Roman Crazy (5 page)

“It's just not something I do much of anymore.”

“Not much of?”

“Or at all.”

“But you loved to sketch, you loved to paint. How many hours did you used to spend in the art building at BC? You practically lived in that studio.”

“Yeah, well, Boston College was a long time ago; maybe I just fell out of love with it.” I could hear how thin my excuses were, so thin they were nearly transparent.

Based on the way she was shaking her head, she wasn't buying it, either. “Huh-uh, no way. You don't just fall out of love with it.”

“People fall out of love with things all the time, Daisy. I think me being here is a perfect example of how true that can be.”

I could feel tears beginning to build. Jesus this was hard to talk about. Blinking them back, I rubbed the invisible ache in my chest.

“I'm not trying to minimize Daniel here, but I'm actually more concerned about the fact that you're not sketching anymore than I am about you divorcing your husband.”

“What do you want me to tell you?” I snapped. “That somewhere, yesterday or years ago, I set aside some of my own great stuff to focus on Daniel's great stuff. Like how getting him through law school trumped me going to grad school. That being
an understanding wife when he started at the firm and had to work seventy hours a week meant that there wasn't time for me to go back to the gallery. Creating a beautiful home for us took precedent. Managing every single one of the countless bullshit details that it took to keep our lives running smoothly so that he could go and be a bigshot lawyer and I could make sure that the gardener wasn't cheating us on the price of fertilizer!”

I was yelling. I was yelling at my best friend in the middle of a crowded street in Rome just because she had the audacity to ask me about something that at one point in my life was the very definition of who I was and who I would become.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

She held up her hand. “Don't apologize.” She linked her arm through mine.

“But I yelled at you,” I sniffed, wiping away frustrated tears with the back of my hand.

“Yes you did.” She laughed lightly. “You want to sketch while you're here, sketch. You want to just wander around and enjoy? Do that, too. Do whatever you want while you're here, Avery, I mean that. And don't worry about stuff like fertilizer anymore,
capisce
?”

“
Capisci,
” I said, nodding.

“Good, that's settled,” she said. “Now come on,
Fodors
, the restaurant, is this way. Unless you want to yell at me some more.”

“Oh just take me to dinner,” I said, squeezing her arm, grateful to be here and with someone who actually cared about me and what
I
might want for a change. And right now, I really did want dinner.

We took off again into the crowded streets, our arms still linked as we threaded through everyone else out and about on this gorgeous night.

We finally stopped when we came upon a gentleman sitting on a step in front of a café strumming a guitar. Daisy greeted him by name. It was such a quintessential European moment: random older man, guitar, café. I half expected Robert DeNiro to slide alongside of me and throw his arm over my shoulder. With a kiss on both cheeks, she said, “
Ciao,
Bruno, this is Avery, my friend from America I told you about.” She waved her hand for me to join her.

The café owner was older, tufts of white wispy hair sticking out from all over his head and kind eyes that sparkled gold in the streetlamp. His gray shirt was smattered with crumbs from the bread he had just bitten into. “
Buona sera
,” he said, pulling me in for a few kisses and an extralong hug.

“I bet everyone is here already,” Daisy said excitedly, walking through the street seating and into the restaurant.

Begging off from the owner, I joined her breezing through the inside, past the dining guests, clanking plates, and busy servers and out the back door to a courtyard that opened up to the star-filled sky, endless and breathtaking.

Maybe it was Daisy's comments from earlier, or maybe it was that phantom limb feeling happening again, but my hand flexed and I wanted to drop into a chair and sketch right away. No landscape, hell, no
anything
had hit me with such urgency like that in years. Daisy was right, I needed to find a store for materials. I made a deal with myself then and there that I would find one and buy supplies. Even if it was just a handful of pastels and a notebook and I didn't use them. I would at least have them.

Walking to the outer wall, I slid my fingers down the rough, peachy exterior. Smudges of chalky residue dusted over my fingertips.

Oh yeah, I would totally use them.

Ivy climbed the light colored brick walls and disappeared over the edge. Thick bunches of vibrant purple bougainvillea danced over the opposite wall. But it was the stars twinkling above that mixed with the fat, clear round bulbs of fairy lights that drew my eyes to the table full of people.

They were rowdy, so electric in their chattering that they didn't even realize we approached. As a way to announce our presence, Daisy plucked a glass of red wine from someone's hand. She drained it in a few gulps and laughed.

The table roared along with her. I hung back a bit while she was enveloped in hugs and pecks on the cheek from her friends. These were people she worked with every day and yet they cheered and loved up on her as if they hadn't seen her in years. The last dinner that I went to at the club, we had air kisses and handshakes. I couldn't remember the last time I hugged a friend in Boston.

“This is Tommaso,” she said, pulling me by the hand to a raven-haired man about my height, “and this is my friend Avery.”

“He's a massive flirt,” Daisy explained, pinching his cheek. “He'll be half in love with you by the end of dinner.”

He nodded in agreement.

“This is Sandeep, Iris, and Lewa. Architect, architect, engineer. Wicked smart, all of them.” I loved that her Boston accent still poked through even in the heart of Italy. “They're working on a project with me since, gosh, what, January?”

She bounced through each person at the table with a cheeky anecdote for each.
These two are horizontally involved, this one is dealing with a very long-distance relationship with an astrophysicist in Alaska.
It was a veritable United Nations, each the top of the fields from all over the world. My mind was spinning trying to remember each person, where they were from originally, how
long they'd be in Rome before winging off to another job site. An image flashed through me in that instant, an image of me sitting at this table, but not as a guest. As a part of whatever fabulous global life these people were living, full of excitement and opportunity and ability to go anywhere, do anything that they'd worked their asses off to get. If my life hadn't veered off course, could I have a seat at this table? Or some other equally awesome table? Where would I be? Maybe London? Maybe Paris? Even if it was still Boston, I would have done
something.

