Then beneath that:
Luca saw.
Marco avoiding gaze.
Why now?
* * *
The next time I visit Teresa’s doctor, I insist on visiting the market in town because I need certain fruits. Luca doesn’t like it, but he stays three steps behind. Close enough to stop me. Far enough to let the performance breathe.
I buy figs from a woman with red hands and a suspicious gaze. Then oranges. Then ribbon I don’t need. Then a bundle of rosemary because the smell reminds me of my father’s kitchenafter Sunday meals and I am stupid enough, apparently, to purchase grief in herbs.
I see Roberto near the church wall. This time, he’s not pretending to read. This time, he’s watching me.
I turn toward the flower stall. Luca shifts with me. I pick up a bunch of white lilies and nearly gag. The vendor beams at me, perhaps thinking my grimace is emotion. It’s not. It’s lilies being arrogant.
“Too sweet,” I say, and set them down.
Roberto moves. Not toward me. Away. Down the narrow lane beside the church. A man running would be stopped. A man walking can sometimes become scenery.
I hand the vendor coins I don’t count and follow.
Luca says, “Miss Brennan.”
I continue walking. The lane is narrow enough that the market noise thins after a few steps. Stone walls on either side. A bicycle leaning near a drainpipe. One door painted blue, paint peeling at the handle. Two windows shuttered.
Three exits: back to the square, the alley ahead, a recessed doorway on the left if the lock is weak.
Four, if one counts screaming.
I don’t.
Roberto waits halfway down, face pale. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“That seems to be a theme in my life.”
His eyes flick past me. Luca has stopped at the mouth of the lane. Close enough to hear if I raise my voice. Far enough to pretend this conversation is permitted.
That infuriates me more than if he dragged me back.
Allowed.
Always allowed until I mistake allowance for freedom.
Roberto sees him and flinches. “No.”
“He won’t touch you unless I make very poor choices.”
“That supposed to comfort me?”
“No. I rarely waste time on comfort.”
His mouth twists. “You’re like your father.”
That hits me in a place I don’t let show.
“My father was kinder,” I say.
