Page 9 of Veil of the Past
I don’t want to think too much about it, though. Not now, when everything else is so complicated. Instead, I focus on the rhythm of my steps and the sound of the city around me as I make my way back to my apartment.
By the time I reach my building, the sun is already sinking, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange. I push open the heavy glass door and climb the stairs to my apartment, the familiar creak of each step grounding me back in reality. My bag is heavy on my shoulder, a weight I’ve grown used to carrying.
Inside, the apartment is quiet, dimly lit by the streetlights outside. I flick on a lamp and toss my bag onto the small kitchen table, kicking off my shoes with a sigh of relief. Just as I do, I hear a soft meow and look up to see Mr. Marvin, my gray tabby, padding over to greet me. He weaves between my legs, purring loudly, his green eyes blinking up at me expectantly.
“Hey, Mr. Marvin,” I murmur, bending down to scratch behind his ears. He purrs even louder, rubbing his face against my hand. “Did you miss me?”
He meows again, as if scolding me for leaving him alone all day. I laugh softly, scooping him up into my arms and holding him close. His fur is soft and warm, and he nuzzles against my cheek, a little ball of comfort in the chaos of my life.
“I missed you too, buddy,” I whisper, carrying him over to the couch and settling down with him in my lap. I glance at my phone, my thoughts drifting back to Romiro, and I feel that familiar mix of excitement and nervousness curl in my stomach.
What are we doing, exactly? We’ve been friends for so long, but lately, things have felt … different. The way he looks at me, the way he talks to me, the way I feel whenever he’s around. I keep telling myself it’s just my imagination, that I’m reading too much into it.. But there’s a part of me—a hopeful, reckless part—that wonders if maybe he feels it, too.
Mr. Marvin shifts in my lap, pawing at my shirt, and I smile down at him. “What do you think, Mr. Marvin?” I ask softly. “Is it all in my head, r is there something real here?”
He just blinks up at me, his tail flicking lazily as if to say,You’re on your own with this one.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I mutter. “It’s probably nothing. Just … wishful thinking.”
But then I remember the way Romiro sounded on the phone, the way he said he’d like to pick me up, the way his voice softened when he said my name. And I wonder, for just a moment, if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more waiting for us in the quiet, in-between spaces of this city. Something we’ve both been too afraid to reach for.
I glance at the clock. Still a few hours before my shift starts. I should probably get some rest, but my mind is buzzing with thoughts of him. I lean back on the couch, holding Mr. Marvin a little closer, and let myself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if we finally stopped dancing around whatever this is—if we just let it happen.
The thought makes my heart beat a little faster, a nervous flutter that spreads through my entire body. I feel like a teenager again, caught up in some secret crush, and it’s both terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
Mr. Marvin shifts in my lap, stretching out and curling into a little ball. Trying to calm my racing thoughts, I run my fingers through his fur. "Alright," I whisper to him, "let’s see what happens."
By the time I’m done with my one-sided conversation with Mr. Marvin, it’s around one p.m. I barely got any sleep last night. Our movie night seemed to linger on and on. I made it back to my apartment around six in the morning, then, brunch with the girls was around 11:30. It’s been a long few days. After making my way to my room, I slip out of my clothes. I opt to sleep without any pajamas—I’m just more comfortable that way. I quickly get into bed, and my eyelids already feel heavy. A nap sounds nice. I’m hoping that tomorrow night will bring some clarity—or at least a step in the right direction.
* * *
I’m startled awake,my heart racing from a half-forgotten dream, and then I realize—Sunday lunch. I glance at the clock on my bedside table. I can’t believe I slept for so many hours. “Crap," I mutter under my breath, quickly calculating the time till lunch. Not much.
I throw back the covers and scramble out of bed, Mr. Marvin barely budging from his spot at the foot. He blinks up at me lazily, completely unimpressed with my sudden rush.
“I know, I know, but I’m late,” I mumble as I make my way to the bathroom and brush my teeth at lightning speed. The scent of coffee from the kitchen fills the small apartment, I’m so damn glad I got a timed coffee pot for Christmas, but there’s no time. I need to be out the door in less than ten minutes if I want to be considered fashionably late. Otherwise, I’ll just be late, and we can’t have that.
I pull on a simple white T-shirt and my Levi’s jeans before running a brush through my hair, smoothing it down as best as I can before slipping into a pair of sneakers. As I catch my reflection in the mirror, I can’t help but think about the lunch ahead —the routine of it, the questions I know are coming. My family can be predictable that way, and while I love them dearly, they have a knack for making me feel like I’m always behind on some invisible timeline they’ve set for me.
A glance at my phone confirms my worst fear: I’m definitely, undeniably late. I grab my purse and phone, give Mr. Marvin a quick scratch behind the ears, and rush out the door. “Wish me luck,” I call to him, even though I know he’s already curled back up, drifting off to sleep again.
By the time I reach my parents’ house, I take a deep breath, smoothing down my T-shirt one last time before stepping out of the car. The front door swings open almost immediately, and Marietta, one of the housemaids, is smiling warmly at me.
“Buonasera, Alessia,” she greets in Italian, ushering me through the front doors.
“Grazie, Marietta,” I reply, offering a sheepish smile. “Sono in ritardo, come sempre.”I’m late, as always.
She chuckles softly. “Better late than never, no?” Marietta always tries to practice Italian with me whenever I come to the house.
I nod, my nerves tightening as I step inside. The familiar scent of my Mamma’s cooking fills the air, and I can hear the low hum of conversation coming from the dining room. I walk quickly, trying to compose myself. As I enter, my brother’s eyes meet mine. Tristan’s sitting at the far end of the table, and I immediately sign,I’m sorry.His lips curl into a small, forgiving smile, and he signs back,Always late.
I smile sheepishly and make my way around the table, kissing Mamma, Papa, and Nonna hello. “Ciao, Mamma, Papa,” I say softly, feeling a familiar warmth settle in my chest. “Nonna.”
My grandmother beams up at me, her eyes sparkling with that mix of love and mischief she’s so wellknown for. “Ah, Alessia, finally! I thought we’d have to start without you,” she says in her thick Italian accent, patting my cheek affectionately.
“Sorry, Nonna,” I reply, taking my seat. “Lost track of time.”
“Always working yourself to the point of exhaustion,” Mamma murmurs, but she’s smiling, her eyes soft as she looks at me. “You must be tired,cara.”
