by Karina Halle
I’m listening to what she’s saying and taking it all in. It’s filling that cold space in my chest and making it freeze. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t know what the future holds. All I know is right now, I’m really unhappy. And I want him to be happy. I just wish I could be, too. With the racing now, it just seems like either he’s happy or we’re both not.”
“So what would you do if you could do anything?” she asks, smacking her palms on the table, her bracelets jangling loudly. “Pretend there was a nanny here taking care of them and you had another job. And you were still with Derio. What would you do?”
I try to think. “I’m not sure. I haven’t really had a chance to think for myself lately.” I glance out at the dark mist through the back doors. “I really enjoy plants. Maybe I could go into gardening or landscaping. Run a nursery. Grow olives and limes and almonds. Maybe floral arranging.”
She shakes a long fingernail at me. “Do you see your face right now? You’re glowing. You’ve got the same look from when you first met Derio.”
When I first met Derio. I ignore that, swallowing it down like crusty bread. “I guess it’s just something else I could do. Besides this.”
“You don’t have to do this job, Amber,” she says emphatically. “I know you feel a lot of guilt because the kids rely on you and you’re helping out Derio. But he could pay someone else. You could get a job doing something you love or at least something more enjoyable. That’s the way it should be. Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that your boyfriend is employing you?” I shake my head, though I’m lying. “It’s not right, it’s making something like love—which, I know, is extremely messy and complicated—even harder than it has to be. I’m not saying Derio doesn’t deserve things, too. He’s still in his twenties; he doesn’t have to give up his whole life for them. There is no shame in having that outside help to ensure they have the best life possible. Good grief, do you think the twins want to grow up knowing you had to sacrifice everything for them when you never asked for this, or wanted this, in the first place?”
With a shaking hand, I drain the rest of my glass. “I don’t want you to be right,” I mumble.
“I don’t want to be right either. And I hope I’m not. But if I am, maybe it’s best to talk about this situation with Derio before it all implodes. Because it will. I don’t want to seem mean but . . . have you looked in the mirror?”
I look down at my dress.
“Not your dress,” she says. “Your face. You look like a nervous wreck. Your eyes are all bloodshot and you look like you haven’t slept for days. You have dark circles like whoa.”
Now I feel like crying. “I haven’t slept well lately,” I say meekly.
“I know,” she says and puts her arm around me, giving me a quick hug. “You deserve all the sleep in the world. You are working so hard and doing so much. I just don’t want anyone to take advantage of you. Maybe I’m just all fired up because of me and Danny, so just take what I’m saying with a grain of salt. You know for the last month, he didn’t work at all? He was just coasting along on my paycheck, like he used to do.” She sighs heavily. “Men are rat bastards. But we love them anyway, don’t we?”
She raises her glass to me and I halfheartedly toast her with my empty glass.
Derio isn’t a rat bastard. And I do love him. A lot. A terrible amount.
But after Shay’s words, my heart feels underwater.
Because what if love isn’t enough?
* * *
When Derio comes back the next afternoon, I don’t even hear him until he’s right behind me. I’m still reeling over what happened moments earlier, my heart racing and my eyes on the edge of tears.
“Amber?” he says softly. “Didn’t you hear me come in?”
I don’t move or speak. I just stare blankly in front of me and try to breathe.
He sits down beside me on the living room couch and puts his hand on my knee.
“What is wrong? I’m here now,” he whispers.
I slowly turn my head to look at him, blinking. Outside the sun is shining, the fog blown away by a strong breeze. The same breeze snakes in through the open door to the patio and ruffles the thick hair off his forehead.
“I had a fight,” I say emptily. “With the twins.”
He frowns and holds on to my hand. My other one is holding a wineglass, filled to the brim. “Oh? What happened?”
I take in a deep breath and put down the wine. “Alfonso got in a fight at school with another boy. Apparently the boy had called him gay or a girl or something like that because he hangs around his sister all the time. So Alfonso hit him.” I look at Derio, suddenly angry that he wasn’t there to help me when he should have been. “Do you know what that was like for me? The teacher called me in and I had to go. Hardly anyone spoke English. The other parents were yelling at me about Alfonso. It was horrible! And embarrassing! And I couldn’t fucking do a thing about it!”
Derio’s eyes widen at my screeching, dumbfounded by my outburst. But fuck him, he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to go through it. It was so fucking humiliating being called in there like that when I couldn’t even understand what the headmaster was saying over the phone.
Derio tries to hug me but I break away from his grasp and stand up. I’m not done yet.
“So I have to bring him home early and then drag him with me back to school to pick up Annabella. Of course that caused even more problems with the parents, who thought I was bringing him back to gloat or something. So they started yelling at me in the streets.”
Derio shoots to his feet now, his eyes flashing with anger. “Who are the parents? Who is the kid? They can’t treat you like that.”
“Well, they did!” I retort. “And I don’t know, go talk to Alfonso, he’s your brother, not mine.”
