by Mj Fields
“And …?”
“Ranger is staying with you, Momma Joe and Thomas are meeting you in Rome, and you’re in love and—”
She stops when I throw my arms around her, and she begins to cry.
She’s not alone. I cry, too.
“I love him, Mom. I do. And, I know it’s crazy, and I know it’s going to hurt like hell—”
She steps back and grabs my elbows, giving me a firm shake. “Falling in love is like giving another person a loaded gun, pointed right at your heart, and trusting them to not shoot you.”
“Morbid, but okay.”
I hear Dad clear his throat from behind me and turn.
Arms crossed, he’s leaning against the doorjamb. “Bekah, what are you doing?”
Uncharacteristically, Mom ignores him. “That was not morbid; it was the words your father said that made me see underneath all the tattoos, and muscles, and the F-boy who helped me see myself the way he saw me. I believe Matteo is that person for you. And I trust that, if you saw that, and if he made you see how amazing you truly are, then he has my blessing. Your dad will come around.”
“Um, I’m right here. Reformed F-boy—”
“Reformed, my ass,” Mom mumbles, and it makes me laugh. “I also know that, if anyone can make Matteo feel a lifetime of love in whatever amount of time he has, it is you. I just need you to promise me, Tris, promise me when you’re worried, you call, when you need help, you’ll ask, and when you decide to push him to do whatever he needs to do to stick around, you remember we’re here to help. Promise me that, and I will be your biggest cheerleader.”
And then, I cry.
Rome
Tris
Meet me at Trevi Fountain, mi corazón.
Yours,
Matteo
That’s the note he left in the suite that he booked for me at the Principal Hotel. A suite filled with flowers and a bottle of chilled sparkling grape juice.
I spin in a circle, arms outstretched, taking it all in. “My parents book me suites, Patrick books me suites, Momma Joe books me suites, and there is always a welcome basket, often flowers, and never has it felt this amazing.”
“Yeah, well, they’ve also kissed you, but I’m sure that’s a bit different, too,” Ranger grumbles as he drops our bags. “Which room is mine?”
“Whichever one doesn’t have rose petals on the bed, I assume.”
“Seventeen,” he calls out as he walks into one of the rooms.
“Legal,” I call back to him.
“What the fuck?” he hisses and walks out of the room that he disappeared into.
“What?” I hurry toward it. Then I stop and look around the room, seeing an easel set up by the window.
“Let’s go, or you’ll be late,” Ranger calls to me.
“But I wanna see what—”
“I’m sure it’ll be there when you get back. You can see it then.”
“Oh my God, fine.” I laugh and turn around.
He narrows his eyes at me. I give it back to him as I ask, “What?”
“You’re happy.”
“Love will do that to you.” I shrug as I walk toward the door and stop next to him. “Not for nothing, but my sister has a big-ass crush—”
“Don’t give a fuck,” he snarls. “Let’s go.”
“And I’m the one who’s messed up,” I mumble as I hurry to keep up with him.
Walking across the plaza toward the Trevi fountain, I see Matteo standing next to a small, wooden folding chair and looking down at it then up at the sky and down and up again. And then he turns and smiles when he sees me.
“See what you’re missing, Ranger? Wouldn’t you give anything to have someone smile at you like that every time they see you?”
“I fed a stray dog back in my neighborhood; he did the same shit. Now go. I’ll be over here.”
Matteo meets me halfway, arms outstretched, and I do that thing that girls like Brisa dream of doing. I run and let him catch me, and he does what men in the movies do—he spins me in a circle, sets me down on my feet, holds my hips to steady me because I’m a bit dizzy, and then he kisses me and does it without waiting for me to ask the question.
When he pulls back, I grab his shirt and pull him against me. “Less than twenty-four hours, and I missed you like crazy. How will I survive two weeks back home?”
“I have an answer and a solution, but first …” He kisses me again then steps back, takes both of my hands, and leads me to the chair. “Sit for me. Let me paint you.”
I look around at the multitudes of people watching as he steps back and Carlos brings out an easel.
“It’s you and I, Tris, just you and I,” he says as another man hands him a brush.
“How long is this going to take?” I ask, knowing that the little yellow bastard is going to claw his way out from wherever he and the rest of my monsters have been hiding.
“Not long.” He points up at the sun. “Look there.”
Warmth coats my heart like a big, weighted blanket when I realize the depths of how he sees me. The sun is my spotlight that blinds me from noticing the crowd.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but he eventually walks over and hands me a coin.
“It’s said that, if you toss one coin into the fountain, your return to the Eternal City is guaranteed. Will you promise to return here with me whenever I ask you to?”
“Of course.”
“Toss the coin, Tris,” he says as he backs away.
I toss the coin and, smiling, he returns to his canvas.
Several more minutes pass before he sets down the brush, walks over and pulls another coin from his pocket. “It’s said that if you toss a second coin into the fountain, you’ll find love. Will you accept all the love I have to offer you from now until time ends?”
“Only if you accept the same.” I swallow back tears, and not the kind caused by pain, but the kind only pure, undiluted happiness can summon.
