“You don’t look so good, hon,” she says quietly. That’s when I realize that my eyes have welled up.
I clear my throat. “I mean, she didn’t think I was going to stay forever, right?” I ask, but my voice cracks halfway through. “We said it was casual.”
Jessie gives me a moment to collect myself before asking, “Was it?”
“Was it what?”
“Casual. Did it stay casual? Because I’ve known you for a long time, and your face tells me maybe it wasn’t.”
I groan at myself, wipe my face as if I’m trying to disprove what she’s saying, and try to pull myself together. “There are so many reasons why it had to be,” I explain. “The distance. The age difference. The places we are in life, in our careers. It would never have worked beyond just some fun. Never.” I swallow down the tears that threaten while Jessie looks at me. I don’t like it. I’m feeling scrutinized. She’s right, she does know me well, and right now, I feel like an open book, exposed, laid bare.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” she asks quietly, and it’s the last thing I want to hear.
“I just want to go home,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I really just want to go home.”
And it’s the truth. I’ll feel better at home. But when I hang up with Jess, I don’t think about going to my home. Instead, I kiss Reggie on the head, lock my suite, and hurry down the stairs to call an Uber.
I’ll go to Marina’s home.
I have no idea if this is a good thing to do or a stupid thing. What does it say about me? That I’m doing the right thing? That I’m taking the bull by the horns, so to speak? Because maybe she’s too ashamed or frightened or angry to talk to me? Or does it say I’m some kind of creepy stalker, going to her house? She said it was over, that I should leave. Am I supposed to just leave it alone, after all the time we spent together? All the intimacy we had? All the things we said?
Maybe I am.
And this is the circular path my thoughts take for my entireUber ride. Round and round, easing my stress, then sending me into a panic. I’m not sure how much more my stomach can take, but then the Uber coasts to a halt, and I get out. I watch him drive away, and I stand there. It’s just me, no Reggie, no overnight supplies. Just my small crossbody purse slung over me.
The weather is pleasant today, comfortable, no humidity. I’m dressed in denim shorts and a simple T-shirt, but I’ve already broken out in a sweat just standing there doing nothing but being nervous. I stand there long enough to garner a strange look or two from others. A passerby looks back at me after she passes me. Then a shopkeeper off to my right is putting a sign in his window and gives me a furrowed brow, and it makes me force my feet to move, now that I’ve been standing in front of Marina’s building for a year and a half.
I go to the front door, a place I feel like I’ve been about a million times now, and I pull it open, let myself into the little foyer with the mailboxes.
Where I stand some more.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, and decide maybe I’ll just read all the names on all the mailboxes first. “D’Angelo. Capuano. Manelli. Troiani-comma-M.”
I had rehearsed what I would say to her, but standing here now, I realize it has all flown from my head. I drop my chin to my chest and remind myself that I’m being ridiculous. Before I can overthink anymore, I reach up and poke the button next to Marina’s name.
And I wait.
Nothing.
Did I push the button hard enough? I mean, I was nervous, and I hit it quickly. Maybe it didn’t register.
I push it again, firmly this time, and for a second or two longer than before.
I wait again.
Still, nothing.
“Okay,” I whisper in the tiny box between doors. “Maybe she had a food tour or…something.” Totally possible. Completely valid. I try once more, just in case.
Nope.
I take in a deep breath and blow it out slowly. So much for all my rehearsing. My nerves are frayed to nothing for no reason. Shaking my head, I push my way through the doors and back out onto the street. I wander slowly, phone in hand so I can call an Uber back again. I glance up and I swear there’s a flash of movement in Marina’s window.
Wasn’t there?
I squint as I stand there, trying to focus, trying to see past the reflection of daylight on the glass, but to no avail. Maybe I imagined it. I hope so. Because imagining I saw her is far preferable to having actually seen her trying to avoid me.
I stare for a few moments longer before I get annoyed at myself. “It’s fine,” I mutter. “She clearly doesn’t want to talk to you. If that was even her.” I have enough wherewithal to glance around quickly and make sure nobody’s noticed the weird American lady standing on the street talking to herself.