A few days before, we’d selected the spot.
He’d suggested, “This is where we’ll ask her to marry us,”
I’d agreed.
The view, the place… so magical and perfetto.
Inhaling deeply, I smelled the briny air filled with the faint sticky aroma of sunflowers. The ground was covered in them, and Isola di Girasoli had even been named after them. Growing on vivid green stalks, their bright yellow faces open, reaching up to the white sky for warmth and light. They were gleefully rooted about, almost as if cheering us on.
In a way, Rocco and I were similar to those flowers reaching for something—nourishment and love.
We got down on our knees, and the warm soil pressed under my legs. Glancing up at the woman we loved, we each took her hand.
Jemma Fereti. Tall. Striking. Ours. We called her dolce because she always tasted like tiramisu when we kissed.
As I studied her finger, the one I’d put the ring on, I thought about us…
For me, taking Jemma as my bride, and Rocco as my groom, meant forever. My life spent searching for intention would soon be complete. Together they made up my everything.
For Rocco, our union symbolized something he’d yearned for: a family.
Hopefully for Jemma it would mean peace after her year-long battle with breast cancer.
“Amore, go on. Ask her.” Patience wasn’t Rocco’s virtue.
“Give me a minute—”
In private, we’d talked about the day for the past few months. We’d picked out the perfect engagement ring: a Tittoni Gems of Distinction twelve-carat pink diamond, a custom-made work of art from Manhattan for Jemma. And two simple gold bands for Rocco and myself. We’d planned the vacation: a week alone on the island, getting time away. Only the three of us. This was one of Jemma’s favorite Mediterranean locals. She’d grown up there with her royal friend, Prince Massimo Tittoni, who ruled over the small country.
Having Jemma’s hand in marriage was all Rocco and I ever desired. Over the past few years, we’d loved each other as a thruple. Our special togetherness had been all her doing.
Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined an open poly relationship with one woman and another man working out. Certain jealousy and games would poison the affair, but it hadn’t tarnished our lovemaking in the least.
That is till now. Rocco yearned for more, and frankly, so did I. Especially when Prince Massimo granted the Poly Marriage Act, legalizing the rights for those who loved openly to wed.
“Dolce…we’d like to ask you something…” I got the words out. I wasn’t one to talk much. Regardless, Rocco had insisted it come from me. After all, I’d been with Jemma for almost a year before we’d met him.
My boyfriend was the well-spoken one. The one in touch with his feelings. The man who’d glued the three of us together in ways which went beyond the boundaries of sex. He was the first and only man I’d ever had sex with, and I liked it. Oh, God, I fucking loved it! I loved him.
“My amore—” Uncertainty quivered in Jemma’s voice.
My left hand reached deep inside my pocket. I pulled out the diamond and held it up to her, sparkling in the sunshine, and asked, “Will you marry us?”
With a smile, Rocco’s face beamed.
Her mouth dropped open, asking, “Huh?” Deep grooves etched her high forehead. Her eyes, usually varying shades of amber, dilated to black. The lips I loved kissing—full and sensual—had evaporated into her mouth as she chewed on them, clearly unsure how to respond.
Hearing the quick intake of Rocco’s breath, he bit on his nails for a second before blurting out, “Luigi and I love you. We want to spend the rest of our lives with you. Let’s share every day together. Start a family. Grow old with each other. Dolce, what do you say?”
My girlfriend cupped his face in her hands, her darkly painted nails gliding over his olive skin. She stared at him as if searching for what to say before reaching down, pressing her lips against his, and replying with a kiss.
One could get lost in Rocco’s face: a square jawline, thick eyebrows which framed his intense eyes, and a dimple on each cheek. He was the sexiest man I’d ever laid eyes on.
Kind and loving.
“My darling, you know since my chemo I cannot conceive a child.”
“We can adopt. Get a surrogate,” he defended, enthusiasm bubbling in his voice about all of the options we had before us. “We can afford to do whatever you want.”