“With every beat.” He kisses me quickly. Then, backing away, he says, “Toss the coin, Tris.”
And I do.
The sun is now beating down on me, and I love that he’s painting me, and how insanely romantic this is, and also pretty bewildered to the fact that I’m not even a little nauseous about the gooey feelings inside of me. Feelings I once mocked and bemused by the fact the onlookers have doubled and I’m not jumping in the fountain to get away.
I look over and smile at him, the cause of all of it, my source of … healing.
He sets the brush down and steps back to inspect his work. He looks between me and it several times before walking over, shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out another coin.
“For this”—he holds it up — “you’ll need to stand.”
“Gladly. My ass is beginning to hurt,” I joke as I stand.
He rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh, knowing it’s the use of the “vulgar” language that he’s obviously still trying to get used to.
“Turn and close your eyes.”
I take the coin from him, and then he turns me, and I close my eyes.
“A third coin tossed into Trevi is said to guarantee marriage.” He kisses my neck, causing my spine to tingle. He releases my hips and steps away. “If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes?”
“Without a second thought.”
“Toss the coin, Tris.”
I toss the coin and turn, expecting him to be heading back to his easel.
Except, he’s not.
He’s on one knee, and he’s holding a ring that I can’t truly see because the sun is reflecting off of it.
“¿Quieres casarte conmigo?”
“Yes. A million times yes. Oh my God.” I laugh, and my eyes do that thing where they spill tears, brought on by happiness.
It doesn’t take long for me to spot a certain couple in the crowd. The woman with the phone camera up and the man holding her hand steady, because she’s a blubbering mess, albeit a beautiful mess.
/> Matteo chuckles when he sees that I noticed them.
“You knew?”
“Your mother is very intuitive. When she took you from the suite and left me there with your father, that’s when I asked your father for your hand and explained the reasoning that I requested the meeting be held in Rome, so that they could be part of it.”
“How long before you start taking their side in everything?” I scowl at him.
“I now see some truth in what men say about how the ring truly changes the dynamic.”
We both laugh, and then he takes my face and kisses me.
We have lunch with them nearby and, as Mom swoons over my ring, that has a got to be the most beautiful piece of jewelry I have ever seen, I can only describe it as the band having a Renaissance look about it. The thick, textured platinum band houses, guards, and surrounds the large, very large, pillow-cut diamond. Inside, Matteo had engraved, Mi amigo. Mi corazón. Mi ángel. Mi bendición. Mi para siempre.
My Friend. My heart. My angel. My blessing. My forever.
“One minute after legally an adult, we start our forever.”
“Why wait, right, Zandor?” Mom asks Dad.
He nearly chokes on his champagne, which makes me laugh so hard tears spill down my face.
“Kitten,” he tries to scold Mom but, once his eyes land on me cracking up, he pushes his sunglasses off his eyes and onto the top of his head and tries really hard to hold a scowl at Mom and myself.
He fails.
“Momma Joe once said, I hope you have at least one who acts just like you. When you were born, that finally happened.”
“Yeah right.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m being serious right now.”
“Which stage did that realization hit? The fuck-boy stage?”
Matteo shakes his head in disapproving amusement, and Mom laughs.
“Your father never liked when I swore, either. I did it just to taunt him.”
“Foreplay?” I joke. Well, sort of.
“Kitten.” Dad clamps his hand on Mom’s knee. “I was trying to have a moment here.”
“By all means, Zandor, have your moment.” She lifts her glass of champagne.
“The passionate side and the struggle to hide it amongst the common folk.”
Mom, who I think is a bit tipsy, finishes her third glass and sets it down on the table. “Well, there you have it. Your father’s moment. It’s a good thing we’re outside so his big head can inflate to its full potential.”
“How can I not love a woman who appreciates my full potential?” He winks at her.
I look at Matteo. “If you ever question why I am the way I am”—I point to Dad — “direct your questions to him.”
“Exactly.” Dad claps. “Passion.”
Still looking at Matteo, I lift my sparkling wine. “In October, one minute after my birthday, I’ll show you all sorts of passion.”
Mom giggles. “Here’s your chance, Zander. Shine.”
“You have agreed to stay home for a couple weeks. After the graduation, use that time with your mother to plan your wedding.”
I look from Matteo to Dad. “In October?”
He shakes his head. “Why wait? After all, tomorrow isn’t a guarantee for any of us, and love is gift.”
When Mom and Dad leave us to head to the airport, thankfully in a hired car, we spend the next few hours alone, walking around an area that Matteo referred to as the substitute museum.
Outside amongst the residents’ clothes hanging to dry and small gardens, as well as other tourist looking at buildings with paintings, we walk around an apartment complex of sorts. He talks about the fact that artists from all over the world have come to take part in this street art that many of its residents were wary of when the project began.
Between kisses, he tells me about the artist who painted these buildings and meanings behind the pieces and how it is the most unique museum in the world. And then I tell him about my cousin’s, Bella, husband, whose nickname happens to be Tags, who got arrested when he was younger for doing sort of the same thing in Brooklyn.
