But the other part feels wise and in control. It tells me it never would have worked, that this was a long time coming, that it was always going to end this way. A vacation romance, nothing more, nothing less. There was never a need for it to get complicated. But complicated, it is, and like a coward I ran when the going got tough.
You didn’t run, I tell myself. You chose to go because you had to go. Derio could have come after you but he didn’t.
Derio also has a brother and sister to deal with now, the day before the race. I wince, knowing I might have screwed up his first race in over a year. I tell myself there will be others, that he will win them, and all will be fine. But I don’t believe it; I just feel guilty.
Guilt, sorrow, emptiness; they surround me in that tiny room as darkness falls over the city.
I think about the way he loved me.
Because he really did love me.
He really does love me.
I fall asleep clinging to that thought, like maybe one day it could save me.
* * *
I don’t know how I manage to get everything done the next day but I do. I book my ticket home for tomorrow evening, then I call my parents and give them the so-called good news. My father is especially happy, telling me he’s proud of me for knowing when to come home and even recognizing that it must have been hard for me to leave my job. Of course, he said it in a way that made it seem like I was fooling around at a summer camp, but whatever. My heart is too heavy to argue with him.
I send an e-mail to Shay telling her what’s going on, then realize I have no one else to tell. There’s Angela, but I haven’t spoken to her properly in so long that it feels weird to do so—it’s better if I just call her once I get home.
Home. The concept seems so weird now. The idea of living in the suburbs, in that cul-de-sac with my parents, where everyone’s green lawns are the same color and the backyard fences all end at the same height and the roofs all have cheap red tile, feels stifling and somehow more claustrophobic than living on a rock in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
Am I doing the right thing? I ask myself as I pay for my ticket.
Am I doing the right thing? I ask myself after I hang up the phone with my parents.
Am I doing the right thing? I ask myself after seeing the one text Derio has sent to me since I left, which I ignore.
Senza di te, non sono niente. Ti prego torna a me.
Without you, I am nothing. Please come back to me.
How am I supposed to respond to that? Thank you for making me cry into my coffee? Because that’s exactly what happens.
But sometimes you never know if you’re doing the right thing until after you’ve done it. And I know this is definitely one of those times.
In the afternoon, I decide to drag myself out for some pizza—I can still taste the glorious slice I had when I was here with Derio and the twins, and I start craving it, as if all the feelings of happiness, love, and security are wrapped up in that thin, oven-baked crust.
While there are a lot of pizzerias in the neighborhood, I’m looking for a place that sells authentic Neapolitan pizza. The government has imposed some quality-control standards regulating what is considered proper Neapolitan pizza, so I need to make damn sure I eat the right thing.
I finally find one with a vintage, mint-colored sign and go inside.
Vorrei un pezza de pizza margherita, per favore, I mouth the words to myself as I walk under whirring fans, the smell of garlic and fresh dough hitting my nostrils. I’m not even sure if I’m saying it right, but I’m going to try. My mind feels completely fogged up, like all the Italian I’ve learned has gone out the window, and I can’t think straight.
I get to the counter of the shop, barely noticing that the handful of patrons are all gathered by a TV in the corner as a sportscaster speaks rapid-fire Italian. The sound of his voice gives me a headache; I’m definitely not going to miss how loudly the Italians speak.
“Vorrei un pezza,” I say, forgetting the rest. The steely-eyed, Dalí-mustached man at the counter picks out a slice with mushrooms. Not what I wanted, but I’m not going to say anything. It’s still probably delicious and the man looks like he wouldn’t speak English to me, even if he knew how.
I slide two euros toward him and take the slice, turning around to the condiment station to put on some red pepper flakes, when I hear the sportscaster on the TV yell the name “Desiderio Larosa.”
I nearly drop my pizza, and as I turn to look at the screen, it hits me that of course he is racing today. It must be televised. It’s a feeling that makes me both happy and sick.
But when I turn around to look at the screen, the sickness turns to stomach-churning nausea. They’re showing an accident on the racetrack.
A motorcycle is on fire.
One racer is trapped beneath the front wheel, the flames licking his legs. He’s not moving.
Another motorcycle is flipped on its side, its racer thrown a few feet away onto the grass. He’s also not moving.
People are rushing to the scene, and someone is dragging the body of the man on fire away while another person sprays him down with foam. Others are running to the other man on the track, leaning over him, gesturing wildly.
And still neither man moves.
The caption underneath says Desiderio Larosa e Roberto Casadei. Un uomo morto, l’altro ferito gravemente.
Morto.
Morto.
“Someone please!” I suddenly yell across the shop. “What is happening, tell me what is happening!”
The people in the shop look at each other in shock and I feel the walls start to close in on me. The TV station flashes to a picture of the hospital in Rome and someone being taken out of an ambulance, but I can’t see who it is. This must not be live but it didn’t happen long ago either.