Money for us wasn’t a problem. When it came to living the luxury lifestyle—private jets, fast cars, fierce clothes, gourmet food—we had it all. Working for Girasoli Garment Company and the House of Tittoni had afforded us that much.
“I love you both and would like nothing more than to share the rest of my life with you. We have a buono thing going.”
“What better reason than for us to marry?” Determined, he got to his feet and then helped me up.
Putting my arms around them, the three of us brought our foreheads together as one. This felt good, us embracing and talking about our future.
Her long eyelashes fluttered. Avoiding eye contact, her attention cast on our feet.
Our toes were covered in sand crystals. We’d been at the beach all day drinking Bellinis, making love.
“Why do you two wanna screw this up with marriage?” Almost contemptuously, the “m” word came out of her mouth as she clenched her jaw.
Oh, boy…
Irritated, I shifted my weight from one foot to another as my mind spun with bewilderment. I knew she’d be resistant for how this would play out, but Rocco and I had the answers. All she had to do was try.
Just say yes.
In the past, Jemma had filled our ears with stories of how her parents had fought till her mother had dropped dead from a heart attack. Mr. and Mrs. Fereti’s marriage wasn’t anything to emulate. It’d caused Jemma to avoid confrontation and commitment over the years at all cost. As a result, she rarely got deep with us, instead focusing on her fashion designer career, hot sex, and her Manhattanite friends.
“You’re cancer-free now. It’s time for us to get on with our lives,” I reminded, hoping she’d celebrate life and not fear it. For the past year, time had stood still for all three of us.
We’d been with Jemma through every phase of her breast cancer, from her first diagnosis to her mastectomy, radiation, and reconstructive surgery. Each step of the way we’d been at her side, taking care of her. How could she not see “forever” with us? Surely, we saw our future with her.
Baffled and starting to get nauseous over the fact she even questioned our proposal, a bitter taste came up in the back of my throat.
We weren’t losing her. Were we?
“I’m living my life with you two. That’s enough for me. We don’t need marriage to make our relationship any more official, Luigi. Weddings ruin everything.” Her mind seemed to whirl. She rubbed her temples for a minute before saying, “And we don’t need to have babies either, Rocco.”
I glanced over at him, his almond-shaped eyes glistening. He was the emotional one, so I comforted. “Don’t…cry.” Wiping my cheek with my thumb I then kissed him.
His body trembled, leaning into me. All muscle, Rocco appeared strong and firm on the outside, like pasta cooked al dente, but on the inside, he was sensorial. Unlike any man I’d ever met. Don’t get me wrong. He’s not weak, just hypersensitive.
“What’s gotten into you two?” The tone in her voice set alarm bells ringing as she became increasingly uneasy.
Surprised by her reply, I didn’t have an answer.
She continued. “I knew this vacation would bring us closer together, but we’re here to relax and unwind. Not get stressed out about our future. A piece of paper saying we love one another means nothing about how we’re to spend the rest of our lives.”
“How can you say that?” he asked.
“What matters is how we treat each other while in this relationship.” With a toss of her head, she tried to laugh
the whole topic off, that famous supermodel smile on her face.
Regardless, I could see right through her. It was as if someone else stood before us.
Jemma was terrified of commitment.
I’d seen her behave as such before. Not often.
It was the same face she had the day she’d confessed to being in love with Rocco. Regardless, I accepted him. I’d not only grown to love him, but in time became madly in love with him, too. There would never be another man for me other than Rocco. I wasn’t gay when I’d met him.
Merda, at times I don’t think I’m even a bisexual, because I don’t look at other guys. Rocco is the only man who turns me on. However, I guess that’s why one calls me “bi” although I’m not fond of that term. I hate any sexual orientation labels, such as homo, hetero, bi, etc.
I’m a man who loves a woman.
I’m a man who also loves another man.
That’s all that matters to me!
It was also the same face she had when the doctor had told her she had cancer.
We’d detected it early. Rocco had found the lump just under the lower part of her breast as we’d been giving her a massage that night. He was the one who’d demanded she go see a doctor. I didn’t know where we’d be without him.
