Just thinking about food makes my stomach lurch.
Unpleasant images spin and chase one another in my head.
The argument with Eagan, about my decision to quit music school, is making me question everything. I'm majoring in cinema, but I don't really know what I want to become; a director, an editor, a music composer. The options are numerous. But I can't even decide a topic for a paper. If I don't make up my mind, my friends will leave me behind. It's already happening. Clém will become a theater director. The twins will be musicians, or music professors, or both. Even Marco, who's always so relaxed, is already writing and shooting his own films and sending them to various festivals. They all have plans.
And then there's Eagan, who wanted to be an artist and restore paintings. He's an architect now, which is not exactly the same thing, but it involves drawing and creating, so it's pretty close to what he planned.
If I were a kid, I would be thrilled to have Eagan so close to me; I would be eager to meet his new friends and be a part of his new life. I feel scared instead. I'm certain it will break me to see him in a serious relationship, and know that I'm not his family anymore.
These are all glum images, but I'm unable to drive them away. I force my eyes to open. I stare into the semi-darkness for a while, then I turn onto my side to stare at my closed curtains. I bought them in a popular flea market called Porta Portese.
The curtains remind me of the ocean, because their color is neither blue, nor green; it's something in between. They dance slowly in front of my tired eyes like waves of the sea. I want to fall asleep again, but I'm afraid of what my memory and my imagination will invoke.
I can't resist. I close my eyes.
“Brina.”
Eagan's voice and his gentle touch on my shoulder startle me awake. My vision is blurred with speckles of green and blue light. I blink rapidly until Eagan's handsome face comes into focus. He's sitting on my bed and he's smiling down at me.
“Are you real?” I ask sleepily.
He laughs softly. “Yes.”
I sit up and wrap my arms around is neck. He hugs me back without any hesitation.
“What are you doing here?” He smells so good and he's so warm.
“Your friend Clém called me.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. She found my number on your phone. She told me about, you know, your cramps,” he explains.
“Guys normally stay away from girls in my particular condition,” I mutter against the hollow of his neck.
“I'm fearless,” he says.
“Shouldn't you be working?”
“You're more important.”
“I'm fine.”
“You want me to go?”
I tremble and hold him tighter. “No.”
“Good. Lie back down. I'll keep you warm.”
I do as he instructs, while observing him as he toes off his shoes, and then he bends over to yank off his socks.
A big part of me still believes that this is a dream. But it all becomes very real as he reclines on my bed and makes me turn onto my side, so that he can position his body along mine. He covers us both with my blanket, then he links his arm around my waist and pulls me back against his broad chest.
“Your friend really thought about everything. She left her spare key under the doormat for me,” he says. His breath tickles my nape.
“She's awesome,“ I comment.
“What does she know about me?” Eagan demands.
“Not much.”
I feel the blanket shift a little, as Eagan sighs deeply.
“Brina, what happened to us?”
“Life happened.” I kissed you. I fell in love with you.
“I want to be a part of your life again, kitty-cat.”
His soft words gust along the delicate shell of my ear. I suppress a whimper.
“I want that too,” I admit. “But go easy on me,” I add, “Because I'm not the same determined girl you used to know.”
“You're stronger than you think,” He insists.
“What if you're wrong?”
“I'm not. I know you.”
No, you don't. “I don't feel strong at all, Eagan.”
He nuzzles my hair and he breathes me in. I need him to stop, for he's tormenting my senses, but all I can do is whisper his name.
“It's alright. I'm here. I'll make everything good again,” he reassures me.
My head wants to believe him. My body already does, because my limbs melt into him, even as my skin absorbs his heat.
I fall into a quiet and untroubled sleep.
I wake up laughing. Eagan's hands are squeezing my waist and his fingers are searching all the spots between my ribs that tickle.
“Eagan!” I snort.
“Wake up, kitty-cat!”
I squirm against him and I try to grab at his hands. “I'm awake,” I gasp.
As I keep writhing and pushing back against him, I feel his erection prod the small of my back. I freeze. Then my body reacts; my breasts tingle, and an overwhelming sensation pulses within my core. Soon it unfurls like a ribbon made of fire. It wraps around my legs, my torso, my arms even.
I notice that Eagan's not touching me anymore.
“Brina?” His voice is uncertain.
My skin craves the touch of his hands. I shift and turn, so that I'm facing him. I link my arms around his neck and drape my leg over his thigh.
“Don't stop,” I murmur urgently against his neck.
The fiery ribbon of my desire clutches my heart and burns my throat. “Please, don't stop holding me.” It's another desperate whisper.
Eagan's arms clutch me tightly. I grind my hips against his crotch again, and again. His erection jerks. The groans that my movements elicit from him make my skin hum with triumph.
