I listen to them for a while, without really taking in their words, then I make myself cross the bridge.
When I reach my car, I feel calm enough to drive.
My car is small but sturdy. My parents gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. They chose the brand, but I picked the color. My car is yellow: Eagan's favorite color.
With endless patience and persistence I manage to get the car out of the narrow parking spot we were able to find. I shift gears, but as I'm about to pick up speed, all of a sudden someone appears in front of the vehicle. I break and my car groans unhappily.
“Are you crazy?” I yell from the open window. I kill the engine, then I rest my forehead against the steering wheel; my fingers grip it tightly. After a few moments, I feel a warm and gentle hand on my nape.
“Brina, it's me,” Eagan says.
I jerk my head up. The sudden movement dislodges Eagan's hand from my neck. When I glare at him, he smiles.
“Are you crazy, Eagan?” I unwrap my fingers from around the steering wheel and place my hands on my legs. I stroke my thighs with slow, soothing motions.
Eagan stares at my legs for a long moment, then he positions his hands on the car hood and leans in. The pose flaunts his broad chest and strong arms. I try very hard not to gape.
“Where are you running, kitty-cat?”
“I'm going to the cinema.”
“Cool.” He pushes away from the car and walks around it until he reaches the passenger side. He opens the door and slides into the seat. “What are we going to see?”
I unbuckle myself and twist toward him. “We?”
“Yeah.” He grins.
“It's a student film festival. The movies will likely be long and full of obscure meanings and metaphors.” I wrap my arms across my chest and wait for him to give up.
“With English subtitles?” He demands.
“Yes.”
“Bring it,” he says, still smiling.
I have to force my lips not to curl into a smile in response. “What about your office party?”
He shrugs. “You and the very long flicks are much more appealing.”
Even if both the driver and the passenger windows are open, the scents of cinnamon, sweat and male skin saturate the car. It is a heady mixture that makes my insides clench.
I lose the battle against myself and beam. “How did you find me, anyway?”
His eyes rove my face and my body. His lips part and a peculiar spark flickers in his bright blue eyes. “Your friend, Clém. She approached me. She introduced herself. And she told me where to find you.”
His gaze drifts away from me. He buckles himself, and I do the same.
“What about your dark haired lady?” I inquire, as I restart the car.
“Who?”
Good answer.
“Traffic lights are there for a reason. Stop signs are there for a reason. And speed limits are there for very good reasons.” One of Eagan's hands is braced against the dashboard, the other one grips the edge of his seat.
“Eagan, trust me. In Rome, following the rules is dangerous.”
“It doesn't make sense!” He snaps.
“It does. Think about it. It's way more dangerous if I'm the only one who respects the speed limit,” I calmly explain.
Cars speed by on our left and on our right.
“Damn idiots,” Eagan hisses.
“Eagan...” My hand leaves the stick shift, in order to reach out to him and comfort him. I've never seen him so agitated and afraid.
His hand shoots up and clasps around my wrist
”No. Just fucking focus on what you're doing,” he growls.
“Fine. But you're cutting off my circulation,” I wail.
Eagan lets go of my throbbing wrist. I grasp the gear stick once again.
I realize that the road in front of me is now a blurry mess of lights and shapes; my eyes are moist. I blink repeatedly to chase away the tears.
Eagan heaves a deep sigh. Then he rests his arm on the back of my seat. It's a more relaxed pose, but it doesn't fool me, for I can feel his body vibrate with tension.
“Tell me why you quit music school,” Eagan says.
The question surprises me. “It wasn't fun anymore,” I mutter.
“Pity. You were really good,” he comments.
I snort softly. “You've never heard me play. How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Right.”
I know he's staring at me, for I can feel his gaze on my face like a touch. My skin flushes.
“I wanted to be there. You know I did. Is that really why you quit?” Gentleness permeates his tone, still I also detect a whiff of wariness.
“I quit, because I was bored.”
“Such a waste,” he mumbles.
“Look, I still have the guitar you gave me. If you want it back to resell it, or whatever, you can have it.” I manage to sound calm and detached. I concentrate on driving, on the street and on the other cars. Inside, though, I'm crying, punching, crumbling.
“Fuck you, Brina!” He's angry, offended, hurt.
“Right back at you, Eagan,” I rasp out.
We deliver the words to each other wrapped in ice. I can almost feel their cold bite on my fingertips. I'm tempted to examine them to see if they're bleeding
“I'm trying to be your friend, Brina. Again.” Anger has abandoned his voice, now he sounds sad.
I'm glad my eyes have something else to focus on, as I don't want to watch his expression marked by disappointment and sorrow.
“Friends don't judge, Eagan. Friends accept and understand. If I tell you, I want to play air guitar for the rest of my life, your only comment should be: Can I be your groupie for the rest of my life?”
He laughs. I finally glance at him. His fingers are pressed against his temples, stroking away the tension; but he's laughing.
