Roman Crazy (18 page)

I was pushing my body toward him while trying to loosen his grip on my hands. I wanted to touch him back. To thread my hands into his hair, to hold his face in my hands while he panted heavily against my skin, but he wouldn't ease up.

When he finally did let go, I overshot my mark and lost my balance, sending us both bumping into the wide-mouthed planters on Daisy's porch. They clattered and smashed against the wrought-iron railings before cracking against the steps.

Within seconds, Daisy popped out of the window and looked over at us, laughing.

“Oh, hey guys. What's going on? Aw, I liked that planter.”

Marcello leaned heavily against me, resting his forehead in the crook of my neck, and I could feel him smiling against my skin. “Daisy,
cara,
” he said, his voice muffled. “I will replace the pot.
Buona sera
.”

She began to hum before disappearing into the window.

Marcello took a minute to help me straighten my clothes. I watched him smooth my blouse with painstaking care. He was quiet, thoughtful while he took care to make sure I was put back together after being wonderfully ravaged. Maybe it was a reflection of what had just happened or perhaps what we both knew would happen if he stayed.

I took his hand from the edge of my shirt and brought it to my cheek, loving the feeling of warmth against my skin.

“When can I see you again?” he asked when I leaned in to kiss him again. A light brush of my lips quickly turned into another deep, searching kiss.

“Avery, when?” he begged, kissing my lips, my cheeks, forehead. “When?”

My brain was fuzzy, kiss addled, and blank. “Soon,” I said between kisses. “I promise. It needs to be soon.”

With another quick peck, he said, “Soon.” With a wink, he slid down the railing and disappeared around the corner, whistling the whole way.

WITH THE WEEKEND UPON US,
I danced barefoot into the kitchen, humming a tune I'd heard at the pizzeria yesterday. I didn't know what it was, but it was going to be my new cheery go-to song.

“Good morning, best friend,” I sang, clinking the cups to the beat in my head. I grabbed a wooden spoon and the coffee tamper
and began my own rhythmic beat on her countertop while shaking my ass at Daisy.

She was sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, waiting.

“Someone is feeling good this morning, sorry it's technically afternoon. Singing through the pain?”

“The pain? Whatever do you mean?” I replied as the shiny espresso monster roared to life.

“You had my door knocker digging into your back last night. I figured you'd be sore. I can see that your lips got a workout.” She snickered.

Last night as I passed the hall mirror on the way to bed, I studied my face. Sure enough: my lips were very pink and swollen. My head whipped around and I pretended to glare. “Just how long were you watching us?”

“I peeked outside just as he was charging back up the sidewalk. Good lord that was sexy. He swept you up and pinned you to the door in one swoop! I was fanning myself while I was pretending not to watch.”

“It was pretty great,” I admitted, running my fingertips across my lips just thinking about it. But something was bothering me. “I have a confession to make.”

She was reading the paper and peered at me over the top. “Yes, dear child. Confess.”

I made a face. “That's beyond creepy and I'm guessing sacrilegious.”

With a shrug, she folded the paper and set it down. “Sit down and talk to Dr. Daisy.”

“I'm serious. I feel like . . . I don't know . . . I'd feel better if I made it official.”

“Made what official?”

“My sins. All of my
good lord look what I did now; tell me it's
okay
. Do I pick one of the ninety-five thousand churches to confess in, or is Rome just so holy that you yell your sins outside at the sky and wait for judgment to befall you?”

Throwing her head back, she groaned. Loudly. “You're so dramatic. Loosen the clutch on those pearls, will you? What is this, Doomsday? You went out with a hot guy who you have a history with. What could you possibly have to confess? That you're enjoying your time with Marcello? That you're loving your life for the first time in ages? That you're sketching again? Please explain this to me, because I don't understand why you feel bad, when Daniel is dipping his tiny dick into all of fucking Boston.”

“We don't know that he's sticking his . . . dick . . . into all of fucking Boston,” I muttered. And I wasn't going to say tiny, because it wasn't, poetic justice aside. Normal sized? Yes. Boring? Yes. Tiny? Sigh. No.

“Well, we don't know that he isn't, do we? So you might as well get yours while he's getting his, because of course he's getting his and—”

Frustrated, I stood quickly, bumping the table and sloshing her coffee over the edge of the blue cup. “That's exactly my point! I don't want to be Daniel! Don't you see, if I get mine, doesn't that make me just as bad?”

“You're not cheating, Avery. You're separated—practically divorced. You're like . . . divorced adjacent. A piece of paper just needs to be signed for you to be officially free and back on the market.”

“I don't know.” My stomach was in knots. “Maybe it's because I feel like I shouldn't be enjoying myself right now? Shouldn't I feel worse about all of this?”

She threw her hands in the air. “Why?
He
cheated. Not you.”

That was the thing, though. This little sticky sticking point. I
had
cheated. Years ago. So was I mad that Daniel had cheated? Yes, but was I more mad that it made us the same?

Ugh.

But when I cheated on Daniel with Marcello . . . oh my God I'd do it again in a second.

Daisy was still talking. “You're picking up the shitty cards he dealt you. So please don't put yourself in the same category as that crap weasel.”

That made me chuckle. “Crap weasel? Wow, you're not kidding.”

“Let me ask you this, if you went back to Boston today and he said he was sorry and he still loved you and he'd never cheat again, could you forgive him?”

There it was. Probably the single most important question about the single most important relationship in my entire life. And I knew the answer immediately.

“No,” I said simply, and I knew then without any shadow of a doubt that no matter what he said or did, I'd never forgive him.

