I slammed through the gate of Achille’s cottage, the solar lamps leading me to his wooden front door. I rattled the handle, fighting for purchase with my shaking hands until it opened and invited me inside. I ran straight through, into the living room. The fire was burning, a single chair sitting before it. The books I had given Achille to read were stacked beside it, along with a pen fitted with the tripod grip and a pad of paper.
My chest ached at the sight.
Did he sit here every night, learning and trying?
Alone, always alone.
Pavarotti played quietly from an old record player in the corner. Flickering lamps and the fire’s orange embers coated the whitewashed walls in a warm glow.
This was Achille’s life. Music and wine and loneliness. He deserved more. He deserved more than anyone could give him.
“Caresa?” Achille’s rough voice came from the doorway. He stole my breath; he was damp from the shower, his black hair wet, water dripping down his back. A towel was around his neck, and he wore black pajama bottoms.
I felt a sudden wash of peace travel through me at just being near to him. Such peace that it was a healing balm to my pained soul. A peace that I knew, with everything that I was, only Achille could give me.
Something had happened in the universe the day we had met. There was a cosmic shift, some destined alteration to the very fabric of who we were. The sun and the moon had aligned and cast us into one another’s hearts, never to be torn apart.
“He said that once you find that person, your ‘split-apart’, you are blanketed by such belonging, such desire, that you will never want to be without it . . . as Plato said, ‘. . . and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment’.” The memory of Achille’s words circled my mind.
Belonging.
Desire.
They don’t want to be separated . . . not even for a moment.
Were we those wandering lost souls reunited at last?
“Caresa? What is wrong? What happened?” Achille stepped forward, worry etched onto his perfect, beautiful face.
I threw myself against him. My arms wrapped around his waist, and I held on tightly. I felt his hot skin on mine, our bodies perfectly aligned, just like the stars that had guided us to this very moment.
To this vineyard.
To each other.
“Caresa? You’re scaring me,” he whispered as he held me tightly against him. I wanted to punish myself. How could I have walked away from this? How could I have ever left this feeling? How could I have ever left this man?
I’d seen the pain in his eyes today as Zeno was touching me. I had seen him searching for someone to smile at him as his merlot was deemed the best in the world.
That should have been me. It all should have been me.
But I had no idea how any of this could or would play out. We were destined for different paths. We were from such different worlds, yet shared the same soul. It all seemed so very impossible.
“Just hold me,” I whispered as I turned my cheek to press against his warmth. I closed my eyes, and just allowed this man to embrace me. I allowed his hands to run through my hair as he pressed tender kisses to my head.
Eventually, Achille guided me back to face him and cupped my cheeks with his palms. He searched my eyes as a tear rolled down my cheek. He caught the tear with his thumb. “What has caused these tears? Why are you so sad?”
I didn’t think my actions through. I didn’t think anything through at all. Instead I rose onto my tiptoes and pressed my mouth to Achille’s. Achille groaned as I brought our mouths together in prayer, my hands pressing in worship to his cheeks. I had barely tasted his lips or absorbed his warmth before he pulled away and staggered back from me.
His blue eyes were wild and afraid. His arms were rigid at his sides. His nostrils flared as he drew in ragged breaths. I took a step toward him, but he held out a hand. “Caresa,” he said, his small whisper of my name both a reverent benediction and a curse. “No.” He shook his head, his warring emotions flashing across his face—hurt, desperation, passion and confusion. Every single one was a stab to my heart.
“Achille,” I pleaded, physically feeling my heart breaking.
“You said we had to stop this.” He shook his head, his eyes lost and fearful. “You said we could have only one night . . . I can’t do this . . . my heart can’t . . . I can’t take it . . .”
He turned his back, moving out of my sight, and I found myself confessing what lay in my soul. “I love you.”
Achille stopped dead, as if my words were tight leashes to his legs.
My heart sprinted as the realization of what I had just admitted seeped into my bones. But I could not regret the words. They were the truth.
Achille needed to hear them just as much as I needed to express them. Every day they were kept inside was a day filled with pain.
I watched each muscle in his back cord with tension. I waited in silence for him turn around and face me. To look into my eyes and see the truth of my words reflected back. And now those words had been released, set forth into the night air, I felt a sense of freedom.
As if my soul had arrived home.
Achille turned around. He blinked, and twin tears rolled in parallel down his stubbled cheeks. “You . . . do?”
I let out a sob at the sight of his bewildered expression. As if he couldn’t believe that someone could love him. But I did. My love for him was embedded in my every cell; it inspired my every breath and heartbeat.
He was me, and I was him.
A true whole.
“Yes,” I whispered, taking a step forward.
Then he opened his eyes, and, just as he was about to say something in return, his gaze fell to my hand.
My left hand . . .
. . . and whatever he was about to confess was lost to the silence.
Any morsel of hope I had been holding on to evaporated into the air when his pupils dilated at the sight of that ring. His pale cheeks flushed red. His feet found life and stumbled away from me. I tried to give chase, but he fled the living room, and I heard the back door open. The cool air surged inside and circled around me. The flames from the fire roared and flared with life as the fresh air invaded its space.
The slam of the wooden door pushed me into action. I rushed after Achille, heart thundering in fear—fear that I had lost him. I burst into his garden to see him disappearing toward his vines.
I followed him, past Rosa and Nico in their stables. I burst through the trees he had just run through and found him on the third row of now-empty vines, head tipped back as he stared up at the moon.
His breath was white as it collided with the cool of the night. His damp olive skin bumped and shivered, and his toes curled into the soil beneath his bare feet.
I went to speak, searching for the right words to say, to explain, but he spoke before I could.
“My . . . my heart can’t take this anymore.”
His words slayed me, cut me where I stood. He still hadn’t turned to face me. I wasn’t sure if he could. His hurt was evident in his voice.
“I knew . . .” he whispered, so softly, so roughly, “I knew I saw something within you not long after we had met. Then I foolishly allowed my heart to fall, too hard and too fast. I let it happen. I let it happen because it was you and it was me. That’s how I saw it in my head. These vines, the horses and you and me.”
His breathing hitched and his voice became broken and coarse. “When you were beside me I felt strong and whole. When you were gone, I was empty and sad. There was a hollowness in my chest, and I found it hard to breathe.” He dropped his head, evading the moon’s soothing light. “Then we made love.” He raised his hand, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew his finger lay over his lips. “We kissed, our mouths touched, and it changed something inside me. I felt it happen. I felt it like I feel the hot sun on my face each day, like I feel the vines in my hands and know they are ripe . . . You asked me once how I knew when the grapes were ready for harvesting, and I told you I just knew.” He turned to face me. He lifted his fingers to his head, his heart and finally held out his hands toward me. “I know because I know it in my head, I feel it in my heart, and I touch it with my hands.”
I felt my lips tremble at the innocence of his explanation, the sadness in his voice.