Let Me Fall in Love

by A. Constanza

“I will get some,” Emile said, quick to get on his toes and out the door.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered. “It’s feeling all a little too much.” I placed my hand on my head and tried to take a deep breath, but the air felt thick.

  “I’m sorry, but I think I need to go,” I said, sliding out of the bench and rushing out of the cottage.

  I was overwhelmed and had to distance myself. I wanted to try and give Ignacio a second chance, but it almost seemed impossible to do so. The way he looked, the way he smelled, the way he carried himself, every fiber of his being repulsed and attracted me. I could feel my heart tugging in opposite directions.

  It was idiotic of me to even believe that this situation would work. It didn’t matter if Emile was a couple feet away from us, it was Ignacio being barely inches away from me that made the biggest impact. He surely didn’t forget about our night in Paris, but that didn’t help his case. Did he expect me to swoon over him for remembering me? No, if anything, it infuriated me that he remembered that night as clearly as I did but wasn’t left with the aftermath of broken feelings.

  Why did I let him affect me like this?

  I fell hard for him that night in Paris. I didn’t fall in love, but I admired, adored, and liked him. I slept with him. I lost my innocence to him.

  I felt stupid that following morning and felt even stupider now for giving him a second chance and even worse that, despite it all, I didn’t hate him. If anything, my body craved him. It craved comfort from the first man that had broken my trust and heart.

  Stupid, stupid heart.

  FIFTEEN

  Ignacio

  Days passed, and neither Emile nor I had heard from Estella. Emile was beyond confused, wondering what would have caused her to run out of the cottage the way she did. I was the cause, and the guilt continued to spiral inwardly. Maybe recalling those small details about that night in Paris wasn’t the best choice, but I just wanted to show her that she hadn’t left my mind.

  Nonno wanted answers, but he wasn’t a confrontational person and left her a voicemail stating that he was willing to talk to her whenever she was ready. I, however, decided to take matters into my own hands and visit the café. She had every right to hate me, to not want to talk to me, or wish me dead, but all I wanted to do was relieve her of all the hurt.

  I entered the café and placed my wet umbrella in the designated spot.

  Salem’s smile had been wiped clean as I walked into the café. She was Estella’s best friend, and I appreciated how much she cared for Estella. I fully accepted the withering stare that she was giving me.

  “I’d like one cappuccino, please,” I said, looking behind her and into the window that gave everyone a view of the kitchen.

  “How much spit would you like in it?” she asked, her voice low enough for only me to hear.

  “None, preferably,” I responded.

  “Mm, not an option.”

  “I understand your dislike for me, but I need to talk to Estella.”

  “She’s not in right now,” she said.

  “Why do I not believe that?” I leaned against the counter.

  “Liars have a hard time believing others.”

  “I mean her no harm.”

  “It’s a little too late for that.”

  I pressed my hands hard against the counter. “Salem, please,” I pleaded.

  Salem glanced at me and looked toward the black curtains near the shelves that displayed all of Estella’s work. She seemed uncomfortable with the whole situation.

  “All I want to do is apologize, and then I’ll leave her alone.”

  Salem swallowed hard and watched me with contemplative eyes. “Fine, ten minutes, and then I’m going in.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered and walked toward the black curtains.

  I pulled the curtain to the side and watched Estella on the potter’s wheel. Her beautiful brown hair had been pulled into a loose bun with a couple of stray hairs framing her oval face. She was a classical beauty and knew how to make a man stop in his tracks. She looked at peace, and all I wanted to do was watch her lose herself in her art.

  Estella raised her head, pushed the strands of hair away from her face with her wrists, and noticed me watching her.

  “What are you doing here?” Estella asked.

  “I came to talk to you.”

  She shook her head and reached over for the towel that was on the floor. She wiped her hands and removed the earbuds from her ear. “What?” she asked, annoyed.

  “We need to talk,” I repeated.

  “You just need to go,” she responded. “I’m working.”

  “Estella, please, stop pushing me away.”

  Estella stood up, her body displaying a strong, confident, and grounded woman. “Excuse me? You came into my studio, during my work hours, and you’re telling me to stop pushing you away?” She had her finger pressed against my chest and her face inches away from me.

  “Don’t push me away,” I whispered.

  Estella’s jaw tightened, and she glanced up at me with hurt in her eyes. “Stop talking,” she whispered.

  “Estella, I don’t want to continue living this way, and neither do you. I need to tell you everything that happened that night.”

  “Stop talking.” Her finger was still pressed hard against my chest.

  “You need to know what happened.”

  “You left me,” she whispered angrily, keeping the distance between us with just one finger. “You left me in an abandoned studio,” she muttered, her eyes no longer on me, but the finger on my chest didn’t move a muscle.

  “Estella, I wanted to come back for you,” I whispered, my hand slowly moving upward to wipe away the tear that ran down her cheek.

  “You told me you wanted to see me again; you lied.”

  “Let me tell you the truth.”

  Our voices were in whispers, but our hearts thundered against our chests, begging for release. A bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, but it didn’t faze us because we were in our own storm of emotions.

