“Gianluca…”
I felt vulnerable, utterly exposed to him. He could see my nerves starting to fray, my body shuddering from the rush of climax. He continued his rhythmic teasing with his finger as he sank deep inside me, all the way to the hilt. My breaths came in short, weak cries against his neck. My teeth grazed him there, and then finally he picked up the pace, pumping in and out of me, and I was writhing in agony and pleasure, climaxing so high I thought I’d split in two from the pleasure of it.
I was in a daze, vaguely aware of his orgasm combining with mine. I luxuriated in the blissful claim he laid on my body. Vaguely, I registered him sliding out of me and forcing the two of us to stand. He held up my weight as he bent forward and pulled the drain open. The spray of the shower collided with my back and we lathered each other up, taking our time and being lazy about it.
He bent down and kissed my cheek as I lathered up his chest. Before I’d even finished, he hauled me up against his body. He was soapy and warm, a human shield I used to block the shower’s spray as well as the depressing reality that would await us when the water eventually turned cold.
ALLIE HATED THE sea. She’d watched some nature program about sharks as a little girl and subsequently, she wouldn’t go near the ocean. She said it was too unpredictable for her taste. She liked pools, nice lovely resort pools with umbrellas in the drinks and complimentary towels. It was a bit funny that we’d moved to Vernazza for the last year of her life because she never once touched the water. She’d sit up on the pebbled beach, reading while I swam laps. I’d try to entice her, drag her to the edge of the water. It was crystal clear, no fish in sight, but Allie would scrunch her nose and retreat, slipping back to her spot in the shade or ordering a drink from one of the seaside vendors.
I hadn’t ever let myself consider it, but in the last year of her life, Allie had been incredibly hard to love. I couldn’t blame her for it. I’d placed her on a pedestal, treated her like a princess, and she’d grown accustomed to the role. It made sense. If she only had a finite number of days, what was the point of compromise, in forcing herself to do something she didn’t want to? That last year, and even the years before (if I really wanted to consider it), my world revolved around pleasing Allie. If she wanted pasta for dinner, I’d have Massimo deliver a special dish just for her. If she fancied a massage, I’d hire someone and bring them in from La Spezia. If she needed more sleep, or extra pain meds, or anything at all, I’d oblige. What choice did I have? I’d have cut my arm off to please her and she deserved to be a bit selfish, didn’t she? Only recently had I come to realize that in the five years since her death, I’d only remembered the good, the fun, the rose-colored.
I was up in my bedroom with boxes and packing supplies. I had hefty bin bags filled with things I should have tossed ages ago: her toothbrush, hairspray, makeup. Anything that could be reused I stowed away in donation boxes: jewelry, shoes, dresses. My house was filled with her things; I’d realized it long ago, I’d just preferred to live in denial. There was less guilt involved.
Even now, as I let myself mull over Allie’s few unsavory qualities, it didn’t make it any easier to put away her things. I’d loved Allie fiercely and eternally, and I’d lost her.
Now, I was doing the unthinkable: loving someone new.
I had been to rock bottom and grown accustomed to the comfort it provided. Leaving it gave me hope for a future, but also a fear for the unknown. Loving Georgie took courage I hadn’t known I still had, courage that at times seemed like an act of sheer folly.
“Am I dreaming right now or are you packing Allie’s stuff?”
Massimo was standing in the doorway of the room. I’d called him and asked for help, but I’d forgotten about it until he was there, thumbing through a box of Allie’s shoes, wearing a look of disbelief.
“You’re not dreaming,” I said, tossing a marker to him so he had to think fast to catch it. “Label that one, will you? Then tape it and take it down to the others.”
“I passed the boxes downstairs. You’re really doing this, aren’t you?”
I didn’t meet his gaze; I continued working. “What? Getting rid of her things? It’s about time.”
“No. It’s more than that, I can tell.”
I sighed and stared down at the empty box waiting to be filled.
“Yeah. It is.”
THREE DAYS AFTER Gianluca’s birthday, I was hunched over the toilet in the first-floor bathroom getting rid of everything I’d eaten for breakfast that morning—not by choice, mind you. Apparently I was so miserable that even my oatmeal wanted nothing to do with me.
In the days since our hike, I’d felt like utter crap. Tired and queasy. Emotionally and physically drained. Everything ached: my head, my body, and worst of all, my heart. I chalked it up to the stress of living a life I knew might come crashing down around me at any moment. I wasn’t sleeping well, and I felt close to tears at every moment, so emotionally fragile that I knew I couldn’t keep up the charade much longer. I’d walk around the bed and breakfast, trying to focus on a task, but would get distracted, suddenly so overcome with sadness that I couldn’t do it.
Taylor knocked on the bathroom door. “Georgie, are you all right?”
I jerked up and flushed, scared he’d barge in and see the evidence of my sickness.
“I’m fine!” I shouted, feigning cheeriness. “Just cleaning up in here a bit.”