Page 93 of For Your Eyes Only
“Sit down, Giana.” My aunt leads me into the kitchen. “Would you like a coffee or a chianti?”
It’s a fair question, and checking the time, it’s late. “Chianti, please.”
She nods, pouring two glasses of the deep red table wine. “I thought you would be home sooner, but Bianca said she was taking care of you. Still, how well can she take care of you when she’s not even married herself?”
I take a sip of the wine, wondering how soon I can get out of this place. My head hurts, and I’m tired, and I’m not letting her off the hook for years of calling me names and comparing me to other girls. Yet I wonder, without her nonstop belittling, would I have been strong enough to make it back here?
“Bianca helped me get a few jobs, but I couldn’t stay without a work visa.” That’s all she needs to know.
I know damn well how she’d respond to Glitter Girl.
“Ah, yes.” My aunt lifts her chin, taking a sip of her own wine. “So what will you do now? I heard Michele is staying in Florida.”
Michele. I swallow the bitter laugh that almost slipped from my lips. My erstwhile fiancé would be the answer to all my problems in her small mind.Marry this one off, and get her off my hands.
Somehow, I have to cover why I don’t need her help or a job. I only need a place to crash until I can get my affairs in order. Franco texted the amount he’s sending to my Venmo account (in U.S. dollars, no less), and it’s enough to live on for at least nine months, possibly longer if I’m frugal.
“I’ll get a job as a seamstress.” I might actually like that.
“Yes, you have always been good at sewing.” She stands, taking our glasses, even though I haven't finished mine. “You’ll stay here in your old room until then. Now go to bed.”
She’s still trying to be the boss. If I were less tired, I’d tell her I’m not staying here any longer than absolutely necessary. As it is, I’m grateful to have a place to sleep, even if it is marred by memories of anger and struggle.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to the bank and open an account, then I’ll seek out a realtor who can help me purchase my mother’s old one-bedroom apartment overlooking the sea. It’s the one thing I want most right now. The one thing I’m allowed to want.
I enter the small, light-blue room. The single bed is very small compared to how I lived in Florida. It’s familiar, but I never made this my home. Only a few things indicate I ever occupied this space—a butterfly snowglobe, the patch I was stitching when my mother died, my dance scrapbook.
Pushing through the sheets, all the pain comes crashing down on me again. I can’t stop seeing his cold eyes, hearing his emotionless voice telling me to go. It was all a lie.
I don’t believe him. Pain twists my chest, and I take out my phone. Opening my Instagram, fresh tears heat my eyes when I see us together in the bed. The warmth in his eyes is unmistakable.
“Why is he doing this?” Sadness echoes in the empty place where my heart once beat.
A tear falls on my cheek, soft as a butterfly kiss. Why is he tearing apart what we had when it was so very beautiful? I know he loved me. I don’t know why he’s lying.
I’m not ashamed to mourn the loss of my dreams, because I’ll never find new ones as beautiful as the ones I lost.
* * *
Four weeks later
From the smallbalcony of my mother’s old apartment, you can see the sapphire blue waters of the Adriatic Sea. The breeze blows light, salty air through the open windows, and my linen curtains lift and fall gently.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Michele has come home to wait for his work visa, and my aunt is both shocked and pleased he’s staying with me.
His long hair is highlighted gold from being in the sun, and he has it tied up in a man-bun. His pink linen shirt is cuffed at the elbows, and he looks handsome, happy. Graziella probably thinks we’ll be engaged again before long, and when we’re not, when he goes back to Florida, she’ll have certain opinions about that as well.
“My mother never had money to decorate.” I pour boiling water over the coffee grounds at the top of my carafe.
“Any questions about how you earned it?” He turns, strolling to where I stand at the kitchen counter, frothing the warm milk.
“I told them I got a settlement from the ballet company, so if anyone asks, you did, too.”
“Of course. In the meantime, what are you doing these days? How can you stand to be back here? Are you dying to return to Florida?”
“No.” Palm Beach is forever damaged in my memory, although I do miss Bianca and Shula. “I like being home, in this place. It’s peaceful, and I can look out at the ocean and heal.”
The dark coffee is poured into large mugs, and I spoon the frothy foam on top, making a little heart design in the milk.