The Italian

“What do you fucking want, Olivia?” he yells as he follows me.

I arrive in the kitchen. “I want you.” I shake my head as I try to articulate my feelings. “I want you to be sentimental and to think about me and my feelings.”

He screws up his face, and I think he’s about to explode… literally.

“Pensi che non sia sentimentale?”

I narrow my eyes. He knows I can’t fucking understand him.

“You think I’m not sentimental, Olivia,” he sneers. “I remember every fucking word that leaves your lips. I know every curve on your body.” He disappears up the hall and into his office. I peer after him. What’s he doing now?

He reappears, carrying a wineglass and holding it up toward me. “What is this?” he yells in an outrage.

I frown in confusion.

“What is this?” He repeats.

“It’s a glass,” I say.

“Not just a glass.” He holds it higher. “This is the glass that you drank out of on the first night in my apartment in Roma.” He spins the glass so I can see the red lipstick marks on it. “I kept this for two years because it had your lips on it. I couldn’t wash it because I knew if I did, I would have lost the only mark you left with me.”

My eyes hold his.

“You think I’m not sentimental?” he yells like a madman. “Explain to me why the hell I couldn’t orgasm for two years without imagining I was with you.”

My heart drops.

“Two fucking years I lived a lie with every other woman, while my heart ached for only you!”

He turns and hurls the glass into the kitchen sink so hard that it smashes. He storms up the hall, and I hear the bedroom door slam.

I hear something hit the wall with force.

I stare at the broken glass in the sink, and my eyes fill with tears.

God, I’m a bitch.

I sit at the kitchen counter and exhale heavily. I knew we were going to have a fight tonight. I knew before we even left home.

I walk into the spare bedroom and take a long, hot shower. Half an hour later, I make my way up to our bedroom to find Enrico in bed. The blankets are pooled around his waist, and his forearm is over his eyes.

“Can I sleep in here?” I whisper.

“No.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Too late.”

I get into bed beside him and snuggle up against his large, naked body. “I didn’t open your presents because I want you to know that money doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t care about gifts. I care about your safety.”

He stays silent.

“I’m scared, Rici,” I whisper.

More silence.

“What good are gifts if I have to live without you?”