ForzaMarcello!It says. I learnt a number of Italian, and Sardo words as we painted the old bed sheet together and I don’t know if those few hours we spent together meant as much to her as they did to me but I’d like to think so.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I say. “We saw him after the swim and bike ride and he was smiling during each transition.”
I look at Rosina when I say this but I'm also telling myself. I'm also reminding myself that Marcello has trained for this, that he's not doing anything he's not perfectly capable of doing. I'm telling myself that nothing bad is going to happen, even if we are four supporters and not a number divisible by three. Even though Marcello's number wasn't divisible by three.Even though his only wearing one item of clothing, he's going to be okay. Besides, I'm wearing three layers for him, just in case.
And he is doing a triathlon, after all.
“Or grimacing with pain,” Radia suggests and it’s my turn to flash her a look.
“Maybe he didn’t eat enough. I should have given him a third portion of cannelloni last night,” Rosina says to nobody particular as her eyes are back on the road we’re standing next to just outside the Excel convention centre in London’s Docklands.
I close my eyes. It doesn't matter that he didn't have three portions of pasta. It doesn't matter. He's going to be okay. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be swapping my compulsive counting for compulsively reassuring myself that nothing bad is going to happen to Marcello, but I'd like to think it's progress.
“I still can’t believe he swam in that.” Chloe nods her head in the direction of the gravy-coloured Thames behind us. “It must have been freezing.”
“I think he was just glad it wasn’t raining today,” I say, cautiously giving the grey sky a quick look. It’s not overcast as such, just a cloudy day like so many in London are, especially now that autumn has announced its arrival, dropping temperatures, shortening the days and pulling leaves from the trees.
Part of me wondered, and maybe worried a little, that the high of Marcello and I falling in love would fade with the summer heat. But that hasn’t been the case. Far from it.
I still count down the minutes – in a metaphoric not literal sense, most of the time – until I see him in our training sessions, or for coffee pick-ups – which Radia and I daily do paper-scissors-stone to see who gets the opportunity. We still run together, often to Marcello’s house where we have lunch with Rosina. Amusingly, Marcello and I still spend our Sundays doing exactly what we originally used them for, but this time it’s becausehe’s slept over the night before and there’s absolutely no mention of sex lessons.
I miss Marcello when he’s not with me. My bed has never felt so big or empty as when he’s not in it. My flat seems bigger too and despite my now clinically-diagnosed obsession with having everything in its rightful place, I still feel like something is missing when he’s not there.
We haven’t talked about moving in again since that day when I was sitting on his bed. It’s been on the tip of my tongue so many times, but I’ve swallowed it down because I don’t want to face the disappointment I’ll feel if he’s not ready.
And I now know that when Marcello is ready to do something, he lets it be known. He can’t hide his enthusiasm, all fidgeting limbs, silly grins and twitching fingers. He gets like that when we start a new puzzle. He’slike that when I wake up in the morning and press my erection against his back. He was like that when I bought him a brand-new tri-suit for his triathlon today.
So I’ll wait until he’s like that about us moving in together because that’s what I want more than anything. For it to be exactly what Marcello wants. One day, it will happen. One day, he will be ready. One day, this little dream of mine will come true and it won't be because I did a certain number of reps in the gym or because I cleaned the windows three times every day.
It will happen. One day.
I suspect the extra time on my own has been good for me too. Therapy is no longer an hour of sobbing but in the beginning it was like that, which, according to Lucille is very normal for somebody who had endured as much loss and trauma as I have. I never thought about what happened to me as trauma. My parents weren’t murdered. I recognise that death is a part of life. I always thought I was just unlucky they died when I was so young. But Lucille has helped me see that it was trauma and that my OCD may have developed as a trauma-response, a rather extreme coping mechanism.
She has also pointed out that it’s very possible that even without the loss of my parents, I may have still had OCD. It could just be how my brain was wired from birth, rather than how it wired itself after I became an orphan. In short, I will never know why I am the way I am.
For me, it doesn’t matter how or why I developed OCD. What matters now is how I manage it.
I’d be lying if I said I’ve stopped counting. I haven’t. And it would be a mistruth to say that I don’t still have bouts where I have to clean my flat to extreme degrees, three times.
The difference is now I don’t try and hide it. I tell Lucille. I tell Marcello. Occasionally, I even share with Radia when I feel like it's bothering me a lot. She didn’t say much when I first told her, just gave me the biggest hug I think I’ve ever had from her. Interestingly, she has since been considerably tidier in how she works in the studio and shop, and when we have double dates with her and Chloe, they both make a point to ask me how I’m doing in a way that is anything but casual.
I know it’s because I’m anxious about Marcello today that I’m counting the runners in threes as they rush past us. Well, some of them rush. Some of them walk, some of them limp, some of them wince and hobble.
I can’t wait to see him. I can’t wait to congratulate him. I can’t wait to tell him just how proud I am of him.
And suddenly I don’t have to wait, because there he is. Marcello’s turned the final corner and is running towards us. Running and also limping, wincing and hobbling. His features are twisted in pain, his cheeks are red and I can see the sheen of sweat from over fifty metres away.
“He’s there!” I point for Rosina. “He’s coming now.”
We all lean over the barrier and Rosina and I quickly rearrange our banner so it hangs over the metal fence.
“Come on, Marcello!” Chloe calls out, with a volume I’m impressed with.
Radia puts her thumb and index finger in her mouth and whistles, also loudly.
Rosina starts shouting in Italian or Sardo or a combination of the two. Either way, I’m clueless at what she’s saying and yet, I hear all the love in her voice.
I hear the love in all our voices as we cheer him on, and I see it on the grinning faces of Radia, Chloe and Rosina. I know it’s on my face too. It’s a shame Marcello’s best friend Kris can’t be here but she had to go back to the States due to some Visa issues that Marcello didn’t explain very well so I look forward to quizzing her when she’s back to get the full story.
