31. Claire
CLAIRE
The uneven chair rocks under my hand.
Matteo looks at the uneven leg.
Then he looks at me.
I wait.
He does nothing.
I sit down.
“That has to be hurting you.”
“More than I expected.”
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
My espresso is already beside the chair, double, with water next to it. His coffee sits across from mine.
The rest of the table is empty.
He has resisted peaches, flowers, and the temptation to put my paperback somewhere strategic.
I wrap both hands around the cup.
“You showed remarkable restraint.”
“I considered peaches.”
“I knew it.”
“Briefly.”
“How briefly?”
He takes a drink of coffee.
“That is private.”
I laugh before I mean to.
Matteo’s mouth moves.
For a second, neither of us knows what to do with the fact that I laughed.
The awkwardness stays.
Good.
I did not come here because the last four days magically made everything simple.
I came because four days ago I asked Matteo to leave and he left.
Then he stayed gone.
This morning I woke before my alarm, stared at the ceiling of the room in Ravello for eleven minutes, and realized I wanted coffee with him more than I wanted another day of deciding what wanting coffee might mean.
So here I am, drinking the coffee I asked for.
Matteo puts his cup down.
“How did you sleep?”
“Badly.”
“Me too.”
“That feels petty enough to help.”
“I am pleased.”
I look at him over the rim of the espresso.
“Do not be too pleased.”
“I will regulate it.”
“Terrifying sentence.”
There is the almost-smile again.
The silence that follows is familiar, but not easy yet.
I used to know how to sit here without thinking about my hands. Now I am aware of everything. The cup. My sandal against the stone. The camera strap crossing the chair beside me. Matteo’s forearm on the table.
He does not reach for me.
Relief gets there first.
Disappointment follows, which is irritating.
Excellent start.
I drink my coffee.
Matteo waits.
“You said no agenda,” he says eventually.
“I did.”
“I am honoring that.”
“You are sitting like a man who has swallowed an agenda whole.”
His eyes narrow.
“I do not know what that means.”
“Neither do I, but look at you.”
He looks down at himself.
White shirt, dark trousers, bare feet.
“You object to the shirt?”
“I object to the posture.”
“I am sitting.”
“Very intentionally.”
“That is usually how chairs work.”
The old rhythm arrives so easily that I have to look at my cup.
I put my cup down.
“Okay.”
Matteo’s expression settles.
I take a breath.
“If we try this again, I am still going to Japan.”
“Yes.”
“I am going to take assignments after Japan.”
“Yes.”
“Some of them will be inconvenient.”
“Yes.”
“Some of them will be in places where you are not.”
His hand closes around his coffee.
“I am aware of geography.”
“Do not get sarcastic now.”
“I am trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
He nods.
I look toward the low wall. The sea is there, bright and impossible, but I am more interested in a dried coffee ring near Matteo’s elbow.
He missed a spot wiping the table.
I do not tell him.
“This cannot become a relationship where your calendar is the real calendar and mine is the thing we fit around it.”
“It will not.”
I look at him.
Matteo catches himself.
“I do not want it to,” he corrects. “If it starts feeling that way, tell me.”
“Better.”
“Painful.”
“You will survive.”
“Probably.”
“And when I am away, I do not want a driver I did not ask for, or somebody at a hotel mysteriously knowing what room I prefer because Bellandi has opinions.”
“I have many opinions about hotel rooms.”
“I know.”
“Some are correct.”
“Most are exhausting.”
His mouth twitches.
“I can offer,” he says. “You can say no.”
“And if I say no?”
“I dislike it privately.”
“That is not the whole answer.”
“No. I leave it alone.”
I study him.
“What if you think I am making my life harder?”
“I ask once.”
“Once?”
“Possibly twice if the first answer is obviously sarcastic.”
I point at him.
“That is already mission creep.”
“Once.”
“Good.”
He lifts his coffee.
“What happens when you want to be alone?” he asks.
The question catches me because he asks it before I do.
“I tell you.”
“And I leave?”
“If I ask you to.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Yes.”
I swallow.
“And if I am just tired and mean?”
“That is more complicated.”
“Welcome to romance.”
“I was promised a list.”
I stare at him.
For one terrible second, I think the joke is going to hurt.
Then Matteo’s face changes.
“Sorry.”
I look at my cup.
He does not explain.
I let the sting pass through.
“That was almost funny.”
“Almost is generous.”
“Do not use it again for at least six months.”
“Agreed.”
The failed joke gets closer to making me cry than anything polished could have, which feels deeply unfair.
I take another drink instead.
“What about your work?” I ask.
“What about it?”
“You disappear into Milan calls. Openings move. Contractors suddenly become emergencies. You cannot promise you will always be available either.”
“No.”
“Good.”
His eyebrows lift.
“I was expecting more resistance.”
