Page 18 of All is Not Lost
“But, Sophia… please… at least allow me to explain.”
“Explain what? That you sleep with the Americans who rent this place? That you have your fun with them until they leave? That’s okay, Giovanni. It’s just not for me. The whole ‘I love you’ means something to me, in case you don’t know.”
“But Sophia, you fail to… understand. I’m not leaving until you let me at least see your beautiful face.”
I sigh. Giovanni… has a way of disarming my defenses, of coaxing light into the darkest corners. I rise, smoothing my hands over my dress in an attempt to brush away the turmoil that clings to me.
"Un momento," I call out, my voice steadier than I feel. I take a moment to compose myself, to tuck away the raw edges of emotion that last night, combined with Carla's unexpected reentry into my life, have frayed. I cross the room, each step measured and deliberate, until my hand rests on the cool metal of the doorknob.
Turning it, I'm greeted by the sight of Giovanni, his handsome features etched with genuine concern. He stands there, the embodiment of warmth and positivity, his curly hair tousled from the breeze, his smile ready to chase away the storm clouds gathering in my eyes.
Why does he have to be this handsome? Why can’t he just be ugly for once?
"Hey," he says softly, stepping closer, his gaze searching mine. "Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” I say. “Last night was awful.”
“I’m so sorry about that. It’s not what you think. This woman, the American who stayed here, Brittney, she broke my heart. I could barely eat or drink for weeks after she left me. There was no one else. I think I was meant to lose her. How else could I meet you?”
“Oh, give me a break,” I say.
“No, Sophia. I’m telling the truth. I have been sick with heartbreak.”
I stare at him, not knowing what to do or say. He seems sincere, and he’s so incredibly handsome that it almost hurts. I let him inside and tell him to close the door behind him. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself some coffee, then pour another cup and hand it to him.
“I still haven’t forgiven you just because I gave you coffee,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Okay,” he says. “I must earn back that trust, then.”
The way he says it makes me chuckle.
“So, what is happening?” he asks. “You looked like you saw a ghost when you glanced out the window just now. What happened?"
How does he do this? How does he make it so difficult to remain enclosed within my fortress of solitude? There's an earnestness in his expression, a silent promise that he's here to offer whatever support I need, even though I haven't figured out what that is myself.
The cool tiles beneath my feet ground me to the moment, yet I feel adrift in an ocean of turmoil. His eyes, dark and concerned, probe for the cause of my distress, but I'm not ready to cast him as confidant in this latest drama.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
"Nothing—It's nothing," I stammer, the lie bitter on my tongue.
"Come on, Sophia."
He steps closer, his athletic frame brimming with an intent to comfort. "You don't have to go through whatever it is alone."
The words are meant to soothe, but they chafe against raw nerves. I can't let him see the maelstrom of hurt spinning inside me, and I can't afford to lean into the solace he offers. Not again. Not when every fiber of my being screams to keep the walls up, keep the world out, keep safe.
"Please, just leave it," I whisper, my voice fractured, a crystal vase on the verge of shattering. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm, urging me to push him away, to save him from the inevitable fallout of my broken trust.
"Okay." Giovanni raises his hands in surrender, but his eyes betray a flicker of hurt before he masks it with a gentle smile. "If you change your mind…."
"Thank you, but I won't," I cut in, sharper than intended. It's a blade, and I wield it clumsily, desperate to sever this budding connection before it burrows too deep.
He nods slowly, the cheer that usually radiates from him dimming like a sunset swallowed by storm clouds. I hate myself for causing that fade, for tugging at the threads of this thing between us, this fragile dance of closeness we've been skirting around.
"Fine, Sophia," he says, and there's a weight to his tone that wasn't there before—a gravity that pulls at the guilt simmering in my belly. “But I refuse to give up on us. Know this.”
He turns to go, the air cooling instantly without the heat of his nearness.