Page 95 of All at Once

He nods. “Yeah. The whole thing got me thinkingwheredid it all go wrong? I know you can’t compare the start of a relationship to two years in, but why such a drastic change? For example, small gestures that I’d do for her at the beginning were the same ones that in the end she stopped caring for, or even noticing.”

Sadly I know exactly what he’s referring to. Feeling underappreciated. Taken for granted. Yet expected to continue impressing those around you.

“That’s pretty scary honestly,” I add to his point. “I’ve always wondered how people stay together for years. Of course I want that, but how does it genuinely work?”

His eyes grow wistful. “I want that too. I think I grew up wanting it more than anything since I remember seeing my parents always in love. That’s where my unrealistic expectations for romance came from. They were married for twenty years, and up until my dad passed away, they acted like they had just met each other.”

“Luca, that’s beautiful,” I say, my eyes starting to sting at the reminder that I’ve had a completely different reference point for love from my parents.

His lips curve, but in almost a bittersweet way. “It made me want what they had so bad to the point where I think I put so much pressure on myself to be worthy enough to find the sort of unconditional love that they had. And then watching my mom go through her day to day alone afterward made me realize how dependent I also was on my dad’s presence. I was so lost.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “That sounds really painful.”

“That’s where what I said earlier comes in.” His brows crease. “I felt ashamed for being in pain when my parents were such a positive force in my life.”

“You put their relationship on a pedestal?” I ask.

“I put myself on a pedestal that they never asked me to be on,” he explains. “I thought I had to be perfect to have what they had. Which was obviously wrong.”

“Meeting people’s expectations of you and balancing it with your own is so exhausting,”I offer.

“Tell me about it.” He sighs. “After the initial hurt of the breakup wore off, it helped me really think everything through again. I realized that maybe I tried to make us compatible when we never really were. I loved going on dates. I love doing romantic things. I don’t think I wanted to admit to myself that she really didn’t enjoy these things the way I did. Instead of taking it for what it was and walking away earlier, I tried to cater to what she wanted, and even though it wasn’t what I wanted I think I convinced myself that it was normal for love to feel that way. At least we were together, you know? But at what cost? Not really feeling like you’re being completely yourself? So while I was just angry when she left like that, maybe she felt suffocated the way I did. And maybe she didn’t give a shit. Who knows. Regardless it was for the best.

“If anything, it made me realize that part of why my parents’ relationship worked wasbecausethey were always themselves around each other. They weren’t afraid to show each other their flaws. I knew the things I wanted when I was younger. But the more people you meet that almost dismiss or poke fun at things you like, after a while it’s easy to trick yourself into wanting what others want. It almost makes you forget who you really are. I think it also happened to me in a way, and not just in that relationship.”

“Luca, that’s exactly how I felt, or rather sometimesstillfeel,” I reply. “I think most people feel this way actually. Especially with love. How they’re almost holding out hope for true love and stuff like that, while dealing with all the shit from others saying it doesn’t exist. I think telling yourself it exists is the first step in it actually having a chance of happening.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he agrees with a warm smile. “I’d also like to think that perspective shapes your experiences rather than the other way around.”

“I like that take.” I grin, then remember a question I’ve been wanting to ask him. “Did your breakup also have to do with why you stopped painting?”

He exhales deeply. “My dad was a professional painter, and he taught me how to paint.” Then his eyes fill with a nostalgic sense of wonder, talking about something that seemed to have been so personal to him. Something that he likely hasn’t talked about in ages. “It used to be one of my favorite things to do. To get so lost in whatever piece you’re working on. But after that breakup, I just wanted to change. It was honestly irrational but something in me just got fed up, and it wasn’t just with art. I tried to convince myself that I needed to stop believing in a bunch of things, including the romance that for years Ithoughtexisted.” His eyes leave mine for a moment, focus on the floor, and then look into mine again. “You know those paintings you saw on the floor in my suite?” I nod, before he explains, “Those were painted by my dad.

“When I first arrived at the resort earlier this month, that first night, I couldn’t sleep. I knew it was my dad’s paintings that were bothering me. Looking at them made me feel sick all of a sudden. So I got up and took them down. I felt so frustrated that I couldn’t find what I used to see in them for years. Then I felt ashamed at myself since I knew my dad would be disappointed that I stopped painting for such a stupid reason.”

“Does Enrique know this?” I ask.

“No. No one knows. Just you.” My heart is somehow now lurching in my chest and also fluttering as Luca continues, “If I knew Enrique would be coming over, I’d immediately put them back up. I couldn’t tell him. With everything that he does and all that he has to deal with, I didn’t want him to feel bad for something that was my problem. Letting me stay at the resort and then complaining about any of it, it just felt wrong to even bringup, not to mention the paintings that he’s generously displayed throughout the resort for years, just because I was going through a breakup from a year ago.”

“Luca, I think he’d understand if you told him how you feel. I can tell how much he cares about you. And I don’t think your dad would ever be disappointed in you for processing your feelings. I can’t imagine actuallyanyonebeing disappointed in you.”

“While we’re exaggerating, I’m this close to winning Wimbledon,” he deadpans.

I chuckle. “With my plentiful knowledge of tennis you might as well be.”

“Cutting off things that I loved so much, like painting and music, was such a dumb thing to do in hindsight though,” he says.

My brows crease, remembering the other night. “But you played the guitar at the bonfire?”

“That was the first time I’ve played since last year,” he reveals, looking into my eyes. As if he’s giving me a hint to which I cannot pick up on.

So I just smile nervously. “That explains why it was so out of tune in the beginning.”

He laughs. “I’ll make a note to keep working on that.”

“I’m glad you didn’t stop,” I say. “You’re really talented contrary to what you want to tell me.”

The way his lips curve upwards slowly is more than a thank you. “I guess I’ve learned more recently that being yourself, like the version that no one else could replicate even if they tried, is what’s really important.” His voice softens a bit. “Seeing how much you care about things helped me realize that, and meeting you made me just wish that I realized it sooner.”

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