Derio does love me. I know this. At least, I knew this. He will have to listen. He will have to understand. As long as he’s on board, we can work through this.
I contemplate bringing it all up with him tonight but I’m feeling a bit emotional thanks to the wine and the vast emptiness of the blue dark around me. I just want him home, I want to collapse in his arms and I want his sweet words and steady resolve to bring me back around. I want to stop being numb and start letting him in again, to return to the way things were before we became emboldened by love.
I sigh, feeling worry bubble up inside me, and send him yet another text. Still no reply. I call him again. Still goes to voice mail. Even the professional tone of his voice in the greeting mocks me.
I get up, thinking about walking down to the Marina Grande, but the funicular isn’t running anymore and it’s a long walk when you take the road. I could take the bus, though, so I head inside to look at the bus schedule when my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Pronto,” I say, answering it like the Italians do.
The man’s voice on the other end is speaking so fast in Italian that I can barely work out the words.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I don’t know much Italian. Non parlo Italiano.”
“Sorry, sorry,” the man says in a heavy accent. “Is this Amber?”
“Yes, this is Amber.”
“I am Derio’s friend, Paolo.”
“Oh, hello, Paolo,” I say uneasily, having never spoken to him before.
“Hi, hi,” he says quickly. “Listen, I am with Derio and he is fine. We were drinking at the bar and he missed the last ferry. So very sorry, he is staying with me tonight in Napoli.”
My heart curls angrily. “Why are you calling me? Why isn’t he?”
“He is too drunk,” he says with a little laugh. “We had too much fun after practice, you see. You know how it goes and you know how he is.”
Actually, Derio’s drinking has gone down by half since I started nannying but I don’t bother bringing that up. That’s not the point. The point is that right now he’s supposed to be with me but was having too much fun getting drunk with his friend to even catch the damn boat.
“So what do I do now?” I ask him. “He’s supposed to come here and then I’m supposed to go back with him for the race.”
“Uh,” Paolo says, obviously picking up on the simmering rage in my voice. “I don’t know. I guess you will have to come meet him. It is just north of Rome, not too far.” He pauses. “Listen, he will call you in the morning. Okay, Amber? Very sorry but I take good care of him. Goodnight. Buonanotte.”
“Buonanotte,” I nearly spit out and hang up the phone. Just in Rome, not too far? It’s not like I’ve been to Rome since my backpacking days and it’s not like it’s just a short train ride away.
That vat of burning acid inside me? It’s bubbling again.
I let out a growl that causes Nero to dart into the rosemary and then I dial Paolo’s number.
“Pronto,” he says.
“Paolo, it’s Amber.”
“Hi, Amber—”
“Listen,” I say sharply. “When Derio wakes up, you tell him to take the first ferry in the morning back to me. Or else I’m not going to Rome and I may not even be here at all. Do you understand? Capisci?”
“Capisco,” he says warily. “I will, but he—”
“Just do it or he’ll have you to blame.” Then I hang up, feeling better this time.
Have you ever gone to bed angry? I mean so angry that it’s physically painful? It’s probably the worst feeling in the world. Your face is red and your body is hot and your heart races like it’s trying to puncture you with each beat. Your skin pulses with rage and all you want to do is sleep and forget about it. But you can’t. Not right away. And when you do, the anger seeps into your bloodstream, ensuring you’ll feel no peace even after you close your eyes.
That night, I fell asleep with a painful, angry heart and I woke up much the same way. There was no bright light of morning to clear the cobwebs, none of that positivity or optimism that comes with a new day. There wasn’t even that fuzzy moment of ignorance when you believe everything is all right. No, I woke up slightly hung over and stark, raving mad.
And I let the anger consume me. I got up, made the kids a lazy breakfast of Nutella and toast, walked them to school, and then hurried back to the house so I could rage in privacy and not in the Capri sunshine, which seemed too happy and bright for my mood.
Meanwhile, I had gotten a million texts from Derio and a few missed calls. I answered one text with, If you don’t come here it’s all over, and that’s it.
I know it’s the not the kind of thing to say over text. I know Derio’s pet peeve is big matters taking to small technology. I know he hates ultimatums and threats and he’s the first person to get defensive. But if he can’t see how serious this situation has become, then we have a problem. Actually, we already have a problem; we just have a bigger one now as well. The kind that can’t be fixed. You can only patch a hole so many times before you just have to walk away.
I was ready to walk away now, but it wouldn’t be without a fight.
Unfortunately, when Derio shows up—and for a while there I really thought he wouldn’t—he isn’t happy at all. And not in the groveling, I-did-you-wrong kind of way but in the pissed-off, already-on-the-defensive kind of way. The worst kind.