Then we laugh.
Within two hours, I can tell he is growing tired and see the agitation it brings him.
I squeeze his hand. “I’ve done a lot of peopling today. How about we go back and—”
“Rest?”
After using the bathroom, I walk out to classical music playing. Matteo told me it calms his heart.
Lying on the bed, with my fiancé, music playing while we kiss and hold each other, in theory, we are not speaking in words, but that’s because it isn’t always necessary. He’s shown me that. And we fall asleep just like that. No pills, no booze, no exhaustion due to monsters, or fights with them inside of my head keeping me awake. Matteo the monster slayer, whose mere presence lulls me to sleep.
After a much-needed nap, I woke alone.
It only took me a moment to find him. This beautiful man, sitting on a stool, painting while the setting sun illuminates him from behind, giving him an even more heavenly appearance, in front of the easel that, upon our return to the room, I discovered was blank. Paint brush in his hand, he is lost in that canvas.
When he finally looks up, he shakes his head. “No move. Stay. Rest. Let me paint you.”
“How does one say no to that?” I stretch a bit and resume what I hope is the position I need to be in.
“Stunning, mi coraźon. You are absolutely stunning.”
“Do I get to see the piece from the fountain?”
It takes him a beat to reply. I assume it’s been a long day and his brain needs to rest.
“In time, there will be galleries full of you. You will see them all.”
“Then, in time, there will be a whole album dedicated to you.”
“Our love shall be timeless.”
“It already is.”
Lying in bed, watching the way he looks at me with such deep concentration, I feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, which is amazing in itself, but add to that the way he loves me, accepts me, I wish I could freeze time.
This is Us
Tris
Sitting on the bed, notebook on my lap, staring down at the empty pages, I feel irritated.
For two weeks, when we haven’t been busy planning our lives. We have agreed on keeping our passions a priority. He tells me it’s never been easier to create since I have come into his life. The sculpting has taken a backseat to the painting. I, however, am obviously having a difficult time writing because, as I told him, watching him is my new passion.
We spent a day sitting amongst the Roman Forum ruins, discussing in detail the artists who he found while researching bipolar disorder. The painter, Vincent van Gogh, author Virginia Wolf, all lived with what was speculated to be bipolar disorder. He told me that Vivien Leigh, the actress that played Scarlett O’Hara, was diagnosed but, in those days, there wasn’t medication, therapy wasn’t like it is now, and publicist weren’t able to protect her from the scrutiny of the public eye.
“Things have changed in the world, Tris. Someday, others may see that what they consider madness is actually genius.”
“So, I’m a genius?” I joke.
“Studies have been conducted around the world on mood disorders. Some came to the conclusion that deeper thinkers with higher intelligence are, what they call, suffering from it. I believe it’s a gift.”
“Perfect. Do you promise, no matter what, you’ll continue thinking that way?”
“I believe the suffering part is behind you, and your healing and acceptance and all the work you’re doing with Marley will soon allow you not to feel it’s a burden. I certainly don’t. I love how deeply you feel.”
And I love you more now for that.
Side note: Fuck you, monsters.
We spent another day at the Coliseum, discussing beauty in everything around us and how being in the presence of buildings like the Coliseum allow us to feel strength and resilience.
For two wee
ks, we have become the best of friends and lovers at a much deeper level than I ever imagined experiencing.
Love isn’t sex. Love is so many other things. Love is patient and kind. It is waking up in the morning and kissing without worry that your breath smells like Doritos or, in our case, whatever green things and fish we consumed the night before, or the flavor of the Italian ice we fed each other while watching TV for thirty minutes before the classical music began playing, which was right before we kissed and touched and loved each other. Love is acceptance and kindness and honesty and trust and seeing the truths in each other and loving past them.
Yesterday morning, our last “couples therapy” session, Marley again advised that Matteo do one of those mail-in tests that I keep bringing up. I just want him to know if maybe he has family, wonderful family somewhere that he never has to meet unless he wants to. I gave it one more push and again offered to put the test in my name and have it sent home, so that there was no chance his “brothers” finding out.
When he agreed, I tackle-hugged him then grabbed the kit from my bag.
We sent it out that afternoon.
Today is the day before I go home, and he is to go to England to change medications.
Holding his hand as we walk from the hotel to his studio so he can grab a few things, I ask him to reconsider.
His answer is a firm, “No.”
I ask him why, and he tells me it was torture lying in a bed, half-hard, holding a woman who he loves and being afraid to disappoint her.
“That’s never going to happen, Matteo. I don’t care about the act of intercourse. Kissing you, being held and loved by you, it is more than enough.”
He shakes his head. “Not for me. I want inside you. I want to be connected to you, and I want to know that the changes I make in medication allow that for years to come.” Then he shrugs and, in a lust-filled tone, adds, “And I want to feel you tremble around my cock, like you did in my arms.”
“If we weren’t walking down the freaking sidewalk full of people, I’d prove a theory I have.”