On the way from the parking lot to the movie theater we don't talk. I stare at my shoes, at the gravel, at the people around us. Eagan grabs my hand and his fingers brush the fading calluses on my fingertips, left there by the strings of my almost forgotten guitar. I sigh and brace myself for another argument. It doesn't happen.
Instead, I'm pulled, pushed and then I find my back against a wall. Eagan's taut frame is bent toward mine, and my body is arched toward his. We create a peculiar sculpture of opposite forces. He cups my face in his palms and makes me look up at him. His lips are so close to mine, that I feel the whisper of his breath against my mouth; I smell mint and a hint of beer. I desire a kiss so desperately, my body is humming with longing. I curl my fingers around his wrists.
“I hate fighting with you,” he admits huskily.
“I know. Me too.”
“I need to hold you.”
I nod and let him fold his arms around me. I bury my face against his chest and utter soft sounds of contentment as his warmth leaks into my skin.
I glance at our shadows painted on the gravel by darkness and streetlights; we're not opposite forces any longer, we're one single being.
Italians are genetically incapable of standing in an orderly line, so much so that the movie theater seems more crowded than it actually is.
As we wait to buy our tickets, Eagan's fingers remain wrapped around my hand, but we're both quiet again.
My gaze begins to wander once more. I notice my friend Ivan. He's standing near one of the entrances. He winks at me then he stares at Eagan with unhindered interest.
While his twin, Alessio, feels uncomfortable with his body and sexuality, Ivan is completely safe in his own skin. He's wearing his work clothes, a blue T-shirt, decorated with the movie theater logo, and jeans, even so he manages to look stylish.
“So, how many of you are going to watch the student film festival?” He asks loudly, as he moves toward the crowd.
Eagan and I, along with other few people, raise our hands.
Ivan scratches his chin, pretending to consider the situation. “I see. Well, what if I t
ell you,” he continues, switching to his heavily accented Italian, “that there is a spanking scene in one of the films? Oh, yes, you heard me!”
More hands join ours. Ivan grins.
“Did you understand?” I ask Eagan.
He shakes his head., so I translate for him.
“Nice.” He remarks.
Later, as we amble back to my car, Eagan's expression seems more relaxed.
The movies were all well written and expertly directed. The one I preferred was about two kids that become friends, then lovers. Unexpected events separate them, but eventually they find their way back to each other. During the projection, my heart broke and then soared, and my cold fingers were enclosed within Eagan's warm hands.
The twins walk with us. Ivan asks Eagan about his new life in Rome, about his job and his apartment, meanwhile his gaze peruses and admires my best friend's hot body. Eagan answers politely and nervously rubs at the back of his neck.
Alessio winds an arm around my shoulders and nods toward Eagan. “You're enjoying his discomfort, aren't you?”
I give him a wicked smile. “Perhaps.”
I let Ivan drive, because he's very careful, and I want to keep Eagan serene.
I sit in the back with Alessio. I let the twins and Eagan monopolize the conversation.
Before pulling out of the parking lot, Ivan fumbles with the radio, then he examines the few CD’s I keep in the car. Finally, he decides to connect his MP3 player. His play-list becomes the accompaniment to our short journey.
I glance at the city sliding outside the window, while my friends' voices, along with the music, melt into the rumbling of the car engine.
Then all sounds fade to nothingness.
8.
When I was thirteen Eagan gave me the blue guitar, so I asked my parents if I could take lessons. My father found me a private teacher. The teacher was young and enthusiastic. After six months he declared me a “real talent” and sent an email to my ever absent parents, telling them that I absolutely had to attend a good music school.
After my entry exam, the music school professors decided to place me in an advanced class. They also made me take piano and singing classes. My parents, Eagan and his parents were all positively surprised and supportive.
For me it was perfect; not because I wanted to become a musician, but because I was starved for attention, and all of a sudden I had plenty from the people I loved the most.
Eventually, life interfered and took their focus away from me. So I had to face concerts and performances alone, with only emails and phone calls to encourage me.
When I turned sixteen, I decided that I'd had enough. Eagan, of course, was the first one I informed about my decision.
At the time, he was still attending university in New York.
I didn't want to send him an email, but I also didn't want to see his disappointed expression on the screen of my computer, so I called him on his cell phone.
“What? Why?” He asked.
“I'm tired. And it's not fun anymore,” I explained.
“But you're so good!”
“How do you know? You've never been to any of my performances.” My parents have, and your parents have, I thought, but I didn't voice my real feelings, for I wasn't searching for a fight, I was looking for support.
“You're right. I'm so sorry, kitty-cat.”
“It doesn't matter anymore.”
“Don't say that. When is your next concert?”
“My last concert will be in July.”
“That's perfect. I'll be traveling across Europe with some friends for the entire summer. We'll be in Tuscany for a few days. I can make a detour and come to your concert.”
Warm pleasure jolted throughout my skin and my heart leaped. “Really?”
“Yes. You have to promise not to quit music school, though,” he added.
“Fine. If you make it, I will not quit.”