He blinks at me and I continue. “And then Annabella starts acting up. I told her not to use the iPad to talk to Gia and she starts using it anyway, right in front of me. So I take it away from her. Then she tells me that she hates me and she won’t listen to me because I’m not her mother.” I pause, taking in a deep breath. “And I’ll never be her mother.”
Derio’s heart looks like it’s been shattered. “I am so sorry,” he says heavily, trying to pull me close to him. I let him wrap his arms around me but I don’t hug him back. I don’t need his comfort right now. I need him to make this all right. I am so angry it feels like I’ve drunk a vat of acid and it’s eating me alive. It’s a dangerous kind of anger, the kind that takes years off your life.
He should have been here. He should be here helping me. These aren’t my kids, Annabella is right, and I know that. I don’t know what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be doing this at all.
Tears spring to my eyes and everything inside me hurts. “I’m going to take a nap. You take care of them now.”
“I will. I will speak to them and let them know how important you are, how wonderful—”
I raise my hand, cutting him off, and start walking away. “It doesn’t matter. I need to lie down. You’ve been gone for too long.”
“I know,” he pleads. “I know, I know, but some things can’t be helped.”
I give him a tired look over my shoulder. “And some things can be helped.” I walk up the stairs and he follows me.
“Derio,” I say to him as I go into the room, ready to close the door on his face. “I really need to be alone right now. Please.”
“Okay,” he says softly, and I can tell the twins are poking their heads out of the room. I don’t look at them. “I love you.”
I only smile at him in return and close the door, locking it.
Then I collapse onto the bed and cry myself into a long, deep sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I haven’t seen Derio for a week.
It’s now the end of September and Capri has become bearable again. The streets aren’t crowded, the sun is warm, and the air sparkles with new clarity. There are still tourists at Dior and Louis Vuitton
and all the restaurants are still open but there is a peace to the island now. If my own heart weren’t breaking, I think I’d fall in love with Capri all over again.
But that isn’t the case. My heart is breaking, slowly, degrading like the ancient ruins. There is a wedge between me and the twins, something I bet I could repair if I tried. But I haven’t tried. I’m still licking my wounds over Annabella’s words, still scarred by the experience with Alfonso. I know it’s all part of parenting and that kids get into fights and say hateful things all the time. But I am not their parent. That much is clear.
Derio has talked to them. He has assured me that I have done nothing wrong. He even made them apologize, and I know the twins meant it. I know they don’t mean me any harm. But I just don’t care anymore. There’s a wall going up around me that’s deflecting everything that comes my way, good or bad. It’s keeping me numb, which is preferable at the moment.
Unfortunately, Derio comes with the good or bad and I am growing numb to him, too. I’m tired of being overworked, tired of missing him. I know the racing brings him joy and I know he’s doing really well as he gears up for his first race. True to his word, he is taking things slowly and the race, which is in three days, will be low-key, at least compared to the competitions he used to be in. He doesn’t even seem to mind competing at a lower level.
But while he’s all smiles, I have none. I want to see him happy, I do. In fact, if it weren’t for his happiness, I wouldn’t be here at all. It’s just that I wonder how much unhappiness I can take before it starts to matter. When should I put my needs first? It feels like I haven’t for a while but I’m worried what it will mean if I do.
The truth is, I’m lonely. And there is nothing worse than being lonely in a big house, with responsibility at your feet, while the man you love is out there pursuing his passion. And you’re left alone to forget about yours.
It doesn’t help that I’m in a foreign land, a place that I can’t call home. It also doesn’t help that the only friend I had on the island has left, heading for Norway. It doesn’t help that some nights, like tonight, I drink alone on the patio, staring at the empty sea, waiting for my phone to ring, for a text to come in. But he’s been so busy; they’re few and far between.
Shay was right. There is a breaking point for me. I feel like I’m tiptoeing along it, high-wire, above a fathomless drop. One false move, one overreaction, and I’m gone.
Sometimes you might not even see the push coming.
Tonight, I’m out on the patio, draining another glass of wine with a cat that isn’t really my cat and waiting for my prince to show up. He should have been here an hour ago, when the ferry docked. He was to come home for one night, just to see me, before heading off to prepare for the race. I’m supposed to go with him while the twins stay with Gia’s mother, Signora DiFabbia.
Even though I’m nervous about the race, I’m looking forward to it like nothing else. The night after, I can finally be alone with him, I can finally have him. He’ll be mine and just mine. And then I will slowly, carefully, break to him how I’m feeling and how I can’t go on like this. I don’t want to leave him or the twins but there has to be another way, an easier way, for everybody.
Derio does love me. I know this. At least, I knew this. He will have to listen. He will have to understand. As long as he’s on board, we can work through this.
I contemplate bringing it all up with him tonight but I’m feeling a bit emotional thanks to the wine and the vast emptiness of the blue dark around me. I just want him home, I want to collapse in his arms and I want his sweet words and steady resolve to bring me back around. I want to stop being numb and start letting him in again, to return to the way things were before we became emboldened by love.
