“Oh… I think the tomatoes in the pasta were a little too ripe. I have horrible heartburn.” Aunt Maria asks my mom if she’d like anything from the kitchen while she fetches heartburn medication. When my mom shakes her head, I follow my aunt into the kitchen. “Before you say anything,” she jumps in, freezing my words, “are you okay?”
Incapable of expressing with words how much I appreciate her concern, I hug her. “I’m fine. I promise.”
She hugs me back. “Then what is this about,tesoro? You look like you just found out your mother’s condition is terminal.” She hits me with a stern glare. “It isn’t. We still have plenty of options.”
I nod, agreeing with her. The payment I’m about to receive could be instrumental in my mother’s recovery.
I just wish the knowledge would ease the delivery of my next set of words. I hate asking for anything, but I don’t have a choice.
“Could I borrow a couple of dollars?” Not wanting my aunt to think I’m mooching off her more than I already am, I quickly add, “I’ll pay you back the instant the bank opens tomorrow. I lost my purse, and I had to get a new account, so I have?—”
“It’s fine,tesoro.” She moves for her purse to collect a handful of notes and coins. “I know you wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent.” She presses the last of her funds into my hand before her eyes meet mine. “Just promise me you will be careful.”
She doesn’t announce she knows I’m skipping work. She doesn’t need to. The worry in her eyes paints the picture.
“I will. I promise.”
After packing my toothbrush, spare panties, and a hairbrush, I leave the apartment.
It’s different witnessing the city at this time of night. It is already buzzing with life, but in a playful, poetic way instead of the dark columns of a back-alley pub.
I keep my head down, avoiding the eyes of my neighbors and the curious glances of strangers as I proceed to the station. The last thing I want is for Alessandro to find out I’m not sick. I can’t risk getting fired. I need my job.
The train to Palermo is crowded, and the air smells of salt-slicked skin and too many bodies packed into too small a space. Carlisle’s coastline is one of the best in Sicily, and people often flock here for day trips when they want to escape the hustle and bustle of the city.
As I seek a seat in the packed carriage, the photo of Giovanni and Valeria haunts me at every turn. Locals and tourists are equally invested in what reporters are broadcasting as the wedding of the century.
I wish I could tear today’s newspaper out of the hand of a man with a seedy mustache, but since the seat next to him is the only one empty, I excuse my interruption before slipping past him and sitting next to the window.
As the train speeds toward Palermo, I block out the noise and try to center myself. Nothing works. I replay every second of my time with Giovanni. His expression when he entered me bare and the flare that sparked through his hooded gaze when he tasted my arousal feature the most. But I also recall the warmth of his eyes when he raked them over my body, and his command when he led our exchanges with authority.
I hate him, but I hate myself more.
I could have not allowed lust to speak on my behalf. I could have said no. I didn’t because I didn’t want anything to disrupt what I’m confident will always rate as the best night of my life.
By the time I arrive in Palermo, I’m mentally exhausted. I beeline to the clinic. Though my confidence lags, my steps are quick and sure. I don’t bother with the side entrance this time. My embarrassment has already reached its pinnacle, so what’s the point in hiding?
I walk straight up to the front doors of the clinic with my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure anyone passing by can hear it. The glass entry door slices open with a hiss, and I step inside and brace for the usual bustle of patients and staff.
The waiting room is empty. There are no receptionists or nurses.There isn’t even the faint whirr of the coffee machine that taunted me for hours on end when I was required to fast.
The silence is eerie, amplified by the prickling of awkwardness already coating my skin.
I hover by the desk for a few minutes, certain someone will eventually come out. When no one does, I clear my throat.
“Hello?”
My greeting bounces back to me, my request for help unanswered.
I wait a little longer. When the emptiness of the space homes in on me, I pace down the corridor toward the procedural rooms. My shoes squeak on the gleaming surface, and each shriek makes me feel more and more like an intruder.
When I walk by closed doors, memories of my last visit steamroll back in. The nerves, the paper gown, and the sterile scent I thought I’d never scrub from my skin bombard me.
Partway down, I hear voices. They’re muffled at first. Barely a low rumble. But the closer I get, the more one voice stands out. I’d know it anywhere.
Giovanni.
I freeze, and my breath catches halfway to my lungs. Turning around and retreating to Carlisle is tempting, but my feet root in place as my mind is caught between dread and something I refuse to name.
