Page 93 of My Dark Fairy Tale
“I’m going to miss you so much,” I admitted wetly, clutching at her back. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I know.” Her hand patted between my shoulders a little awkwardly, but she let me cling to her and sighed, relaxing into it. “We will miss you too. I hope you know.”
“I think I do.”
But Raffa still hadn’t said the words I was waiting for.
Not “I love you.”
As strange as it was, I didn’t think we needed that. The phrase was overused in English anyway, and there were so many more beautiful ways to express it in Italian. Many ways Raffa had expressed the sentiment to me already over the last six weeks.
Cerbiatta mia. La mia donna. La mia stella cadente.
My little fawn. My woman. My shooting star.
“And what brings a man like you pleasure?” I’d asked him.
“You,” he’d said simply. “In all your iterations.”
You must remember my definition ofperfect, Vera. Enticing, so vibrant you cannot help but find it beautiful, flaws and all.
Il mio posto felice.
My happy place.
Yes, there were so many other ways to say it and infinite ways tofeelit. In the touch of his reverent hands on my body as if he was Michelangelo awakening David from marble. The way he looked at me, a keen-edged passion as sharp as the tone of Dante writing about his Francesca. How the world seemed to narrow to the two of us, and it was so easy to forget that so much lay between us.
The truth was, we did exist in a bubble. My family did not know him, and aside from the obvious problem of him living in Italy, they would be appalled by the age difference, even though it seemed trivial to me. I did not know his family, and he did not take us to visit Villa Romano even though I kept asking for stories of it when it had been his happy place. I did not tell him about Gemma’s complicated life, and he did not tell me why he thought he was so undeserving of goodness in his life.
It was a defense mechanism, I thought. Keeping the last corners of our souls hidden from one another in hopes the pain wouldn’t be so great when it was all over.
But still, I waited for those three words.
Not “I love you,” but “Will you stay?”
Martina pulled away only to shake my shoulders, clucking her tongue at me in disappointment. “Uffa!You are both blind, standing too close to see each other properly.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’m pretty sure you’re in love with Renzo, and you haven’t done a thing about it. So pot, meet kettle.”
A reluctant smile tugged her mouth. In many ways, she reminded me of Raffa. Both of them used their good looks and sharp wit to draw attention away from their soft spots. They had the typical Italian characteristic of saying what they thought even if it wasn’t very nice or diplomatic, and they both refused to suffer fools.
But Martina was a woman, and therefore she understood me in ways Raffa probably could not.
“You could tell him,” she suggested, moving back to her tomatoes.
Servio came into the kitchen then and hummed under his breath as he checked the beef slow roasting in the oven. When he noticed we were having a heart-to-heart, he covered his ears, then zipped his mouth closed and mimed throwing away the key. I watched him for a moment as he moved to the countertop lined with watermelons we had to cut up after the tomatoes. Apparently, lasagna or pasta with meat sauce, steak, and watermelon were the traditional offerings on San LorenzoDay. They even had a free dinner and party with live music in the city, but Raffa had insisted we host a party. I thought it might have been his way of giving me a going-away party too. A chance to celebrate with all the people I had met in Florence while I still could. Even Signora Verga was coming. My meager guest list was amplified by Raffa’s, Martina’s, Renzo’s, Carmine’s, and Ludo’s friends as well. Servio had told me earlier he was preparing to feed sixty people.
“I’ve thought about it,” I admitted, turning back to Martina. “But I keep telling myself there is no point. So what if I ... care about him? My life is in Michigan.”
“For the last six weeks, your life has been here,” she pointed out dryly. “And as a very entertained spectator, I have to say, it seems to be going very well.”
“Six weeks is still a vacation. We haven’t been living in reality.”
She planted a hand on her hip and leveled me with a look that reminded me of my mother. “Why does it feel like you are reading these issues off cue cards?”
I flushed and shrugged. “I may have made a list. I like to be organized. So sue me.”
“Chi non risica non rosica,” she said. “She who does not risk does not get the rose.”