“I do not want you promising me impossible things because they sound romantic at six in the morning.”
“It is six forty-eight.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
The word comes fast.
I set my cup down too quickly.
Matteo looks at the cup in his hands.
Then back at me.
“I can tell you when work is going to consume me instead of pretending I can fit everything,” he says. “And if I miss something important, you get to be angry without me turning the anger into a scheduling failure.”
I turn the cup by its handle.
“That one sounded rehearsed.”
“It was not.”
“You hate that.”
“Yes.”
I smile.
This time he smiles too, small and careful.
“What about time zones?”
“I assume they will be terrible.”
“That is not a strategy.”
“No.”
“What happens when we get it wrong from opposite sides of the world?”
Matteo looks at his coffee. “I do not know.”
That catches me.
“And when you do not know?”
“I ask.”
“What about privacy?” I ask.
“Yours?”
“Ours. Mine. My work. Everything.”
“We decide together what is public.”
“And if an article is wrong?”
“I ask what you want before I do anything.”
“Even if you can fix it?”
His mouth flattens.
“Yes.”
“You hated that answer.”
“I hate inaccurate things.”
“I know.”
He looks at me for another second.
“I can hate something and still leave it alone.”
I let that sit for a second.
A breeze catches the corner of a napkin somebody left on the low wall. It slides across the stone and drops to the floor.
Matteo’s eyes follow it.
Mine do too.
Neither of us moves.
I start laughing.
He looks at me.
“What?”
“The napkin.”
“I saw it.”
“You are leaving it there.”
“For now.”
“Growth.”
“Do not ruin this.”
I laugh harder.
Matteo finally bends, picks up the napkin, and puts it on the table.
“Thank God,” I say. “I was starting to worry you had been replaced.”
“I lasted seven seconds.”
“Personal record.”
He shakes his head.
The laughter fades, and suddenly there is nothing left to hide behind.
I turn my cup once on the table.
I have used up the practical questions.
He waits anyway.
I look at his hands.
The same hands folded the gallery flyer under a crooked table leg after asking permission and let go of the chair when I told him to leave.
“I am still angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I might be angry about this again next week.”
“All right.”
“I do not want you to act surprised if I am.”
“I will try not to.”
“Try?”
“I may be surprised. I will not tell you you are wrong for being angry.”
That is annoyingly fair.
I pull one knee up under the table.
“I believe you.”
Matteo’s fingers stop against his cup.
I keep going before I lose my nerve.
“I believe you when you say the list stopped being the reason.”
He does not interrupt.
“I believe you loved me before you knew what to do with it.”
His eyes close once.
“And I believe what you did still hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“I do not want to pretend it didn’t.”
“I do not want you to.”
I stare at the little water glass beside my espresso.
“I forgive you.”
Matteo’s eyes lift to mine.
“Claire.”
“Do not make me improve the wording.”
“I would not dare.”
“It does not mean I am finished being angry.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Then I look at him.
“I want to try.”
For once, I cannot read his face fast enough.
“I want a real relationship,” I say. “Not a reset. Not the summer before I found the note. This version. The one where I know you can be an idiot.”
“I can provide evidence.”
“That is not helping.”
“Sorry.”
I smile despite myself.
“I want you, Matteo.”
His hand tightens around the edge of the table.
“I love you.”
The words feel enormous.
Then they feel like mine.
Matteo’s face loses every bit of practiced composure.
He is sitting perfectly still and somehow looks wrecked.
“Say something.”
“I am trying to avoid saying twelve things.”
“Pick one.”
“I love you.”
My eyes burn.
“Good choice.”
His laugh breaks in the middle.
Then he asks, “May I kiss you?”
Then he waits.
Really waits, until I answer.
“Yes.”
Matteo stands so quickly the chair catches on the stone.
The wobbling leg finally loses the argument and the chair tips sideways.
I laugh against his mouth.
He laughs too, one hand catching my waist, the other grabbing the chair before it hits the floor.
“This is very romantic,” I whisper.
“I am aware.”
“You ruined the moment.”
“You are laughing.”
“So are you.”
“Come here.”
“I am already here.”
He kisses me again.
The kiss is tender at first, almost cautious.
I put both hands in his shirt and pull him closer.
The caution lasts maybe three seconds.
Relief changes the kiss, and then hunger does.
Weeks of knowing his mouth, days of missing it, one terrible conversation, one quiet goodbye, and this morning where I came back because I wanted to.
His fingers slide into my hair.
I kiss him harder.
Matteo makes a sound against my mouth that I feel everywhere.
“Inside,” I say.
He pulls back enough to look at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Claire.”
“I chose the coffee. I chose the conversation. I am choosing this too.”
His forehead touches mine.
“Okay.”
I tug his shirt.
“Also, if you ask me whether I am sure every six feet, this is going to take forever.”
A laugh leaves him.
“Understood.”