“Then you shouldn't feel guilty. A piece of paper does not a marriage make, Avery.”

“You're right.”

“And to be clear, I love you, but I will kick your ass down the Spanish Steps if I hear you feeling guilty again.”

Then I wouldn't say it out loud again. I was grateful for her input, but I still couldn't say with all sincerity that the guilt over what I might be getting up to in Rome while my divorce was still being hashed out was over just because my best friend snapped her fingers. I did feel better for actually saying it out loud, though. Kind of.

A few hours later we were both getting ready to head out. Daisy was meeting up for dinner with some friends she made from a project she worked on months ago. “I feel like all I do here is eat, sketch, paint, sketch, eat, walk, and sometimes sleep. Is that wrong?” I asked, smoothing on my lipstick. “I was emailing my parents and it read like instructions for a retired person's handbook.”

“If that's wrong, who the hell wants to be right?” Daisy answered, stepping into another pair of killer stilettos. I still don't know how she does it with all those cobblestones.

“I've got to mix it up a bit, though. More tours or more art groups.”

“What about the art group from the campo? The class you saw when you first got here?”

“Way ahead of you. I actually spoke with the woman the other day. I'm going to start with them soon. I just have to buy a few more brushes.”

“Excellent. I'll hang everything up that you bring home.”

“You're like my mom when she used to hang up my artwork on the fridge. She did that until I graduated BU, by the way . . .”

“Speaking of, how are the parents?” she asked.

“Speaking of, they're good. Retirement suits them perfectly. I have to call soon, though; I can tell they're getting antsy. There's only so long I can dodge an actual conversation, although you should see the detail in some of my mom's emails. She said they've seen Daniel's parents at the club several times since I split, but there hasn't been an actual Daniel sighting. Which is surprising, since he practically lived there.”

That was true, he was always way more into the scene than I was, even growing up and going with my family.

“I'm sure
his
mother's head exploded when
your
mother told them where you are.”

“That's why she wants to talk. To find out some details to lob back at her when Bitsy starts throwing her perfectly manicured shade.”

Time to change the subject. I pulled my travel guide from my tote. “Speaking of the Spanish Steps, I've decided to venture there today.”

“Look at you, Lewis and Clark-ing all over Rome. I'm so proud.” She wiped a fake tear from her eye. “Try the bus, it's super easy.”

FAMOUS LAST WORDS.

It's super easy
didn't include telling me about the metal box next to the driver that looked like a pay phone but without a receiver. Or that the driver didn't accept cash. Or that you had to buy your tickets before getting on the bus. After several near misses, however, and a delightful exchange where an old lady smelling like a rosemary bush told me exactly where to get off, and not in a nice “I'll give you actual directions” way, I finally figured it out. And after all that, it was like a five-minute ride! Ah well.

Once off the bus, however, it was surprisingly easy to find on foot. I just followed the well-placed signs that directed pedestrians to various landmarks.

I reached the Spanish Steps just as the sun was beginning to set behind them. They were filled with people eating, painting, and talking. I took a seat and pulled out my phone to take some pictures.

Then I had an idea. Turning the camera around on myself, I snapped a quick photo and sent it to Marcello before I could second-guess myself. It was a pretty good picture—the sun lit up my hair in all its wild curls, and I knew he'd love it. I looked happy and more relaxed than I'd been in ages.

His response dinged back immediately. “
Belissima
.”

W
HEN MONDAY ROLLED AROUND,
I offered to take Daisy out for lunch.

“So, where are we going for lunch? You're buying, so I'm thinking expensive. Daniel can afford it.”

“And he hasn't shut off the Amex yet. Out of guilt, I'm sure,” I agreed. “I saw a spot on the way over here; they had these enormous seafood towers in the window. One would be enough for both of us.”

“Then we should totally get two,” she pronounced, sticking her tongue out at me when I rolled my eyes.

“What's this?” I asked, picking up a sticky note that had a to-do list scribbled on it. She glanced over and smiled. “I was going to bring it up at lunch. I have to go to Amsterdam.”

“Good lord, I am jealous of your life,” I admitted, and jotted down,
find a sexy Dutchman to play hide the stroopwafel with.

She snorted. “That's a pretty good idea, but they're sticky.”

“Sticky isn't bad. It could be really,
really
good.”

“God you're obnoxiously happy when you've got a crush.”

Her phone rang and she answered, “
Ciao. Si
. Sure, sure, come
on down.
A presto
.” As she hung up, she said, “Sorry, this'll just take a minute. Maria's on her way down; she's all worked up about something.”

“A problem?”
Something I could help with?

“Possibly. We're working on a villa in Grottaferrata, and the owner has already made it clear he wants no delays. Zero.”

“Can't you just hire someone else?”

“You'd think, right? But since everything here is historical, everyone who's qualified to do that kind of work is always booked up.”

“Everyone
is
booked up!” came a voice from the doorway. “Joe is tied up at the Lateran job, and Constance is already running back and forth between the little convent in Naples and the house in the Mont Sacro. Philippa is working at Palazzo Doria. And Franco! If I could count how many wives, mothers, and girlfriends that
sciupafemmine
has had while doing a restoration job for us, I'd run out of hairs on my head! And he's booked anyway. I've got him working on a tapestry at a monastery at Santa Lucia, so he's ready to burst!”

She suddenly realized there was someone else in the room. “Sorry, so sorry, he's a wonderful restoration artist, but honestly, he can't keep his paintbrush out of everyone's palette.”