Halfway to You(49)

I opened the front door to find Luca standing there, a bouquet of lilies in hand. He stepped forward, but I barred his entrance. “Luca.” We kissed cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I cannot stand it any longer, I want you.” He cupped my cheek and kissed me deeply, holding me flush against his body with his other arm. He tasted of wine. “I know you want me too.”

“Luca,” I said, pushing his chest slightly. “This isn’t a good—”

“Ann?” Todd called from the other room.

Luca’s face contorted, and he released me.

“I didn’t know where to put the towel, so I just—” Todd came up behind me. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.”

“Who is this man?” Luca asked softly, his eyes reddening.

I told the truth. “A friend.”

“He doesn’t look like a friend,” he said in Italian. “He looks like a lover. You’ll sleep with this man but not me?”

I knew in that moment that I wouldn’t be able to convince Luca otherwise. Todd was an attractive American man in my apartment, late at night. He was shirtless, hair wet, shower-fresh.

“Can you trust me when I tell you he’s a friend and not a lover?” I asked in Italian.

“No,” Luca said. “How could I?”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Todd said, clearly wanting to help but not helping at all.

It would’ve been easier had Luca gotten angry. Anger I could handle. Anger made the breaking easier.

But he didn’t get angry. He handed me the flowers and—his eyes growing wetter by the moment—said, “Arrivederci, mia bella.”

I watched him hurry down the hallway toward the stairs, remembering my time in France, when I had learned that my boyfriend was engaged to another woman. How awful and hurt and stupid I’d felt. I hated to think that I’d made Luca feel that way—but I knew I had.

The realization was excruciating.

But there was no way for me to fix it now—and maybe I didn’t want to.

“Ann,” Todd said. “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to go after him and try to explain?” He stood close, the heat of the shower still clinging to his skin.

I shook my head and closed the door. “He wouldn’t believe you,” I said. “It’s okay, truly.”

“You don’t seem okay.” He guided me to the foot of the bed. We sat. “It’s just a misunderstanding, it’s fixable.”

I looked at him, then looked away. “No, it’s fine.”

“You seem to have cared for him.”

“I did—I do. But like you said about Ellen, something was missing,” I said. “Whether now or later, we would’ve broken up. Better to have it happen before we were both more invested.”

I knew he understood. He rubbed my back in steady vertical streaks. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s all right.” I met his eyes, resisting the urge to glance at his lips. If I wasn’t careful, I would fall into the same trap as I had in Greece. Friendship—Todd wanted only friendship from me.

I patted his leg and stood, trying to shake off my emotional weight. I didn’t want to ruin things between us a second time. “You must be exhausted. I’ll sleep on the floor, and you can take the bed for tonight.”

“No way. You just went through a breakup—not five minutes ago—and it’s my fault. If anyone deserves the floor, it’s me.”

I knew I couldn’t argue with him, so I simply handed him the bundle of blankets I’d gathered. He arranged himself on the floor while I washed my face and changed into a slip. When I reemerged from the bathroom, Todd was lying on his back at the foot of the bed, cushioned from the hardwood by a small area rug. I felt bad for him down there but knew it was futile to try to convince him to take the bed. I turned off the light, slipped under my duvet, and stared at the ceiling.

Should I have gone after Luca? Or had it been right to let him go? I wondered if my doubts about him had been warranted or imagined. Significant or self-sabotage. Perhaps I was just like my mother: plagued by romanticism yet incapable of cultivating a healthy outlook on love. Was I broken?

Tears beaded on my cheeks and slid toward my ears, wetting the pillow. Grief pressed down on my chest. I sniffled.

My mother had loved me. She hadn’t excelled at showing it, but she had. And look how that had ended: I hadn’t even been there for her when she was dying of cancer. My mother was gone, and our relationship would always be unresolved—and it was my fault.

My grief was complicated, Maggie. Sometimes I wished it could only be one thing—sadness—but it wasn’t. It was resentment and heartbreak and self-hatred too.

A faint draft from my window cooled the wetness on my cheeks.

A sigh emanated up from the floor, reminding me that for once, someone was there—and he was there because he cared. My grief suddenly didn’t seem so vast. And what a gift that was. What an unimaginable gift.

“Thank you for coming,” I whispered to the ceiling.

“You’re welcome.” His voice sounded so deep and strong, filling my whole apartment with his steadiness.

Minutes went by. He shifted positions with a soft groan.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked.