2. Senna
— ? —
Senna
For a long moment, I can’t speak. The name hangs in the air between us like smoke, like something toxic that’s going to poison everything it touches.
“My sister,” I say slowly. “The label hired my sister.”
“They suggested her. She’s been doing well with that production work, and they thought-”
“They thought what, exactly? That bringing in the woman who’s competed with me for everything since we were children would somehow be helpful?”
“Senna, this isn’t about you and Fiorella. This is about my career.”
“Everything is about me and Fiorella. That’s the whole point of Fiorella.” I’m pacing now, moving around the kitchen because if I stand still I might actually scream. “She spent our entire childhood trying to take anything that was mine. My friends, my boyfriends, my parents’ attention-”
“That was years ago. You’re adults now.”
“Being adults doesn’t erase history, Rocco. It just gives it more sophisticated weapons.”
He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I know you two have issues. But she’s good at what she does. The label wouldn’t have recommended her otherwise.”
“The label doesn’t know about our issues. The label doesn’t know that she looked at you the first time I brought you home like you were a piece of property she was calculating how to acquire.”
“That’s - you’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? Am I really?” I stop pacing and face him directly. “Tell me you didn’t notice. Tell me you didn’t see the way she watched you at our wedding, the way she found excuses to touch you at every family dinner-”
“She’s friendly. That’s just how she is.”
“She’s strategic. Everything Fiorella does is calculated. If she’s coming here to work with you, it’s because she wants something, and I guarantee it’s not just a production credit.”
“Maybe she wants to help her brother-in-law. Did you consider that?”
“No, because that’s not who she is. You don’t know her like I do.”
“Then help me understand.” He moves closer, and his voice softens. “Tell me what I’m missing. Tell me why this is such a big deal.”
I take a breath, trying to organize the tangle of resentment and fear that’s been sitting in my chest since he said her name.
“When we were kids, our parents used to compare us constantly. Senna has natural talent, Fiorella has work ethic. Senna is gifted, Fiorella is determined. It was like we weren’t even people - we were just two sides of an equation they were always trying to balance. ”
“That sounds awful.”
“It was. And Fiorella decided early on that the only way to win was to take whatever I had. If I got a solo in choir, she’d practice until she could sing it better. If I had a best friend, she’d find a way to become closer to them. If I brought home a boyfriend-”
“She went after your boyfriends?”
“She went after everything. It wasn’t even about wanting the things - it was about proving she could have them. That anything I had, she could take.”
Rocco is quiet for a moment. “And you think she’s going to try that with me?”
“I think she’s going to try something. I just don’t know what yet.”
“Senna.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it, even though part of me wants to pull away. “I married you. Seven years ago, I chose you. Some collaboration with your sister isn’t going to change that.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it then, too. And every day in between.” He squeezes my hand. “I love you. Whatever else is broken right now, that isn’t.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly. But I’ve watched him slip away from me for eighteen months, watched the distance grow between us until we’re barely more than roommates who share a bed, and I don’t know if love is enough anymore. I don’t know if it ever was.
“When does she start?” I ask.
“She’s flying in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” I pull my hand away. “You couldn’t have given me more warning?”
“I just found out today. The label moved fast.”
“The label always moves fast when it’s something that benefits them.
” I turn away, staring out the kitchen window at the Florence rooftops that used to feel like home.
“Fine. She can come. But I want you to remember this conversation, Rocco. When things get complicated - and they will get complicated - I want you to remember that I told you so.”
“Noted.” There’s a hint of frustration in his voice now. “Is there anything else you want to accuse me of before dinner?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to protect you.”
“From your sister?”
“From yourself. You’re vulnerable right now. You’re desperate. And Fiorella has a gift for exploiting vulnerability and desperation.”
“She’s a music producer, not a con artist.”
“In my experience, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
He laughs, despite himself. “God, you really do hate her.”
“I don’t hate her. I just know her. There’s a difference.”
“Okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’ll be careful. I’ll keep my guard up. I’ll watch for signs of nefarious sister behavior. Will that satisfy you?”
“It’s a start.”
“Good. Now can we please eat something? I’ve been running on cold espresso and anxiety all day.”
I almost smile. Almost. “There’s leftover pasta in the refrigerator.”
“Perfect. I’ll heat it up. You want some?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat anyway. You always forget to eat when you’re stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“Senna, you’ve been pacing around the kitchen like a caged animal for the last ten minutes. You’re stressed.”
“Fine. I’m stressed. Can you blame me?”