  “I know you want to set yourself free from the hurt, and I can do that. Let me, Estella.” I murmured softly into her ear. I wanted to lift her head and kiss her sincerely, to let her know that I wanted her five years ago and even more now.

  Estella lowered her finger and nodded. She motioned me to the large, wooden table in the corner of the room and pulled out the wooden bar stools.

  I sat down and faced her. “May 2015, my nonna passed away. It was one of the most devastating times of my life. A month later, my father called me to see how I was doing and offered me an opportunity to work with him in Paris. We were estranged most of my life, but I thought working with him would be a turning point, so I went. I left Castel Vecchio and everyone in it.”

  I looked at her, wanting confirmation to continue. She nodded.

  “I lived in the studio above the jazz lounge. I would go to work in the day where I felt like an imposter and go back to the studio at night. It was my escape. Then one night, I saw you. I connected with you in a way I’ve never connected to anyone. I was reminded how much I love music. So, that the following morning, I called my father at 6 a.m. and told him that I wanted to leave his company to pursue music again.”

  Her eyebrow perked up; she was gaining interest in my story.

  “He called me in to see him, and I went. I left, but I intended on coming back. I met him at the office, and he informed me that he had arranged a business marriage with the daughter of a French tycoon. Long story short, I defaced him in front of very important people; he threatened to destroy me if I didn’t leave the country. He had security escort me directly to the airport, and that was the end. I wanted to desperately go back for you, but I couldn’t, and I also didn’t want to involve you in my mess.” All the guilt that had weighed me down for years slowly dissipated.

  I watched Estella looking at me with hesitation. It was clear t
hat she struggled with this new information. It was easy to be filled with anger and resentment when all you had was your side of the story, when you believed what you want to believe, but she was forced to understand it from my point of view.

  Her lips parted open, but nothing came out.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I said, trying to simplify the situation for her.

  Estella fumbled around with her fingers.

  “The last five years of my life have been a blur, Estella. I worked for my father, was forced out of a country, jumped around cities in Italy to lose myself, ended up back in the hands of my father, moved back to Castel Nuovo, and left my father, and now I’m here. I didn’t have my life figured out. We might’ve connected on a cosmic level, but I wouldn’t have been the best option for you at the time.”

  She pressed her hands against her face. “What the hell do I do?” She sounded so broken, it made my heart tighten. I thought giving her the truth would liberate her, but it seemed to have conflicted her.

  “I’m sorry that you’re feeling conflicted. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “I know, I know.” She sighed, still hiding her face. “It’s just, I’ve convinced myself the last five years that you were the bad guy and now…you’re not.”

  I nodded, understanding her. “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

  “What are you asking of me then?” She dropped her hands down to her side and stared at me.

  “I’m not sure,” I mumbled. Let me give you the fucking world now, Estella. “What I do know is that in a world of seven billion people, we ended up in the same old town in the middle of nowhere. That has to stand for something, right?”

  “Maybe…maybe this is the closure I needed. Maybe, it’s time for me to go?” She seemed convinced by her own words, and it took every bit of will to not immediately react. I wasn’t sure why the universe had made us cross paths again, but I didn’t want to believe that it was supposed to end like this.

  “I think you should really sit down and think about it. You came here for a redo; you can still get it.”

  “Really?” She placed a finger on her full strawberry-colored lips.

  I nodded. It was a simple nod, but it held a lot of hope. Of course, I wanted her to stay in Castel Vecchio. She had never left my mind for a single day after I had met her; I couldn’t let her leave so soon. I preferred to see her in town or in passing rather than never see her again.

  “Okay.” She sighed and straightened herself.

  The black curtains moved to the side, and Salem stood by the doorway with a cautious expression on her face. “Everything alright? It’s a little too quiet.”

  Estella softly smiled. “We are okay.”

  “No more bad blood?” Salem asked.

  Estella faced me again and shrugged. “I guess not, right?”

  “Right,” I confirmed.

  I tried to analyze her face to get an idea of where her head was regarding us, but nothing. There was nothing that indicated a future for us, and it wasn’t a nice feeling. I didn’t expect her to come to me with open arms, but neither did I expect this uncertainty.

  I stood up and stared out the window. “It’s still pouring. Would you two like a ride home?”

  “We still have two hours till closing,” Salem said.

  “Maybe next time,” Estella added in, offering a soft smile.

  “Next time,” I said, looking at Estella one last time before I left.

  SIXTEEN

  Estella

  I believed in second chances, but I didn’t want to fool myself again. The repercussions of love had exhausted me.

  Moving forward with Ignacio seemed for the best, though. I moved to Italy to start over from the life I had in New York, and it would’ve gone to waste had I held onto a five-year grudge. All this pain needed to rest, to be reset or erased.

  I knocked on the cottage door, and for the first time in a while, I felt okay. The sun was shining, the flowers were still in bloom, the wind made its gentle entrance, the birds sang at a distance, and I felt at ease with my surroundings.

