I wondered what was worse, that he had left it on, or if he had been one of those men who took it off and kept it in the glove compartment or desk drawer when they met their lovers.
Heart heavy and weary, I slid the ring back into its box with a snap. Then into the darkest corner of the furthest edge of my suitcase, which I then tucked behind the bed and out of sight.
Out of sight was one thing. Out of mind was another story.
When I left the relative safety of my bedroom, I walked into a zone where nothing was safe or relative.
It should be against the law for someone who looked like Marcello to be allowed to run free in a city as sexually charged as Rome. He was so very tall, towering in the small entryway. His body filled my entire vision: long, lean lines; sharp, see-everything eyes that were only beginning to show the tiniest hint of time; sinful-looking lips carved into an even line.
“Buongiorno.”
That was the first word he’d spoken directly to me in nine years.
“Marcello,” I replied, and the fist around my heart squeezed a little tighter.
Our eyes locked and a thousand apologies were on my lips. Yet none of them came out. “You look well.”
He huffed and shook his head a little. Taking a step back onto the porch, he said, “I know a place we can talk”—he glanced to Daisy—“privately.”
I nodded, girding myself for, well I didn’t know for what. Marcello was passion personified and the conversation was likely going to be fueled by hurt and anger.
“There is such a big part of me that wants to tag along on this, but I’ll just stay home and organize my sock drawer. Avery, you’ve got my address written down somewhere, right?”
“Address?” I asked, my voice sounding dreamy and stupid even to my own ears. Shaking my head to clear it, I looked away from the Roman in the shrinking hallway and focused my attention on Daisy. “Yes, I have your address. I’ll be fine.”
“If you get lost, just find a cab. You’ve got money, right?” she asked, threading her arm through mine and tugging me away from the gravitational pull that was Marcello.
He turned to her, and with a kindness clearly reserved for anyone but me, he calmed her down. “Daisy, cara, you’ve known me how long? We are just going to talk.”
“I’ve known you for years, Marcello, and through all of those years I’ve adored you as a dear friend. But this is my girl, and for me, she comes first.”
This little Western-style standoff needed no more oxygen, so I waded in to set everyone straight on what exactly was happening here. “This is long overdue,” I whispered, stepping between them.
“I’ve got your address, I’ve got money, and I’ll be home before dinner.”
“Okay, but just make sure that—”
“I love you; good-bye,” I said, giving her a quick hug and joining Marcello by the door.
Sidestepping him, I stood against the railing until he closed the door behind us.
“Well, this is unexpected.” I sighed, rolling my shoulders a bit. And I became aware of my hand on his arm. I didn’t remember putting it there, but there it was. His skin felt warm, and he felt strong. And my hand looked dainty and ladylike resting there. My left hand, which felt lighter than it had in years.
I wanted to stay there all day, admiring how fantastic my hand looked on his skin once more, but instead I wisely started walking down the winding staircase to the front door that opened up to the street, knowing he’d follow. As I reached for the knob, he moved next to me to hold the door open. My shoulder brushed his chest as I walked past him, his scent filling my nose and making me tense up. I held my breath, keeping the air in my lungs until it burned.
We headed down the few front stairs in silence, but not an empty silence. No sir, this silence was filled with unspoken words. It was charged, heavy, a living, breathing thing. The world only heard the sound of our footsteps, one before the other. But what I heard was Is this real, is this happening, am I actually here in Rome, walking casually down the stairs and now the street with Marcello, my Marcello? My Marcello who could make me laugh and cry and gasp and sigh and feel all of the feelings that remind me that I’m a part of this planet and experiencing good wonderful things as I was meant to? But, as quickly as I remembered all the good things, I remembered everything else.
As we walked down the street, our eyes would meet in fleeting glances and I had the chance to admire him once more. To take in the strong hand running nervously through his thick dark curls. To remember what it was like to run my hands through those curls, not because I was nervous but because I desperately needed the anchor.
To watch those eyes light up at the simple sight of a fat yellow cat perched on a windowsill, enjoying a bath in the sun. I’d seen those eyes light up while I performed an impromptu striptease while shopping for bikinis on a lazy Spanish afternoon, caught half in and half out of a dressing room while his hands roamed across my body and his mouth alternated between laughing and kissing.
There was always that little nugget of hope that somehow, someway our paths might cross again and I’d be granted the privilege of seeing this man once more, to remember what I knew so well, what I loved so deeply. It was a hope I could only entertain in fleeting moments and passing thoughts, or they’d make it impossible to stay in my well-crafted life where passion was something I was no longer acquainted with.
But here I was gliding down the cobblestones of Rome only inches away from the man who could have been the love of my entire life, and it was a lesson in pure torture. With a green T-shirt snug across his chest and khaki shorts, he looked every bit the young man I fell in love with. Even knowing that the conversation would be painful, I was still happy to see him again.