I sigh, feeling worry bubble up inside me, and send him yet another text. Still no reply. I call him again. Still goes to voice mail. Even the professional tone of his voice in the greeting mocks me.
I get up, thinking about walking down to the Marina Grande, but the funicular isn’t running anymore and it’s a long walk when you take the road. I could take the bus, though, so I head inside to look at the bus schedule when my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Pronto,” I say, answering it like the Italians do.
The man’s voice on the other end is speaking so fast in Italian that I can barely work out the words.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I don’t know much Italian. Non parlo Italiano.”
“Sorry, sorry,” the man says in a heavy accent. “Is this Amber?”
“Yes, this is Amber.”
“I am Derio’s friend, Paolo.”
“Oh, hello, Paolo,” I say uneasily, having never spoken to him before.
“Hi, hi,” he says quickly. “Listen, I am with Derio and he is fine. We were drinking at the bar and he missed the last ferry. So very sorry, he is staying with me tonight in Napoli.”
My heart curls angrily. “Why are you calling me? Why isn’t he?”
“He is too drunk,” he says with a little laugh. “We had too much fun after practice, you see. You know how it goes and you know how he is.”
Actually, Derio’s drinking has gone down by half since I started nannying but I don’t bother bringing that up. That’s not the point. The point is that right now he’s supposed to be with me but was having too much fun getting drunk with his friend to even catch the damn boat.
“So what do I do now?” I ask him. “He’s supposed to come here and then I’m supposed to go back with him for the race.”
“Uh,” Paolo says, obviously picking up on the simmering rage in my voice. “I don’t know. I guess you will have to come meet him. It is just north of Rome, not too far.” He pauses. “Listen, he will call you in the morning. Okay, Amber? Very sorry but I take good care of him. Goodnight. Buonanotte.”
“Buonanotte,” I nearly spit out and hang up the phone. Just in Rome, not too far? It’s not like I’ve been to Rome since my backpacking days and it’s not like it’s just a short train ride away.
That vat of burning acid inside me? It’s bubbling again.
I let out a growl that causes Nero to dart into the rosemary and then I dial Paolo’s number.
“Pronto,” he says.
“Paolo, it’s Amber.”
“Hi, Amber—”
“Listen,” I say sharply. “When Derio wakes up, you tell him to take the first ferry in the morning back to me. Or else I’m not going to Rome and I may not even be here at all. Do you understand? Capisci?”
“Capisco,” he says warily. “I will, but he—”
“Just do it or he’ll have you to blame.” Then I hang up, feeling better this time.
Have you ever gone to bed angry? I mean so angry that it’s physically painful? It’s probably the worst feeling in the world. Your face is red and your body is hot and your heart races like it’s trying to puncture you with each beat. Your skin pulses with rage and all you want to do is sleep and forget about it. But you can’t. Not right away. And when you do, the anger seeps into your bloodstream, ensuring you’ll feel no peace even after you close your eyes.
That night, I fell asleep with a painful, angry heart and I woke up much the same way. There was no bright light of morning to clear the cobwebs, none of that positivity or optimism that comes with a new day. There wasn’t even that fuzzy moment of ignorance when you believe everything is all right. No, I woke up slightly hung over and stark, raving mad.
And I let the anger consume me. I got up, made the kids a lazy breakfast of Nutella and toast, walked them to school, and then hurried back to the house so I could rage in privacy and not in the Capri sunshine, which seemed too happy and bright for my mood.
Meanwhile, I had gotten a million texts from Derio and a few missed calls. I answered one text with, If you don’t come here it’s all over, and that’s it.
I know it’s the not the kind of thing to say over text. I know Derio’s pet peeve is big matters taking to small technol
ogy. I know he hates ultimatums and threats and he’s the first person to get defensive. But if he can’t see how serious this situation has become, then we have a problem. Actually, we already have a problem; we just have a bigger one now as well. The kind that can’t be fixed. You can only patch a hole so many times before you just have to walk away.
I was ready to walk away now, but it wouldn’t be without a fight.
Unfortunately, when Derio shows up—and for a while there I really thought he wouldn’t—he isn’t happy at all. And not in the groveling, I-did-you-wrong kind of way but in the pissed-off, already-on-the-defensive kind of way. The worst kind.
I’m sitting in the kitchen, nursing one of too many espressos, when he walks inside and throws his duffel bag down on the ground.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks.
I’m already raring to go. I immediately get up, almost knocking over my coffee. “What’s wrong with me?” I ask snidely. “What happened to the good old-fashioned mi dispiace?”
He glowers at me, all black arched eyebrows and dark searing eyes; I’d forgotten how good he looks when he’s pissed off. “Paolo explained what happened.”
“Yes, he did. Because you were too drunk.”
“I didn’t mean to get drunk.”
“I’m sure that’s why you ended up in a bar.”
He crosses his arms across his chest and straightens up. This makes him look massive and imposing but I’m not fooled. All the best douchebags look like studs at one time or another. “We had a good day and we were celebrating. We got carried away. It wasn’t a big deal.”