She’d beaten cancer. Her will to live, and the early diagnosis, had given her a good chance for survival. Jemma Fereti is the strongest woman I know. An original. There’s no one like her.
Words… I didn’t have any. I struggled for what to say next. Uncertainty aroused deep inside me, which was a first. Usually I was in control, knew what I want, and got it, too. But right then? Nothing appeared to be working in my favor.
“Dolce, Luigi and I are serious.” Rocco’s voice rose. Arching his back, he continued, “He’s going to ask you one more time. Give us your answer, per favore.”
A sense of hope made me focus as I repeated, “Will you marry us?”
In silence, we waited.
Over the cliff, the wind blew in from the ocean upon us. Jemma’s black hair had been growing back since her therapy, and it covered her eyes. Rocco bit his nails faster the longer he couldn’t see her face.
Her chin turned up a bit, causing the sun to cast a halo over her. Since the day we’d met, she’d been our angel, our white light for happiness.
Today, will all that change?
Every fiber of my body tensed, and I hated the feeling. Usually I was a confident man.
“No…I can’t…I won’t. There’s no need or room for marriage in our lives.” She placed the palm of her delicate hand on Rocco’s broad chest. “If you want children so badly, you have my permission to have another woman carry your baby. Regardless, I don’t think I have much left in me to give to a child, not after what I’ve been through. Being a mom takes a lot of energy. You’ll need to raise that child on your own or with Luigi.”
His tan skin illuminated with tears, flooding his face. He pushed his wavy, black hair behind his ears.
My heart broke. I hated to see him suffer.
“And Luigi, if you want to wed, take Rocco’s hand in marriage. The two of you can sign the papers. Nevertheless, my darling, it’s not going to change anything between us. I love what we have, but if matrimony is what you want—some lifetime guarantee—I won’t stand in your way of happiness.”
Taking in what she’d said, I dipped my chin in acknowledgment but gave no reply.
“I’m sorry, amore,” she mouthed in my direction.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I couldn’t.
Her refusal was as if I was hearing the doctor say she’d had breast cancer all over again.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I only saw black. A sense of grave hopelessness washed over my optimistic spirit. I didn’t think it was possible to feel a chill in the warm sun, on that beautiful island, and surrounded by evergreen. Nevertheless, I did. As if we were in the Arctic, snow falling upon us.
“Our happiness is with you, Jemma.” In a numb voice, I reminded her how important she was to us, and then kissed her on the lips.
When her mouth broke from mine, she whispered in my ear, “Can we go on…with what we have?”
I pulled back and asked, “What do you mean?”
“The three of us, loving each other. Even if that means you won’t be calling me your wife or the mother of your children?”
Alarmingly, my pulse skittered. Clenching my jaw, I realized we were making compromises about our relationship. My eyes snapped shut, trying to block out the truth that I wanted marriage, to see Rocco be a padre. Lying through my teeth, I answered, “Sì, I’m sure.”
I don’t have the heart to call it quits. Not now. Probably not tomorrow, either.
“Grazie, I love you.” Her slender hand slinked behind the back of my neck as relief graced her lips in the expression of a smile.
Chest rising, inhaling through my mouth, I attempted to return the gesture but couldn’t.
Sad. Pissed off. This wasn’t how love was supposed to go. Was it? However, I couldn’t see my life without her.
Together, we faced Rocco.
His nose shiny, red.
“Bello, can’t we just keep things the way they are?” she asked.
“Give me some time to process this—” He turned into himself. “I don’t know what I want. But I do know I don’t want to be without you two.”
A yearning of wanting it to work, more than ever, rocketed through me. Rocco was so vulnerable. He needed us, and we needed him. Didn’t Jemma see how we couldn’t live without her?
As we watched Jemma head back to our private oasis on the beach, I slipped the diamond into my front pocket. The ring would never adorn dolce’s finger.
The pain in my heart, as if I’d just been stabbed, made it hard to even look at Rocco. I should’ve stood my ground. But who gives their girlfriend an ultimatum when proposing marriage? I didn’t expect it to turn out like this. Such a disaster.
