It had been nearly a decade since I’d last been at the beach. Back then, young Amanda naïvely thought the world was a vast promise of opportunity. Mistakes were forgiven, and the impossible felt conquerable.
How stupid was I?
That trip to the sea had been a secret getaway. The boy I’d been crazy for arranged everything. Three blissful days spent in the sun, playing in the surf, and nights cuddled under the covers with the windows open wide to hear nature’s lullaby.
My family had thought I was at a friend’s house, when in reality, I’d really been dreaming of a future that was doomed from the start.
I wonder if he ever thinks of me.
At the start of his prison sentence, I wrote to Vincenzo. I told him I was still waiting, still going to fight for our vision of the future. When those letters returned unopened, I eventually gave up. He didn’t want to hear from me. My visits were denied, and the phone calls went unanswered.
By the time I finished the first semester of my undergraduate work, I burnt the letters and sealed the past to forgotten memories.
It was a mistake to get married at Martha’s Vineyard. The ocean was everywhere, surrounding the island, and making it impossible to forget. The moment I steppedoff the private jet, the salt-tinged air punched my chest, tearing open the flood of images. I spent all day yesterday clawing them back into the recesses of my mind.
Water lapped at my toes, making me jump and scuttle backward.
My phone was safe in my lap, and on habit, I checked it.
No messages from my fiancé. After the luxurious groom’s dinner, he’d pulled me aside, and we shared a kiss. There was a lot of tongue, some moaning, and groping. But I woke this morning with a shudder, knowing it was flat.
So different from the last time I’d been kissed on the sandy shore.
As if it had a mind of its own, my finger tapped on the pink camera lens icon. A shrink would probably diagnose me with self-destructive tendencies, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. That boy—that other life—was on my mind, and instead of fighting the memories away, I wanted to see his face. Just once. I pulled up my sister’s social media page, clicked on her followers. There were too many. Lovers of baked goods and mixed media art. The same with her MMA champion husband’s. But when I alphabetized them, I scrolled to the bottom.
Just a look.
Sure enough, there was no Vincenzo Messina. What was I hoping for? Confirmation that he was living a grand life? He wasn’t the sort to post content for the world to see—
“No way,” I breathed.
A user with the handle Vinny15Sina followed both Nicole and Cristiano. And that person’s social was public. My fingers trembled as I hovered over the picture of a skull on a black background.
The rough laugh that exploded from my lungs scratched my throat. Whoever this person was, they had two cats. Their page was filled with pictures of the little monsters. There was toilet paper strewn about the living room. One was in a cooking bowl in the cupboard. There was a video of them chasing each other around the couch.
This social media user was a cat guy.
“Yeah, that’s not him,” I sighed and closed the phone.
Vincenzo lived his life, and I lived mine. Our only connection now was that our siblings were happily married and deeply in love. Which meant nothing, because we were cut off from that world.
Dad used to work for the mob, but when he got out, when he turned legit, he refused to associate himself with those people. I figured out long ago how he kept his nose clean. He had dirt on his old boss, and it was a safe guess Signor Morelli had dirt on Dad.
I rubbed my cheek. The one and only time my father had hit me was when teenage Amanda had asked why we couldn’t spend the Fourth of July with our friends, the Messina boys. That was the summer before I started at Thilton Preparatory School.
The summer before everything changed.
Transferring into the junior class—while Nicole started as a freshman—I had the best surprise of my life. I wasn’t alone in a rich school of snobs. The boy from the wrong side of the tracks was there, too, on a football scholarship. Vincenzo spent two years as my protector, my friend, myeverything.Two years of bliss. Two years where I thought the impossible could become possible if I just tried to make it happen.
Senior year ended with that dream exploding into a million pieces. Vincenzo was arrested and sentenced to twelve years in a maximum-security facility. He was released two years ago, for good behavior, after an eight-year stint.
It had to be hell….
I shook myself, refusing to let my heart ache again.
“He wasn’t the right guy for you,” I growled under my breath.
I hated that I’d let the past pull me under. That I’d searched for him again on the internet. That wasn’t the first time I tried to find proof of life about my past. I probably would never stop looking.
