Page 39 of I Think Olive You

Breathe. Fucking breathe.

Black and white dots dance across my vision. My hand wraps around my phone, turning on the first song I can find to cover the sound. Resting it beside the ring, I close myself into the space and let the panic overtake me.

I manage to turn the faucet, water sputtering on from the showerhead. Cold pelts me as I step into the shower. My shallow breaths morph into gasps I shove my fist against to quiet.

Drowning.

It’s been weeks—fucking weeks since I’ve felt like this. It’s wretched. Somehow this is worse for having that break and now being shoved back into my skin after freedom. My shoulders hit the small tiles of the shower wall, slick with water, and my knees give in. Sliding down, the wall slows my descent enough to prevent me from straight up falling.

The water’s turned, scalding my flesh. It’s blistering in its intensity and I know when I step out my skin will be pink. But I don’t care. I can’t keep going like this. What does it matter? What does the inheritance and the grove and New York matter when it’s me that’s the problem? No matter where I am or what I call myself, I can’t escape it. The least I can do is not pull her down with me.

Tears mix with water as I struggle to breathe air that’s too heavy to take in—as I try not to throw up. I lean my head onto my knees and sob. What the fuck am I even doing at this point? And why does it hurt so much?

Steam billows throughout the bathroom. My body is sensitive and red by the time I haul myself to my feet and scrub the guilt from my skin. If Giuliana asks why it’s taking so long, I’ll play into vanity or something. Anything to avoid admitting how fucked up I feel.

Somewhere between the nausea clearing and my chest aching with a full breath, I decide. My life in New York isn’t one I’ve missed so far. The money… fuck, I’ll hate going without the money, but it hasn’t done shit for the way I’m feeling. What good are riches when I’m on the verge of losing myself? Kelsey and my old life flooding in tipped me over the edge again and I’m not so sure I’ll be able to pull myself back next time. The closest I’ve come to joy is hot days in the sun and Giuliana’s warm voice covering me like molten honey as we work side by side. That’s got to count for something.

When I emerge—towel slung low on my hips, droplets drying on my chest—she’s frowning over her phone screen. I cradle my dirty clothes, phone, and the ring box under one arm. Giuliana glances up, concentration melting into a glazed look to her eyes and her lips part. Her cheeks pinken but she catches herself, gaze dropping back to her phone. So beautiful. Nothing but trouble. Still, it does wonders for my mood knowing I’ve affected her.

“Your turn.” I smile, shaking off the last remnants of my panic and slip the mask back into place.

Giuliana keeps her eyes averted, grabs the dress and rushes into the bathroom. The click of the door is a weight off my chest. I’ll need all the courage I can muster to get through this charade, better to gather it while she’s not watching. I don a white linen button-up shirt and lightweight slacks. Not necessarily the most formal of attire, but definitely not inappropriate.

Grabbing the journal and a pen from my backpack, I try to purge the last of these ugly feelings before she returns. The box I slipped into my pocket digs into my thigh and reminds me what tonight holds. Probably the last big purchase I’m going to be able to make in a while.

When the door opens again, Giuliana emerges in red fabric that clings and wraps, hugging her curves and setting my soul on fire. My decision is final—the die cast. My casket is measured and made. I might as well let myself enjoy every shred of what I’ve been conflicted about allowing.

“Beautiful.” It’s a rasp of a word, my heart in my throat.

“I didn’t bring any makeup, and all I have are the flats I came in.” She protests, fluffing her freshly dried hair with her hand.

“Beautiful,” I insist and she must see the seriousness counteracting my usual breeziness, because she nods, a blush spreading across her cheeks.

I pack the journal back into the bag, tucking away the lies I’ll leave with, and reach out my hand for her to take.

“Matteo…” She gives me a skeptical look, no doubt thinking about keeping things professional.

“Look, it’s for show, okay? Why not let yourself forget about work and pressure, and keeping our distance? Have fun. There are two beds in here, no need for us to worry. When we come back tonight, we stick to our sides. I know my place. Out there we have to keep up appearances. So just for tonight, let me dote on you and call you beautiful, and watch that dress twirl while we dance.”

“Fine, okay.” Her breath leaves her chest in a huff and she slips her hand into mine.

We walk down the stairs and cross the lobby. Every second of her skin touching mine leaves a flutter in my stomach and a giddiness that seems ridiculous.

“Where do we…” she starts, the rows of chairs divided.

“Bride’s side, I guess. She’s the one who invited us to join.”

And I hope to god it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass. Guests file in, chatter lively and eventually so cacophonous I can hardly stand it. I’m ready to cover my ears or leave the room when Giuliana takes my hand from where it rests on my bouncing knee.

She’s absorbing the stunning view of the grove up ahead and people watching. But even so she takes the time to squeeze my hand. It’s innocuous. It’s a familiarity, an intimacy I’ve never experienced. Although this isn’t the messy, gut-churning feeling from earlier, it’s still not the unbothered person I present to the world. For her to notice, for her to take the time to soothe…

Fuck.

I focus on that—on the feel of her touch cutting off the rest of the world. I’m so captivated I don’t realize the bride’s shown up until Giuliana tugs me to my feet. She cranes her neck—closer to the aisle than I am—trying to catch a glimpse of our benevolent bride. My eyes are only on Giuliana. I soak up the smile cutting into her cheeks and her breathless wonder at the ceremony.

There’s a mix of Italian and English, so Giuliana gets to enjoy both parts. The crowd laughs at certain points but I barely notice. Giuliana tears up during the ceremony, eyes a sheen of moisture. Looking up at me, she gives me a watery smile. This time it’s my turn to squeeze her hand and one of those droplets falls. I steal it with the back of my finger, catching the warm salt on my skin.

The newly-wedded pair share a passionate kiss and the crowd erupts in cheers and laughs. I join in with the clapping and shuffle out with the rest, a cone of rice thrust into my hand to toss at the happy couple as they walk through the wall of windows into the grove. As Kelsey passes us, she gives me a wink and a bright smile and I pray that Giuliana misses it.

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