The Italian

“I’m sorry, too.” She smiles as she takes her hand from my face, coldness fills the void.

“So, this is it?”

“Yes, this is it. I just wanted to say goodbye and tell you that I understand.”

I get a lump in my throat. “You do?”

“Of course, I do.” She gives me her first genuine smile of the day. “I wish you the best. She will come.”

I stare at her, unable to push a word pass my lips. She’s already here.

“And if I find out you have a mistress behind her back, I’m coming back here to kick your ass.”

My face falls. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ll stay for the three months for the experience, but them I’m going to New York.”

My gaze drops to the table, unable to look her in the eye, and reining in my every instinct to drop to my knees and beg. “If it’s any consolation, I knew you would never become my other woman.” I pause for a moment. “But I had to try. I can’t change my heritage and what’s expected of me.” My eyes search hers. “If I could, I would.”

She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “I understand. It doesn’t make it any easier, but I understand. Thank you for explaining everything.”

I smile, relieved that she doesn’t hate me. I hate me enough for the both of us.

She stands.

“You’re leaving already?” I murmur as I stand with her. “Can we just be friends? Stay and drink your coffee.”

“We both know where that will lead.” She smiles sadly.

I take her in my arms, and we stand cheek-to-cheek for a long time.

I close my eyes in regret.

Don’t go.

“Goodbye, Rici.” She tries to walk away and cling onto her hand.

“What if I won’t let you go?”

“But you will.”

The truth hurts.

She turns, walks out of the restaurant, and out of my life.

I slump back into my chair and drag my hand down my face.

I inhale with a shaky breath. It will fine.

I’ll be fine.

It needed to come to an end.

I’ll be fine.

* * *

I sit at the table and stare at the bride.