We circled the table and each person stood, introducing themselves and welcoming me to Rome. I listened intently, focusing on each of their names, their jobs, answering their questions as best I could about how long I'd be in town, what I planned to do while I was here. Head spinning, I let Daisy pull me toward the end of the table.

“Come on, we're down here,” she said, gesturing to the empty seats near a couple at the end, wrapped around each other and totally oblivious to anything else.

I draped my purse on the back of my chair and Daisy sat next to the guy, poking him playfully in the ribs.

“Hey, mind coming up for air a sec?” She laughed, hitching a thumb at the couple.

Pulling out the chair, I began to sit when the man turned.

It was one of those slow-motion movie moments.

“Marcello,” I gasped, eyes locked with his, realization dawning on his face as I sank down onto the chair.

And totally missed.

M
ILESTONE EVENTS IN YOUR LIFE
are linked with certain emotions. Some are so strong and powerful that you're almost transported back to that particular period in time.

Glee: my first art lesson at four. Even at such a young age, I got a rush of giddy anticipation when I picked up that beautifully sharpened pencil.

Embarrassment: at my ballet recital when I was eight, I grand jeté'd right into the piano. I can't hear the “Waltz of the Snowflakes” without breaking out in hives.

Uncertainty: the moment I took that first step onto Boston College campus as a freshman, the beginning of the semiadult part of my life.

Lust, hope, elation . . . love: my senior year at BC when I studied in Barcelona, Spain, and met Marcello Bianchi, architectural master's candidate and beautiful Italian man. He was also studying abroad and I was immediately smitten. We had a very clandestine, very lust-hope-elation-filled affair that no one else ever knew about.

I hadn't seen him since I was twenty-one. There was always
the tiniest nugget of hope that maybe someday, somehow, we'd cross paths. And in my optimistic daydreams, I never imagined that our unexpected reunion included me being on my ass on the floor in the middle of a dinner party.

Twenty pairs of eyes were looking down at me.

As I gazed up into those twenty pairs of eyes, some of their owners were stifling laughter; others were wondering how to help me up.

I looked down. My dress had hiked up to midthigh and the thin strap at my shoulder slid down. I should've moved. Rolled over. Covered up with the checkered linen napkin. Anything to lessen the embarrassment that I should be feeling.

Instead of mortification, I was focused on a pair of wide, equally shocked Italian eyes peering over the table. Eyes that I'd recognize anywhere, and they were staring down at me. Forty percent stunned, 10 percent curious, and a whole lotta angry.

He had every right to be angry, considering how we left things after Barcelona.

Even though he was clearly irked, Marcello's eyes were still the clearest, richest brown. Something akin to cognac—fitting because they always made me feel love drunk. They were usually the kind that glimmered with mischief. You couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking with each twinkle. Spots of black and flecks of gold like a fawn, and his lashes were so long and black that they looked lined in coal.

I'd painted them a hundred, maybe a thousand times while we were together. Our little bubble was my go-to for happy memories over the years since we'd parted. I treated my experiences with him in Spain like a library book. We knew from the beginning that we were on borrowed time, but for those four months I was the real me. He let me fly.

What were the chances that he would be here?

Thinking about it logically, it made sense. Daisy was constantly surrounded by the top in her field. Even then, he—

“Are you okay?” Daisy finally asked, breaking through my shellshock as she threaded her arms under mine, tugging me to my feet.

I blinked, shaking my head and breaking the eye contact with Marcello. I stood, rubbing my sore rear and brushing myself off.

My heart thundered in my ears. A wave of light-headedness mixed with nausea. The entirety of the table fell out of focus, except for him. He was crystal clear. It was my mind's way of making sure what my heart already knew. That he really was here and, judging by the look on his face, furious.

Time apparently doesn't heal all wounds when it comes to proud Italian men.

One of Daisy's friends held the chair and guided me into it—without incident this time. Thanking him, I fidgeted in my seat. I couldn't look at Marcello, but I couldn't
not
look at him, either. If nothing else, I was hoping to see some sliver of the boy I knew. Loved. Not an angry man who was facing the woman who took off, never to be heard from again.

His natural olive tone had paled. He drained his wineglass, his eyes holding mine over the rim of the glass. I watched his throat as he swallowed. The unshaven Adam's apple bobbed with each gulp.

In rapid-fire Italian he shouted to the server over the chatter of our table. The waiter appeared with a new bottle of red and a glass that he placed in front of me.

“Simone?” He held up the bottle of wine.

Simone.
Even her name was pretty. Her hair was wild and black, and full of windswept curls. Gorgeous green eyes peered
over her empty glass, completely focused on him. They made a stunning pair.

Marcello loved his wine. I remembered that. Looking to him, I tipped my head to the side in question. Ignoring it, he turned his head back to his beautiful guest.

So it was like that. I nodded as much to myself as to him, still numb, still staring, still unable to tear my eyes away from my ghost.

Marcello gripped the wine bottle. His large hand surrounded the bottle as he lifted it to his mouth. He pulled the cork out with his teeth. Like Eastwood with a cigar, he held it between them and smirked. Just for me. The smirk and all it led to I remembered
fondly.
My skin heated as I remembered him wanting a reversal of fortune one night. I had sketched him dozens of times, but that night
he
wanted to paint
me
with a bottle of the strongest red wine I'd ever sampled. Three glasses later he had gotten his wish.