“Brina.” His tone is firm. I recognize the warning. I stop squirming, because I don't want him to push me away.
Eagan doesn't let me go. We remain wrapped around each other for a long moment; our breathing is labored, our hearts beat a fierce rhythm. Gradually, our limbs release their tension. Eagan caresses my hair and strokes my back.
“Go if you have to. It's fine,” I tell him.
He brushes a soft kiss across my cheek and speaks against my skin. “We're both going.”
“Where?”
“Out. It's a warm day. You need some fresh air.”
I shake my head and begin to voice my protest, but Eagan squeezes me and interrupts my words.
“Say yes, Brina.” His deep and rough voice commands.
“Yes.”
I take a quick shower, then I put on a purple tank-top, a black long-sleeved shirt, jeans and snickers. Meanwhile Eagan puts drinks, the pasta salad and the cupcakes Clém prepared, along with a couple of blankets inside a back-pack.
Eagan insists we take a cab. I try to protest, but he's immovable.
“Let me take care of you,” he says.
I let him, because I'm too weak and tired to do otherwise, but mostly because I love being the focus of his attentions.
Eagan takes me to the secluded park near the Colosseum he told me about. He also shows me the deep pink hibiscus. As he reaches out to stroke its petals, however, I seize his wrist.
“Don't,” I plead.
Eagan nods. Then he takes my hand and we stroll under the tall pine trees for a while.
“Have you been here before?” He asks.
“Yes, at night.” I point to our left, where the curve of a small hill interrupts the view. “Over there, there's a jazz club. I've been to some concerts with Ivan and Alessio, during the summer.”
“Cool. We should go together sometime.”
“Sure.”
It feels nice to make plans. Eagan wants to fix our friendship. I have to accept the fact that this is all I can have. This is all he can give me. And I'll do my best to cherish the blissful days like this one, when he's all mine.
We find a spot where the grass is untouched by the shadows of the trees.
The sun caresses my skin even through my clothes.
Eagan spreads the blankets and empties the back-pack of its content.
“Hungry?” He asks me, even as he sits cross-legged on one of the blankets.
I mimic his position. “Not really,” I reply.
I place a hand on my abdomen. Eagan frowns and covers my hand with one of his.
“Is it always this bad?” He demands.
“It used to be even more painful, but then I started taking the pill and it got better. I'm not on the pill now, so...”
His fingers stroke mine. I stare at our hands on my belly.
“I'm not dating anyone. What's the point?” I continue.
“Get back on the pill, Brina,” he says.
I glance up at him and murmur my promise.
Afterward, Eagan insists on feeding me. There's a long string of protests in my head, but I don't utter them, for today is ours and I don't want to deny him anything. A pleasant blush warms my skin, as Eagan slips oily maccheroni and juicy tomatoes between my parted lips. I lick the fork tines after each bite and rejoice as I notice his blue eyes turning all shadowy and intense.
He manages to make me eat more than I usually do. More importantly, he makes me enjoy the food.
When he presses the bottle of water to my lips, though, I shake my head. “No way.”
He laughs and hands me the bottle. As I drink and swallow, Eagan trails a finger down the column of my throat.
I stifle a moan of pleasure.
While Eagan gathers the remains of our lunch and then disposes of them, I lie down and turn onto my side.
An undeniable ache wells inside my chest. Me head can pretend this is enough. It can build a wall around my heart, secluding it, shielding it from the screams of my desire, like the wall around this park protects the trees and the flowers from the noises of the city. But the cries are too loud. They pretend to be heard. My head needs to build stronger walls.
When Eagan stretches out behind me and folds his arm around my waist, I close my eyes and sigh. His hand covers my abdomen protectively. He buries his face in my hair and whispers my name.
My soul moans his name in response.
Voices laughing and yelling, leaves chiming, I open my eyes to a sea of deep green grass, dotted with white daisies.
I'm alone. I sit up and glance around. Then I hear the screams again.
Not far from where we placed our blankets, Eagan is playing soccer with a group of guys and girls. They cheer and yell in Italian, but it doesn't appear to be a problem for Eagan, because Italian gestures are very eloquent. The game stops for a moment. Two guys quarrel about a faulty kick, they gesture a lot, then they both laugh. The game resumes.
Eagan's gaze search for me.
When he finds me, he waves and I wave back. A guy calls his name. Eagan turns and runs after the ball.
I envy their energy. Love is like poison for me. It renders me too fragile; it's the last thing I need.
I stretch out onto my back, I tip my face toward the sky and close my eyes. After a few moments, I hear the sound of footsteps, muffled by the soft carpet of grass and pine-needles. Then Eagan's body is alongside mine, warming my skin.
