“Holy Christ—” I blurted, but Marcello wrapped one arm around my waist and slipped his other hand gently across my lips.
“Not that. Not here,” he whispered, leaving me to wonder what he was referring to, the kiss or the cursing.
“That is incredible,” I whispered, spinning three sixty to see light-colored stone wall that rose high above us.
He’d brought us to St. Peter’s Square.
I was never very religious. We went to church when I was a kid, because it’s what you did for the social aspect. Same reason I went with Daniel. You dressed in your best and brunched with the worst. Nothing about it had to do with the church.
Here you felt . . . I don’t know . . . I won’t pretend it was some sort of divine presence—or maybe it was. Whatever was happening made me feel something. It was the art in my bones, the history I’d studied for so long hunched over long wooden library desks in the fading light. Seeing it in person was something altogether different. Magnificent.
“Come.” He nudged me, holding out his arm for me to take. Such an old-fashioned gesture, but for him, it fit. He led us to a gap in the queue rope where a flood of people were streaming through and I stopped, mouth agape, with a nearly crippling need to sketch it.
I didn’t know where to look first. The tall, noble pillars that circled the wall above us. The huge majestic statues lining the top like sentries guarding their little city. We walked around the square, my phone filled with photo after photo. I spun, trying to memorize every inch of it, but there was too much. As if he knew what I was thinking, Marcello placed his hand on my back and guided me to one of the black folding chairs.
“You know the way here now, so you can come back. Bring your chalks or pencils, make it your own.”
He was beaming, handsome, and my heart flipped.
“I feel like I could sit here for weeks and not capture a fraction of the beauty of this place.”
“I hope to see them when you have finished. I’ve missed your work.”
We didn’t chat at all once we left St. Peter’s. By the time we reached home, night had swallowed up the city in a magnificent navy hue. I was lost in thought, contemplating all the things I’d seen on our walk, and all the places I’d still yet to visit. Walking with him tonight really drove home how compact this city was. You could see a dozen landmarks in just a few miles.
On our way home, Marcello seemed to be getting text after text on his phone. He apologized several times, and I tried not to think about who might be blowing up his phone. We’d yet to talk about Simone, the woman he’d been sitting with (and kissing) the night I’d arrived in Rome. Was she still in the picture? How serious were they? Should he be out on the town with me? With my heart full of joy and my head full of questions, we climbed the stairs to the apartment.
I turned, and Marcello was right behind me. Close enough that I could feel the fabric of his shirt on my bare arms. So many of our early dates in Spain had ended this way, him looking over my shoulder at my door, wondering whether he’d be invited in. I thought about Daisy’s note. He technically wasn’t a boy . . . would I ask him inside?
“Today, well today was perfect,” I said. “Thank you for showing me some of your Rome.”
“This makes me happy, to know you liked seeing my city.”
I knew he was telling the truth. He’d always liked to make me happy, to find out what I liked, and what I loved. Emboldened, I looked up at him. “I’m thinking right now of something I’d like.”
His eyes changed instantly, smoldering. “Maybe a kiss?”
I held my breath, turning my lips up in silent answer.
He cupped my face and lowered his mouth to each of my cheeks.
“I was thinking somewhere else,” I admitted, licking my lips when his eyes flickered to my mouth.
“I’m afraid if I kiss you the way I want to, I won’t stop.”
I nodded, not quite agreeing, but unable to say the words that would give him the okay, the “let’s make this real again.”
“Good night, Avery.” Marcello held my eyes as he walked down the steps.
I thought back to each time today when he almost or I almost. When we were crushed together in the crowd outside the Colosseum. When he wrapped his arm around me as we walked along the Tiber. And the night before, when he’d picked me up as though I weighed nothing to lift me over the velvet rope and I almost let him kiss me the way I was desperate for him to.
And I hadn’t let him.
“Marcello,” I whispered, not loud enough that I thought he’d hear me.
Oh, but he did. And in three strides he was back up the stairs.
He was on me before I could barely take a breath, his body flattening mine into the brick wall. His mouth hot, hungry, and demanding against my neck, along my shoulder, and up to my ear, where he whispered, “Give me your lips.”
I wanted nothing more than to pull him into the shadows and have my wicked way with him.
Why can’t you? a voice whispered in my head. You deserve this.
I put my hand under his chin to stare into those beautiful eyes before I took those beautiful lips. Oh my goodness, his lips. Soft and strong, they felt the same, they tasted the same. He kissed me crazy once, then twice, then what felt like a thousand times, and still not enough.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed you. Missed your mouth,” he purred, frantically angling me up the stairs.
“Marcello,” I sighed, my lips tangled with his. There was nothing in the world like kissing this man. And I wanted more than ever to kiss him for hours without a care in the world, reacquaint myself with every contour and plane of his exquisite mouth.
But this reunion was anything but relaxed. This was nine years, nine years, of going without this kind of passion.
With a thud, my back hit Daisy’s front door. We fumbled against each other, laughing and still kissing, as he held both of my hands above my head in one of his. His other hand quickly untucked the hem of my shirt, slipping beneath with ease. I gasped into his mouth as his fingers danced along my rib cage. I needed this, oh, God I needed him! I needed his hands on my body more, now, in this instant. My gasp turned quickly into a groan, spurring on his movements as his fingers slid underneath the edge of my bra, smooth and rough, and I loved it.
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.”
WHEN 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.”