  Emile opened the door and smiled from ear to ear. I adored his child-like grin. “Estella, I didn’t expect you on this nice Sunday.”

  “Hello! I know, and I’m sorry for intruding,” I said, holding a delicately wrapped present tightly in my hand.

  “No intrusion at all.”

  I handed him the present as I apologetically smiled. “Also, apologies for running out of the cottage and ignoring you. It’s just been a tough few weeks, emotionally and mentally,” I started to rabble on until Emile gave my arm a gentle pat.

  “Say no more. I’m glad you’re doing better.”

  I pulled my cardigan tightly against myself. “You can open your gift now, if you’d like.”

  Emile didn’t spare a second more and tore the brown packaging away to expose two, black-to-white-gradient, night-sky mugs that I made for him. It was a part of my new night-sky-themed collection. Emile wrapped an arm around my shoulder and thanked me with sincere gratitude.

  “You are very talented,” he said. “I’m going to put it to good use and make myself a lemon tea. Come in and share a cup with me.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Handwash only, by the way.”

  “Good to know.”

  Emile placed a dark green, steel kettle onto the stovetop and delicately prepared our mugs. I gripped onto one of the dining chairs and noticed the sound of paper rustling, followed by piano playing. I released the chair and slowly walked around the table to get a glimpse inside the piano room.

  “Ignacio is here. He’s helping me organize all my pieces.”

  “Oh, I can go, if you’d like?”

  “No, no. Actually, I think it’d be fun to listen to my old compositions together.”

  It actually sounded like a great idea, and I couldn’t pass the opportunity up. I enjoyed Emile’s playing style and pieces; they captured a lot of emotion.

  “Go ahead, I’ll be there,” Emile said.

  I walked into the piano room and absorbed the sight of Ignacio reading music sheets. He looked at peace. His face was studious, but his energy was lighter. Music was his passion—there was no doubt about that.

  Ignacio was startled for a moment, and then looked me straight in the eye before composing himself again.

  “I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  “It’s not a problem. What brings you here?”

  “I stopped by to deliver mugs that I had made for Emile.”

  “Very nice,” he said, the corner of his lips turning upward.

  “What are you reading?” I asked, walking slowly toward the piano.

  “Some of Emile’s older compositions,” he said with a light smile. “I believe it’s the song he wrote for my nonna.”

  “Do you mind if I see it?” I asked.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to me and making room for me on the bench.

  It was titled “Per Sempre” which translated to “Forever.”

  I placed the sheets on the music rack and studied the treble-cleft line. My right hand hovered above the piano keys, trying to determine where to start. It was beyond my learning skill, but I was a beginner and didn’t expect to succeed; I just wanted to try.

  Ignacio moved my hand over the desired area and playfully nudged me. We stared at each other, and I liked how he didn’t look away until I did. I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

  I started to read and play the music, out of sync, and read a couple of notes wrong. After a couple of failed attempts, I exhaled in frustration.

  “Let me help you,” Ignacio said and shared a few tips.

  I analyzed the composition and slowly pieced the notes together, playing the first line successfully.”

  “Amazing,” Ignacio said. “Try it again, and then we can add in the left hand.”

  “Sure,” I said, biting down on my lip.

  For a wh
ile, Ignacio played the accompaniment—the harmony of the music—as I played the melody of the song. We fumbled, but then we started working at the same pace and found a rhythm. Once I became comfortable, I played both the harmony and melody. I played a couple of songs without error. I clapped with joy, genuinely feeling accomplished.

  “Great teamwork,” Emile said, already seated and holding his cup of tea. “I knew you two would make a great match.” He lowered his lips to the rim of the mug and took a tiny sip while Ignacio and I glanced at each other. Emile wasn’t wrong, but if only he knew our history.

  “Well, what do you two say?” Emile said.

  Ignacio gazed at me with his warm eyes. His eyes said It’s up to you.

  “We can start with today and feel it out,” I said.

  Emile clapped his hands together. “Eccellente!”

  We sat together, reading over the notes and working to perform the song together. There was no doubt that Ignacio could perform it on his own within minutes, but he worked with me at my own pace. He even laughed at his own errors which made my stomach twist in delight. I wanted him to keep laughing because it made everything between us feel almost normal. Like we were just two young strangers who had no history.

  There was no such thing as time when we were both playing together. Our dynamic—my eagerness to learn and his willingness to teach—worked well. I flourished under his guidance, absorbing more material than I ever had before.

  Ignacio glimpsed at his watch. “It’s five o’clock,” he said, noticing that Emile had fallen asleep. “We should wake him or else he won’t sleep at night.”

  I laughed, appreciating his joke.

  “He’s like a toddler,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll also be quite hungry.”

  “Ah yes, close to dinnertime.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, we played for so long. I enjoy playing with you, and it doesn’t feel like teaching.”

  “Thank you.” I blushed and changed the topic to stop the butterflies from fluttering every time he complimented me. “I’m sorry for taking up your time. I know you were supposed to help him with organizing, not teaching.”