Page 19 of All is Not Lost
"Wait!" The word escapes before I can snatch it back, and I'm torn between relief and dread as he pauses, looking back over his shoulder with guarded hope. "I… I'm sorry. This isn't about you."
"Isn't it?" There's a raw edge to his question, one that slices through my defenses. "Because it feels personal, Sophia. Every time I try to get close, you push harder. What am I supposed to think?"
His words echo in the silent room, a stark reminder of the rift growing between us. My chest tightens, and for a second, I wonder if it might be easier to let him in—to share the burden of betrayal and fear. But the scars of past wounds are too fresh, the memories too sharp.
"Think what you want," I reply, retreating behind the armor of indifference. "You're better off staying away from me, Giovanni. I'm damaged goods."
"Damaged doesn't mean worthless," he counters softly before stepping out into the fading daylight, leaving me to ponder the price of solitude—and whether it's one I'm truly willing to pay.
Pacing the length of the villa's sun-drenched living room, my bare feet brush against the cool tiles. Each step is a metronome to the chaos of thoughts ricocheting through my mind. The phone weighs heavy in my hand as I read and re-read Carla's message, each word a needle prick to the heart I've patched up so carefully.
"Maybe she's changed," I whisper to myself, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears. With each stride across the room, memories flood in—a decade of laughter, secrets shared under starlit skies, betrayals that cut deep. Can time really heal all wounds? Or is it just a veil we drape over the scars, pretending they don't exist? After all, was it her fault that she fell in love with the wrong guy?
He was my guy. So, yes.
But giving her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps? Just talking to her? Would that be so bad?
"Is talking to her worth the risk?" The question hangs in the air, unanswered. To open that door again could mean a fresh start… or reopening a wound that's taken a long time to close. Is it even closed yet?
I’m not sure.
A gentle knock on the door pulls me from my internal debate. I turn, almost startled, to find Giovanni—again—framed in the doorway, his expression etched with concern. He steps inside, the sunlight casting a golden halo around his dark curls.
"Sophia, I can’t stop thinking about you," he says, his voice as warm and inviting as the Italian summer outside. “I want you to know that I am here for you. I want to earn back that trust. Give me a second chance.”
I want to believe him, to let his words wash over me like the soothing waters of the Mediterranean. But fear clamps down on my heart, its icy fingers reminding me of the pain that comes from trusting too much.
"Carla was my world once, but she left me shattered," I confess, the admission pulling taut the strings of vulnerability within me. “She wants me to give her a second chance, to mend the broken pieces. I don’t know what I want. That’s what this is about.”
Giovanni moves closer, his presence a balm to the anxiety swirling within me. His hand reaches out, gently touching my arm. It's a simple gesture, but it feels monumental. His touch steadies me, the tremor in my hands quieting under the warmth of his skin against mine.
"Whatever you decide to do, I'm here," he insists, his eyes searching mine for a sign of surrender to his support. "You're not alone, Sophia. Not anymore."
His words make me scoff. I feel so alone, especially since the dinner last night.
Yet his reassurance drapes me like a blanket, soft and protective—one I can’t resist. One whose comfort I need and crave. At that moment, I allow myself to lean on him—just a little. His unwavering belief in me is a counterweight to the doubts that threaten to overwhelm me.
"Thank you," I breathe out, the weight of my decision still heavy on my shoulders. But with Giovanni's steadfast presence, the burden seems a little lighter, the path ahead a little less daunting.
The villa's walls seem to close in on me, the air heavy with the burden of a past that refuses to stay buried. Giovanni's arms encircle me as I stand there, lost in a sea of anguish. His touch is tender, but the comfort it brings is like fighting a wildfire with a whisper of breath.
"Non posso farlo," I choke out, my words a mix of Italian and English, a testament to the turmoil inside me. "I simply can't go down that road again." Tears that have been threatening all day finally breach the dam, streaming down my face with a heat that mirrors the pain in my heart.
"Shh, Sophia," Giovanni soothes, pulling me closer against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, a rhythm that beckons calm to the chaos of my emotions. He doesn't push for words or actions; he only holds me, his arms a sanctuary where I can crumble without fear of judgment.
Carla's message—a cascade of apologies and pleas for forgiveness—is a tiny ember that has reignited the firestorm of our ten-year friendship in my mind. The memories spark and dance before my eyes: we were each other’s ride-or-die. We were going to move to Italy one day and drink wine for the rest of our lives. With our men, perhaps, if they were still in the picture. It didn’t matter as long as we had one another. How can I still care after she tore those dreams apart? But again, I miss her terribly. I miss laughing with her like nothing else.
"Lei era la mia migliore amica," I admit into the fabric of Giovanni's shirt, tasting the salt of my tears. She was more than just a friend; Carla was the sister I chose, the keeper of my confidences, the one who knew me better than I knew myself. The betrayal cuts deeper because it came from her hand.
"È difficile," I murmur, the acknowledgment of my lingering affection for Carla struggling against the instinct to shield my battered heart from further bruises. Giovanni strokes my hair, a silent vow that he will weather this storm with me. It feels so good, yet I don’t want to get hurt again. I’ve realized I don’t know who Giovanni is, and that scares me.
"Hard doesn't mean impossible," he whispers back, and I cling to him, wishing his certainty could be mine. The desire for closure wrestles with self-preservation, a tug-of-war that leaves my soul exhausted and frayed. I told myself I would never talk to her again. I swore it.
Now what?
"Che cosa dovrei fare?" My voice is barely audible, swallowed by the sobs that rack my body. What should I do? I could ignore her, let the past remain a closed book, its painful chapters locked tight. Or I could open the door to her once more, risking another chapter of hurt for the slim hope of healing an old wound. Could I ever forgive her?
I don’t see how that’s possible.