She nodded, flipping her phone and opening it up to click on the pictures. “See? Here is the schedule. Mom still plans to add more people to the invitation list. I swear, it’s like she is trying to please all of Tuscany.”
Fisting my shaking hands, I stated, “But… no one told me about it.”
Her eyes travelled up from the device to me, and she frowned. “They were supposed to tell you. You guys planned it a year ago.”
My mind screamed for me to cry out in frustration, but I couldn't, since Ciara had nothing to do with it. “How could they think I still want it? I don’t even remember loving him.”
Anytime he showed up, I was uneasy and couldn't wait for someone to come in. His touch repulsed me, and I felt guilty. Oliver was wonderful and supportive and… so freaking annoying. I couldn't help but feel angry with him for reminiscing the past constantly along with bringing photos or videos of us together. He thought it would trigger a memory.
All it did was leave me miserable.
Ciara placed her drink on the floor and wrapped her arms around me as we rested our heads on each other. “I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you,cara. I’m sorry they are insensitive jerks.” We joked quite a lot about it. Her chest rose and fell, as she continued, “But maybe it’s for the best. You will have a sense of normalcy, and if the doctors are right, you could gain your memory back soon.” She kissed me on the cheek lightly. “And then you would thank us for the quick wedding with the man of your dreams,” she finished, and for some reason, this last piece of information depressed both of us… if her heavy exhale was anything to go by.
Closing my eyes, I wished with all my heart that what she said was the truth.
But how could I, when I dreamed of a man with a husky voice who put my body on electrifying alert?
Florence, Italy
July 2017
“Come on,” I chanted, while my fingers carefully tried to create small stars with the brown clay as the music blasted from my phone, exceptionally loud since the studio had echoing walls. It could almost make me forget all my hectic thoughts or how fucked up my life had become.
Wrapping my hand around the almost-finished vase while the machine kept spinning around and around, the cry of victory was about to leave my lips, when it all imploded and once again became a gooey blob on the wheel.
Hitting the table with my palms until they hurt didn't help my frustration, and I breathed heavily, wiping away the sweat dripping from my forehead. The break allowed me once again to see the studio, and ask myself for the hundredth time,What is so appealing about the whole art thing?
Angelica Rossi apparently had a thing for sculpting ceramic vases and figurines, and her business was quite successful, if ten thousand likes on Facebook and a backlog of orders was anything to go by. The studio had a bathroom, supplies like clay and paint, and a huge-ass window from which bright light poured in, creating a warm atmosphere while the large space’s air conditioning produced a light breeze that cooled the skin and preserved the ceramics.
Too bad I had no clue who Angelica was, even five months after waking up in the hospital. I had photos, stories, videos, and people who claimed to know me and my preferences, but I still hadn’t found the girl inside myself.
Grabbing a bottle from the small fridge on the counter, I questioned my sanity and if all those hours spent in the freaking place was worth it.
The artistic talent clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, unless I found some shaman who had the magical ability to cure me. I giggled, almost choking on the water, then tensed when the door opened and the little feng shui thing rang loudly, indicating I had a guest.
“Angelica?” Oliver called, and I winced, as the man refused to leave me alone even during the day. Was he always this clingy? What did I see in him in the first place? “Here you are.” His mouth widened in a smile, giving him a boyish look as he winked at me and placed a delicious-smelling bag on the small, round, plastic table. “I brought lunch. You probably skipped breakfast.” Frowning, I put the bottle back and folded my arms.
“Why do you keep saying that?” He paused in the middle of taking out some steaming pasta plates and gave me a questioning look. So I added, “About the whole breakfast thing. I eat healthy. I had waffles and tea this morning”—glancing at the clock, which showed twelve o’clock—“around three hours ago.”
Something akin to anger passed in his eyes, but he quickly masked it with softness, and I wondered for a second if maybe my vision was playing tricks on me. “It must be a new development. Before the accident, all you could tolerate was coffee, and then you hid in your studio.” The longing in his voice couldn't be ignored, and that was one of the reasons I hated being in his company.
The ever-present guilt from his pain didn't sit well with me. I knew he didn't mean to, but sometimes it felt like he blamed me for not remembering our love.
Or my complete refusal to let him touch him.
Suddenly, he stood right in front of me, caging me within his arms as he rested his hands on the counter behind me. His breath fanned my hair while he breathed me in. “How I miss touching you,” he whispered, running his nose on the side of my neck, creating goose bumps… and not the good kind. My hands fisted, but I willed myself to endure it and hoped it could get better.
I owed my fiancé that much.
His lips moved dangerously close to mine as his piercing blue eyes looked into mine. He closed the distance between us, mashing our mouths together, and it was as if cold water was spilled on my head.
Pushing him away, I breathed heavily while my body trembled in fear. I couldn't help but swallow as nausea hit me hard. “Shh,” he whispered again, scared this time. “I won’t do it again.” He hugged me close, when everything inside me screamed for him to let go.
How the hell was I supposed to find my identity if I despised my work, the constant nagging of my family, and Italy didn't feel like home?
And more importantly, how could I marry Oliver in three months, when every piece of my body revolted at the idea?
Running far, far away seemed like the best solution with each day that passed.
