,” I say.
Claire looks at me.
I keep going.
“Neither was the first night we slept together. The midnight swim happened because you wanted to swim and I wanted to be with you. The decaf after six was because I remembered you would not sleep. Yesterday’s food and battery were because I knew what kind of tired you were.”
“You had not opened the note?”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Not since the gallery.”
She looks at me for a long second.
“And before that?”
“Less and less. After that photograph, proving you wrong was already irrelevant.”
“But you kept writing in it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The answer comes too easily.
“Because I keep information I do not want to lose. Staff preferences. Repairs. Work notes. Things people tell me once that matter later. Keeping yours there did not feel cruel to me.”
“No,” Claire says. “I know it didn’t.”
Claire finally takes a drink of tea.
It has probably gone cold.
“The photograph went in there.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I did not know where else to put what it did to me.”
Her eyes come up.
That sentence was not prepared.
I wish I had chosen something safer.
I don’t take it back.
“You could have just had the photograph,” she says.
“I know that now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I hear the urgency in my voice and make myself slow down.
“There were ideas I never used. The driver. A dinner reservation after the sunrise. I thought about sending flowers once and did not because you would have mocked me for a week.”
“I would have.”
“Yes.”
“There was no flower note.”
“No.”
“Good to know.”
“I never used the list to plan sex.”
Her head lifts sharply.
“I did not ask that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because I want you to know.”
“That you were innocent of that part?”
The question stops me.
“No.”
“Yes, Matteo.”
“I am trying to tell you what was real.”
Claire puts the mug down.
“All of it felt real.”
“I know.”
“No. Stop.”
I stop.
She presses her fingertips to her forehead.
“I am not sitting here wondering whether you faked getting lost.”
“I understand.”
“You clearly do not.”
I wait.
Claire lowers her hand.
“You came over here with a defense.”
“I came to answer your questions.”
“I asked one question yesterday.”
Was any of this just us?
I remember exactly how long I took to answer.
Too long.
“I said yes.”
“You did.”
“And you hated the answer.”
“I hated that you thought yes fixed it.”
“I did not think it fixed it.”
“What did you think?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out fast enough.
Claire gives a small, exhausted laugh.
“This. Exactly this.”
“What?”
“You are still trying to prove you completed the assignment correctly.”
The sentence hits with enough force that I sit completely still.
Claire looks at me.
“Sunrise was planned but the wrong road was spontaneous. The dance was spontaneous. The boathouse was spontaneous. The wedding story was entered after the fact. The gallery was emotionally authentic despite supporting documentation.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is what I heard.”
I want to argue.
The argument arrives fully formed.
I do not say it.
Claire rubs one thumb along the side of her mug.
“I know you did not fake every good thing we had.”
“Claire.”
“That does not help as much as you think it should.”
“I am not asking it to.”
“You are.”
I look down at my hands.
For the first time since her message, I cannot find the next part of the explanation.
I had several answers ready: dates, sequence, intent. None of them changes what she saw on my phone.
“You told me your list because it embarrassed you,” I say.
Claire’s face goes still.
“Yes.”
“And I turned it into something searchable.”
“Yes.”
I look away.
There is a small chip in the tile near the refrigerator. I have noticed it before and meant to tell someone.
It is not my house, and the chip is none of my business.
I almost laugh at the thought.
Nothing about it is funny.
“I am sorry.”
Claire looks at the tea.
“I heard you.”
“I did not understand what keeping it would do.”
“I know.”
“I should have.”
She does not answer.
I want to ask whether that matters.
I do not.
After a while Claire stands.
“I need space.”
The question is out before I can stop it.
“How much?”
Her eyes close.
I correct myself.
“Sorry.”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“I am leaving for a few days.”
I stand too.
“Leaving Ginestra?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She looks at me.
I nod once.
“Right. You do not have to tell me.”
“I booked a room in Ravello.”
Relief comes too fast.
Ravello is close. My mind supplies the road closures, the hotels with bad stair access, and the drivers who know how to handle camera cases.
I could make three calls before she finishes packing.
I say nothing.
“I may stay longer,” she adds.
“All right.”
“I have work.”
“I know.”
“I am taking the camera gear and enough clothes for a few days. The rest stays here.”
“All right.”
She looks toward the bags lined against the wall.
Now I understand why.
A camera case, the larger equipment bag, and a small suitcase near the hallway that I had not seen from the door.
My mind starts moving.
The road above the cottage is narrow, and there is construction near the square this week.
She has too much gear for one trip.
Most drivers use the wrong entrance for luggage.
“I can arrange a car.”
“No.”
“I can carry the equipment to the road.”
“No.”
“I can at least take the larger case.”
“No.”
Each answer is immediate.
I put both hands flat on the table.
“All right.”
Claire watches me.
I hate that she has to watch me to see whether no will hold.
“What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
I would rather she gave me a task.
“Nothing.”
“Yes.”
I look at the bags again.
“Is someone coming for you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need...”
“No.”
I stop.
Claire’s shoulders drop a fraction when I stop.
There is a knock at the gate twenty minutes later.
A local driver, not anyone from Bellamare.
Claire picks up the smaller camera case.
I stand because staying seated would be absurd.
She takes the larger bag with the other hand.
I reach for it.
My hand gets halfway to it.
Claire looks at me.
I let my hand fall.
“I can manage it.”
“I know.”
She goes to the hallway for the suitcase.
I follow as far as the kitchen doorway.
She picks up the suitcase.
At the door, she pauses.
My white shirt is folded over the back of a chair.
She looks at it.
Then at me.
“I’ll get the rest later.”
“Whenever you want.”
She nods.
There are probably better things to say.
I have exhausted my prepared answers.
Claire opens the door.
I follow her outside because the driver is at the gate and because not walking five meters with her would be stranger than walking them.
At the gate, she stops.
“Matteo.”
“Yes.”
“Do not come after me.”
“I won’t.”
She studies my face, checking.
I understand.
I wish I didn’t.
Claire goes through the gate.
The driver takes the suitcase from her. She keeps both camera bags herself.
Of course she does.
I stay where I am.
The car is parked above the bend, mostly hidden by the stone wall. I hear the trunk close. A door shuts.
Then the engine starts.
I do not move until I cannot hear it anymore.
Casa Ginestra is quiet behind me.
I go inside once because the front door is still open.
Her mug is on the kitchen table.
The white shirt is still over the chair.
A black hair tie is beside the sink.
I close the window above the counter because the afternoon wind is starting to lift the papers near her laptop.
Then I stop.
The papers are not mine to organize.
I leave them exactly where they are.
I lock the door and put the key back where Claire showed me weeks ago in case she ever forgot hers.
Then I walk home.
The path between the houses takes less than two minutes.
There is no music coming from Ginestra.
I notice that before I reach my own gate.
At my house, one of Claire’s hair ties is still beside the bathroom sink. I pick it up automatically, then put it back exactly where it was.
Nobody stops me.
Nobody asks where Claire is.
At four eleven, I return to the terrace outside my house.
The second espresso from this morning is still on the table.
Untouched.
The water beside it has gone warm.
I sit down.