When I went to his house to tell him I was moving here, I couldn’t find him. No one I asked knew where he was. So I flew out last night without the closure I had wanted. No tears. Naturally, I get here and see the sunset, and this is when I want to break down.
I breathe deeply as I walk slowly to the front door: a thick, heavy-looking slab of dark wood that’s curved at the top. I check the instructions in my pocket and lift a terracotta flower pot by the braided doormat, beneath which I find a key. I slide it into the keyhole, turn slightly, and push the door slowly open.
As the home’s living room is revealed—pale and airy, just the way it looked in the pictures—I force a smile onto my face. My little bean and I will be so happy here. It’s what I’m projecting. I’m going to make it happen.
I walk all through the furnished cottage, checking over everything from the two bedrooms to the unexpected DeLonghi espresso machine gleaming on the counter. There’s a pot of lavender in the kitchen window. It spills its scent into the breezy air, filling the house with one of my favorite smells. Still, I feel no real emotion.
The place is quiet, with wind whipping around the stone walls. I can hear the breeze move through the roof, smell a bite of salt in the air. The humid air makes promises: that we’ll be comfortable and happy, that we’ll have a fresh start.
If nothing else, it’s peaceful here. Peaceful and quiet. Quiet and lonely.
Not for long, I tell myself with some force.
I pour myself a glass of water and eat some raisins from my purse at the round kitchen table, as if this is dinner. I can hear Dani’s voice in my head. “It’s not that I don’t support you, fishy…it’s just that we’re worried.”
I don’t want to play that out again, not even in my head; it’s too exhausting. So I look down at the table, tracing grooves in the wood with my fingertip. Telling myself that it’s better here than stateside. There was no way this was going to work out there. Being near Luca, but never hearing from him…fielding the congratulations from people who thought Jace was my baby’s father. It was too much.
As I walk through the furnished house again, I tell myself it’s okay to be proud of my choice. Even if no one else gets it. Even if Dani and Ree pretty much told me they think I’m insane. Sometimes you have to do what you need—even if that’s running off to Italy to live—alone—until you have your baby—alone.
I swallow hard and drift back into the kitchen. There’s a plastic bottle drying rack beside the sink, surely put there by Mrs. Bruno, my landlord for the next three months. It’s not so lonely here, I tell myself.
Finally, when I’ve explored the cabinets and the fully stocked refrigerator, I let myself out the back door. My gaze sweeps the golden sand and glittering sheet of water, shining now with the sun’s last rays. I squint at a dark blot in my view before realizing it’s a person. More specifically…it looks like a man’s muscular silhouette.
Just my luck, I think with a soft laugh. Meeting a guy is the last thing I need. Even though Luca and I aren’t currently together, I still harbor—I’m not sure what they should be called. Hopes? Delusions? Obsessions?
I heard Dani on the phone with Max about a week before I left, and I know she was telling him to contact Luca—even Luca’s friends, if need be—and let them know that I was going abroad.
“He’s going to make this right,” she said. “I know he is.”
Her tone was desperate. And it never happened. He’s too afraid. Too damaged, maybe. I can’t stand to think of him that way, so again, I center myself, nudging my shoes off and digging my toes into the sand.
I start toward the seashore, my eyes hung up on the man who’s still standing there by the water’s edge, not thirty yards away from my cottage. Now is not the time for small-talk with a stranger. I’ll go for a walk—just a short one; maybe I can find some shells—and when I get back, he’ll be gone.
I angle myself leftward, thinking I’ll walk in the direction of some other cottages in this cove. I walk quickly, softly, holding my breath, hoping that the man won’t turn around and greet me. But it doesn’t work. When I’m within ten feet of him, he turns toward me. I look over at him, prepped with a polite smile.
But it’s Luca.
For a moment, I wonder if my jetlag plus the pregnancy is causing a hallucination. I blink and keep blinking, as, with every step he takes, it’s more clear to me that it really is Luca. The silhouette transforms into a person clad in swim trunks and a dark sweatshirt. He stops within reach of me, looking tight-lipped, nervous. He smiles in that fleeting way of his—even as he reaches for me and I rush into his arms.