I don't open my eyes. Once again Eagan plays with my senses. The smell of sweat and cinnamon enfolds me. His fingers circle my wrist and his thumb strokes my pulse. His lips brush along my temple, my eyelids, my chin. They hover over my mouth; his minty breath caresses my lips. My own breathing quickens with hope and anticipation. I'm tempted to urge him to reclaim the kiss I stole four years ago, but I don't. I just wait.
Then, as delicate as a feather across my lips, his mouth touches mine. I smile.
“Finally. A smile,” he says. But his words don't brush my skin anymore.
I open my eyes and seek him; he's close to me, but not close enough. I hide my desires once more.
“I need to pee,” I tell him.
He grins. “Well, let's find you a toilet, then.”
The mood is definitely crushed.
When I step out of the not-so-clean public restroom, Eagan is frowning at the path that circles the park.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I saw a couple of friends of yours,” he answers without looking at me. “The Italian guy and the other Canadian girl.”
“Marco and Virginie?”
He turns toward me, a confused expression still marks his face. “Yes.”
“And?”
“Are they together?”
I shake my head. “Marco is Clém's boyfriend. Why?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure? You seem preoccupied,” I insist.
“It's nothing. Let's go.”
We take a cab. I don't protest this time.
As the driver waits, he walks me to the entrance of my building.
“Thank you. For everything,” I tell him.
He hands me my back-pack. “It was my pleasure, Brina.”
I laugh softly. “We're so formal.”
He frames my face in his warm hands and leans forward to kiss my forehead.
“Yeah. I wonder why,” he murmurs against my skin.
He stays until I'm inside the building, then he leaves.
My body wants to return outside. It craves to seize Eagan and melt into his warmth and strength, before the cab takes him away.
When the doors of the elevator close behind me, I sigh with deep relief.
10.
I stare at the window dressing and I grimace; it doesn't work. Nothing really does today.
I work part-time in a bookstore located near Piazza Navona. The pay is quiet decent, considering it's a part-time job. Money, however, is not the only reason why I enjoy working here.
My bosses, Lucrezia and Vittorio, are amazing. They're a married couple, in their late fifties. They both come from rich families, so the bookstore is more of a hobby than a real necessity, therefore working for them is extremely easy; their main purpose is not business, but pleasure.
The store is a spacious loft with a high ceiling, brick walls and vast shelves.
When Lucrezia and Vittorio hired me, almost two years ago, the books were organized in alphabetical order. So I suggested shelving them according to their genre. The bosses agreed. Then I suggested reserving a portion of the big loft for armchairs, couches and small tables, so that our costumers could have places to sit and read. Again, Lucrezia and Vittorio agreed. Then I proposed we add an espresso machine and bring, every day, fresh croissants and sandwiches to sell for a reasonable price. Once again, they appreciated the idea.
I love working for Lucrezia and Vittorio.
I especially like working the night shift, because our loyal costumers are quiet and thoughtful; they linger over books, trying to forget about their day, I imagine, or thinking about it over and over, in an effort to make sense of it.
After the last costumer has left the store, I get to open the boxes and organize the new books; for an hour or so, I'm surrounded by the smell of untouched pages.
Sometimes, like tonight, I have to change the window display. I know my bosses appreciate everything I do, still I want to create something nice and appealing.
Tonight, though, my head is empty.
It's been a long day. Perhaps my creativity is already asleep.
Professor Tessitori called me this morning. She is truly devoted to her students. I could tell she was at home from the background noises; water running, cabinets being closed, a cat meowing.
“You are an excellent student, Miss Féau. You're fast. You're focused. You deserve the scholarship,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I want to help you a little, because I can see you're not in a good place at the moment,” she continued.
“Alright.”
“There's a very good professor who teaches Italian cinema at the University of Berlin. He happens to be a good friend of mine. I'm going to ask him to help you with your paper, but you'll have to come u
p with a good idea.”
I nodded, but of course she could not see the gesture of assent.
“Miss Féau?”
“Yes. I'll come up with something good. I promise.”
“Excellent. You have one week to send me a working title and a brief synopsis. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
After we hung up, I sat on my bed and thought about the entire situation for a long while.
A professor in Berlin. She really wants to facilitate the situation for me, because Ivan and Alessio are planning to go to their beloved Berlin for their researches. If I follow them, I will not have to face the change and the challenge by myself. My friends will be by my side. Professor Tessitori understands me well.
Afterward, I went to my appointment with the gynecologist. Clém accompanied me.
While we were waiting, I asked her about the new show she's directing and about Marco.
“Everything's fine,” she answered.
“Are you sure?” I insisted.
“Yes, of course. Don't worry about anything,” she assured me.
The gynecologist was very disappointed, because of the pill I've stopped taking, and because I'm neglecting my body.
A Veil of Glass and Rain Page 6