“No.” He opens the refrigerator and pulls out the container of pasta. “I can’t blame you for anything. That’s part of the problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re always right. About everything. And I’m always the one who’s wrong, who’s broken, who needs to be fixed.” He sets the container on the counter with more force than necessary. “Do you know how exhausting that is? Being married to someone who’s never the problem?”
“I never said I wasn’t the problem.”
“You never said you were, either. When’s the last time you apologized for anything, Senna? When’s the last time you admitted you might have handled something badly?”
“I apologize all the time.”
“For small things. For accidents. Never for the big stuff. Never for the ways you’ve pulled away from me too.”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it, truth I don’t want to examine too closely. “This isn’t about me.”
“It’s always about you. That’s what I’m trying to say. Even when it’s about me, about my career, about my struggles - somehow it becomes about how those things affect you. Your feelings, your fears, your history with your sister.”
“Because those things are connected. Because your choices affect me too.”
“I know they do. But sometimes I need you to just-” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“No. Say it.”
“I need you to let me fail, Senna. I need you to let me make mistakes without immediately jumping to how those mistakes are going to hurt you. I need to feel like I have room to be human.”
“You have room to be human. I’ve given you nothing but room for eighteen months.”
“You’ve given me space. That’s different. Space is you retreating, pulling back, waiting for me to come to you. Room is you staying close and letting me stumble anyway.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know if he’s right or if he’s just deflecting, turning this conversation around so he doesn’t have to deal with the Fiorella problem.
Both, probably. We’re both good at that - using conflict to hide from other conflict, arguing about one thing when we mean another.
“The pasta’s getting cold,” I say finally.
“It was already cold. That’s why I’m heating it up.”
“Right.” I move to the cabinet and pull out two plates. “I’ll set the table.”
“Senna.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. For what I said earlier - about you waiting for me to fail. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you’re doing that thing where you say you know but your voice says you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you meant to apologize. I just don’t know if you were wrong.”
“I was wrong. You’re not waiting for me to fail. You’re scared that I will, and that’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. Fear is about love. Waiting is about - I don’t know. Giving up, maybe.”
“I haven’t given up on you.”
“I know.” He puts the pasta in the microwave and turns to face me. “I haven’t given up on us either. Even when it feels like I have. Even when I’m distant and distracted and impossible to reach - I’m still trying, Senna. I’m still fighting for this.”
“Then let me fight with you. Instead of bringing in my sister, let me help with the block.”
“You’re not in the industry anymore. You haven’t been for years.”
“I still know music. I was writing songs before you ever knew my name.”
“I know you were. I’ve seen your old songbook on the piano bench - the one with the torn corner. I noticed you kept it there, all those melodies crammed into the margins.”
“You never mentioned that before.”
“I didn’t want to pry. But I wondered sometimes. Why you stopped. Why you never played any of it for me.”
“Because it wasn’t relevant anymore. I made a choice to support your career instead of building my own.”
“Did you ever regret that choice?”
I think about the question, and a memory surfaces unbidden - Fiorella at Christmas dinner three years ago, drunk on prosecco, telling everyone within earshot that I’d “wasted” my voice on a man who would never appreciate it.
My mother had laughed nervously and changed the subject.
My father had said Fiorella didn’t mean it, she was just tired, she worked so hard and sometimes the jealousy got the better of her.
Nobody asked if she was right. Nobody asked if it hurt.
That’s always been the pattern with Fiorella. She wounds, and the family excuses. She takes, and I’m expected to share gracefully.
The question catches me off guard. “Sometimes,” I admit. “Late at night, when you’re asleep and I’m staring at the ceiling, I wonder what would have happened if I’d said yes to the opera program. If I’d pursued my own music instead of becoming-”
“Becoming what?”
“Your muse. Your manager. Your wife.”
“You say that like those things are prisons.”
“They’re not prisons. They’re just - they’re all defined by you. By who I am in relation to you. Sometimes I forget who I am on my own.”
The microwave beeps. Neither of us moves.
“Let me help you,” I say again. “With the music. We used to do this together, before everything got complicated. Maybe going back to basics is what you need.”
Rocco looks at me for a long moment, and I see something shift in his eyes - hope, maybe, or the ghost of it.
Then he shakes his head. “That’s sweet of you to offer. But Fiorella has a system. She knows what the label wants. It wouldn’t make sense to complicate things.”
“Complicate things.”
“You know what I mean. You’re not really in this world anymore.” He shrugs. “I appreciate the offer. I do. But I think it’s better if we let the professionals handle it.”