He didn't make it, because his train was delayed.
I found him outside the auditorium at the end of the concert. I was wearing a yellow sundress and clutching the handle of my guitar case. Eagan offered to carry it for me, but I shook my head, for he was already bearing the weight of his huge backpack.
A part of me was glad he hadn't been able to hear me play. The piece I had chosen was an acoustic cover of one of my favorite rock songs. The acoustic version was utterly sentimental; it expressed perfectly the way I felt about Eagan. After my performance, all my professors and fellow students admitted that they'd never heard me play with so much feeling. I wasn't certain I wanted Eagan to discover that part of my soul yet.
We embraced awkwardly. I noticed that his eyes were red and tired. I also remarked that he was tanned and that he smelled good, as always. Of course, I didn't reveal my sentiments.
It was a bright summer day. We went to a park, we sat, we didn't talk much. After a while, Eagan lay back and fell asleep.
I watched him rest for a few moments, then I reclined alongside him. I placed my body very close to his, so that I could feel his heat through the thin cotton of my dress. His handsome face was turned toward me and his lips were slightly parted. Flecks of gold dotted his beard stubble and his dark blond hair.
I braced one of my hands on his arm and the other one on his muscled chest, then I leaned toward his face, keeping my eyes open. I let my mouth linger over his and breathed his breath then, finally, I whispered a kiss across the side of his mouth, then I licked his upper lip. I waited. He didn't stir. So I closed my eyes and brushed his lips with mine once more. I became greedy. My tongue pressed between his parted lips and stroked his tongue once, twice and then again until I moaned and an unbearable ache surged between my legs.
My fingers gripped his sweaty T-shirt. I kept kissing Eagan until he groaned softly in his sleep.
“I love you,” I murmured against his lips.
I moved away from him. I forced myself to stand, I grabbed my guitar case and I left.
On the bus, I kept licking my lips; I tasted him, the salt of his sweat, and a hint of cinnamon.
I had kissed only two guys before Eagan; one was a classmate in junior-high, the other one was a student in my piano class. I didn't enjoy those kisses.
Eagan's kiss, instead, even if he hadn't really kissed me back, made me feel all trembly and aroused.
After the summer we drifted apart. I wasn't able to face him. I couldn't be his friend any longer, for my feelings were corrupted; I desired him too much.
Avoiding him was the easiest choice.
During the following years I kissed and slept with numerous guys. I desperately wanted to erase the taste of Eagan from my lips and to remove his scent from my skin.
It didn't work.
When I turned eighteen my parents threw me a big party. Bea and Arthur came, and so did Eagan. He was accompanied by Felia and her older brother, Neal; David's siblings.
The absence of David was a manifest entity, and I feared Eagan's anguish and detachment. All I received, however, was his sweet attention. We joked and laughed. His smile was genuine, while mine was a bit forced. Even after two years spent apart my body responded to his. My nipples were constantly hard and my core pulsed painfully. It was a torturing party.
Eagan asked me about my plans after graduation, and I told him that I wanted to go to Rome and study cinema.
He took my hand then, and leaned toward me. “I'll run after you, kitty-cat.”
At the time I didn't want to believe him, but my body did, for afterward I wasn't capable of enjoying the touch of any other guy. My body longed only for the promise of Eagan's taste and scent.
9.
Imagination and desire bleed into my memory, creating a lust spell that is driving my mind and my senses wild.
I'm in the park with Eagan. I'm wearing the yellow sundress, but I'm not sixteen, I'm twenty; my breasts and my hips are a little more rounded, and my hair is longer.
Eagan is not the guy from the past, but the man of today.
When I kiss him, he kisses me back. As our tongues touch, we both moan. He rolls on top of me. His weight rests on his forearms, so as not to crush me. I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingers in his skin. I try to pull him to me, because I need to sense his warmth, as I feel cold. Eagan doesn't allow it, though. So I deepen the kiss; he tastes like the sun, like cinnamon and something else that it's just him. It's delicious. My body bows with pleasure.
Eagan breaks our kiss and pants against my parted lips, “Like this, kitty-cat?”
He pushes my legs apart with his knee and grinds his thigh against my sex. The material of his jeans, the soft cotton of my dress and the lace of my panties create a pleasing torment and a sweet friction. I cry out into his open mouth, as he rubs his leg against my groin again and again.
“Let go,” he whispers.
My fingers curl tightly into his hair. “I can't.”
He licks my lips. “Say yes, Brina.”
“Yes.”
I bury my groan of pleasure into my pillow. I shove my memory, mingled with desire, out of my mind.
PMS really sucks. I already have cramps. I feel sad, weak and horny. It's the second day I've been spending in bed. I leave my room only to get water and use the bathroom.
Before leaving the house this morning, my sweet friend Clém has left cupcakes and, once again, a pasta salad in the fridge for me,. I'll try to eat something tonight, when she returns, to give her some peace of mind.
A Veil of Glass and Rain Page 5
