“Fuck that,” I say breathlessly. I’m out of fight. I’m out of energy. If even Benito can’t see that I’m really, truly done, how will anyone else? What corner of the earth do I have to move to to finally convince everyone that I am done caring? That I am done trying? “Have a nice life in London. With Sutton.”
Benito stares at me. I try to discern what exact emotion is behind his gaze but he’s impossible to read. “I wish things worked out differently,” he says.
I cannot possibly utter another word without erupting into a full-blown sob, so I say nothing. Benito watches me for a moment before turning and walking back inside. As soon as he’s gone, I sink to my heels. I let the tears loose and fear I’ll never be able to contain them again. I run upstairs to my bedroom and slam the door shut.
Chapter Nineteen
Once the initial sting of what Benito did wears off, I start to spiral. What am I supposed to do now? Benito’s leaving. I can’t really achieve the chic, wispy 2000s movie heroine aesthetic I crave when I’m brokenhearted. Once again, my life is ruined by my feelings for a man. Except it’s worse this time, because I knew better. What is the point in even staying in La Musa? It’s become another monument to my failure. Maybe I should join a convent. I don’t think I believe in God, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about men.
I FaceTime my parents. It’s midday in Los Angeles, and they’re at the natural foods store in Los Feliz, down the road from our house. It’s an ordinary Friday for them. They’re no doubt prepping for a weekend of pickling, gardening, and jam-making. “Mommy,” I say when I see her appear onscreen. I haven’t called them Mommy and Daddy since I was in third grade, but now, I need to. “I want to come home.”
My mother’s brows furrow. “Izzy, what’s wrong?”
I see my dad pop onscreen. “Iz, check out this strawberry.” He shows me a massive berry but his face contorts into the same look of concern as my mother’s when he sees me crying. “What’s wrong?”
“I just. . .” I can barely croak out a phrase through the sobs. “I need to come home. Can I come home?”
They look at each other before looking back at me. “Of course,” my mother says. “Come home. As soon as you can.”
“Use our credit card,” my father says.
“Ok,” I say. “Thank you.” I hang up and search for flights on my computer. There are only two direct flights from Rome to Los Angeles, and there’s an open middle coach seat on the 3:10 p.m. tomorrow. It’s over two thousand dollars, but I book a one-way ticket.
Tomorrow. I’m leaving tomorrow.
I take my suitcase out of the closet and stuff my clothes into it. It takes less than an hour to pack up my entire life in La Musa, and in 24 hours’ time, I’ll be somewhere over the Atlantic, like it never happened at all. It stings. It doesn’t feel right to leave, but how can I possibly stay?
Sleep doesn’t find me all night as I toss and turn, periodically jumping out of bed convinced I forgot to pack my passport or my phone charger or my yellow sundress. As soon as the sun is up, I’m out the door, quietly creeping out of the house and lugging my suitcase down the same path I took up the cliff barely three months ago. The first train leaves La Musa at 8:45, and I am on it as it barrels toward Rome.
Half a day later, I land in Los Angeles, and I float to baggage claim. My parents are standing there, waiting for me. Everyone knows you only pick someone up at LAX if you truly, truly love them, and the sight of them makes me cry again. They rush over and hug me tight, just like they did the first time I returned from Italy, more than 10 years ago. I wish I was still her. Not a kid but not really an adult. A human still forming. A person who believed everyone when they said she could do anything she set her mind to.
They help me load my suitcase into their old SUV. Los Angeles unfolds before me as we make our way home. It feels like a lifetime since I’ve been here. Could you always see the Hollywood sign from this far away on the 10? Did the sky always reflect so brilliantly against the skyscrapers that dot downtown? Is it always so clear that you can see the snowcapped mountains that border the city? I’ve lived here most of my life, but now I feel like a foreigner.
More tears fall as I walk inside my parents’ home. It’s just as it’s always been with the afternoon sun cascading through the big bay window, the old wood floor creaking as I walk across it, the stairwell banister dented from where I took a LEGO to it in 1995. I want to disintegrate into it. I want to become as stationary as the teak furniture that’s always been here. I want to exist, but as nothing more than a monument of where other people lived. The rocking chair in the corner that no one ever sits on, but no one would ever dare give away.
My childhood bedroom is stripped of the décor of my adolescence but remains otherwise untouched. I draw the thick beige curtains and collapse onto the lumpy mattress of my old full-sized bed. I crawl under the covers and pull the quilt my mother made for me when I was a baby up to my chin. How hard would it be for me to stay here forever?
I shut my eyes and wait for the darkness to find me. It quickly does.
I wake with the sun the next morning. I slept 15 hours, longer than I’ve ever slept. I’m in the same clothes I wore on the plane, and I feel grimy, so I run a scalding-hot shower for myself and change into an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt that I find in my dresser. When I go downstairs, my father is making buckwheat blueberry pancakes.
“Morning, Iz!” he says, with a cheery grin. “Hope you’re hungry.”
My stomach growls in response. I haven’t eaten since the measly in-flight breakfast service yesterday. “Starving, actually,” I say, taking a seat at the table in the nook that overlooks the backyard. My mother is outside in the garden, pulling weeds. She waves when she sees me looking at her.
“What did Italy do to make you want to get out of there so quick?” my father asks. I freeze. How exactly do I explain all of this to him? And where do I begin? Even though I’m over 30, my father and I don’t have the kind of relationship where I can say,“Well, therewas this boy and he didn’t like me as much as I like him, which seems to be the theme of my life. . .”
“It was a mistake,” I say.
Unfortunately, my dad is not one to let sleeping dogs lie. He glances at me between flipping pancakes. “Which part?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. All of it, I guess.”
My mother enters with the brightness of the morning sun splashed across her face. “Smells good, Dash,” she says. My father’s name is Frank, but she’s always called him Dash. I’ve never asked why. “Izzy, are you feeling better after that long rest?”
“No,” I say.
She sighs. “What happened over there? And don’t say nothing. I know you wouldn’t flee so quickly if it was nothing.”