The hand he’d been nervously biting started to bleed. I reached for it, giving him a squeeze.
“One day this isn’t going to be enough for me. I want more for my life. I deserve it, too,” he said and hugged me.
“I know you do, bello,” I muttered. “I do, too.”
We’d just said our piece to move on in our own life directions. Maybe not that day. Maybe not the next. However, someday, the notion of not getting married and having children with Jemma might destroy Rocco and me if we stayed in the relationship for too long.
Damn Vive Farnworth! My career is O-V-E-R
Jemma
Present Day
The Girasoli Garment Company Corporate Office, Milan, Italy
Merda!
On a scale from one to ten. One being…craporama. Ten being…the effin’ fudgesicle worst day of my cat-litter stinking life. That day, the day after my couture fashion collection had hit the European runways, I, Jemma Fereti, former runway supermodel turned fashion designer, was having an eleven.
Yup. That’s way worse than smelling cat pee. Trust me.
Damn that Vive Farnworth at Debauchery magazine and her nasty ass editorial.
With my cell in my hand, I glared at the article on the screen so hard I thought my corneas would surely catch on fire. Or worse, my eyeballs might just pop out of their socket and soar across the room as two Ping-Pong balls, bouncing off Lex, Taddy, and Blake, who stood before me.
Vive’s headline read, “Jemma Couture’s NEW Fashion Collection is Shit.”
That was exactly what it said. Shit. Clear as the Tuscan sun and to the point. I plus fashion equals…poop.
My fashion collection that season which I’d so fondly titled Death Star Galactica was a failure.
This was bad. So very bad.
Almost as horrific as the time I’d learned my career as Europe’s highest paid runway model was over. Dead in the water. Overnight, I’d become…unbookable. Why? Cause I’d turned thirty-frickin’-five. The fashion industry was ruthless. Hence why that af
ternoon I was freaking the fudge out.
Almost as bad as the time my madre had passed away and I’d told my padre at the funeral that I was in a poly relationship with two of the most wonderful men on the planet.
I’d thought he’d be happy for me. Didn’t he want to see my needs were being taken care of? That I was A-Okay.
Umm. No!
Giving an ultimatum, he’d argued, “I didn’t spend over a million dollars, put you in Milano’s best schools, and raise you to be a signora to have you turn into the laughingstock of Italy. You’re not a whore. Either they go or I do.”
Cool as gelato, I’d kept calm, but had eventually lost my patience and declared, “Padre, I didn’t survive a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery in my thirties to have you tell me how to live my friggin’ life. Arrivederci.”
The Big C and little ta-ta was what I had. But the Big C and little ta-ta isn’t who I am. No fucking way, my darlings. I refuse to let it define me. I’m a fighter. I’m a survivor.
Regardless, my heart broke that day my padre had protested my relationship. He’d never understand, so we hadn’t talked since. Did I miss him? Sì. But I had to live my life by my rules, not his. Maybe I was selfish. After my diagnosis and treatment, I realized life goes by in a blink, and it’s too short to not do as you please. And I am doing exactly that.
Which leads me to the third worst moment of my so-called fabulous life. I already told ‘ya what it was…
That day was almost as scary as the time the doctor had said, “Jemma, you have breast cancer.” Mentally, I’d never recovered from the mastectomy. Physically, Milan’s top plastic surgeon had reconstructed my breasts after I’d kicked the Big C in the ass. To be honest, they looked better than they did before the diagnosis. Implants. Never thought I’d have two artificial silicone pillows put in me, but damn, they look fucking fabulous.
I have been cancer-free for the two years. Knock on wood. My breasts seem and sometimes feel real, but having mine removed wasn’t just a shock to my system. Cancer had destroyed my sense of self. My boyfriends don’t see the fear I have: that it’ll come back, that one day I could get sick again. I wouldn’t survive the next time around, I already knew it. More about that later. Much later. I need to keep my mind on work.