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"A bit," he admits. "But also, the drive to the cruise ship tomorrow will take some hours. I'm front loading whatever activity I can now." Scooping up my hand, Marco leads me down a street that winds towards the hotel. Time has flown by with him.
Soon it'll be over.
This thought smashes into me like a truck. I’ve been so wrapped up wondering why this insanely hot man is being so kind to me, and pushing back against all of Marco’s incredibly generous gifts, I’d barely stopped to think how limited our time together will be.
Only four more days of Carnival and I’ll be able to find an affordable flight home for sure. It’s not like I can stay in Italy forever, or follow Marco wherever he’s off to next. Our lives are so completely different. He’s the sort of wealthy, international man of business who attends shareholder meetings on luxury yachts and I can’t afford my own clothes.
There’s no reason whatever this little fling is would translate into something more permanent. How could it? We live different lives. We’re worlds apart. Galaxies even. When I can I will book a flight home and that will be that. I’ll never see Marco again.
Unless, I went with him on the cruise. Stayed just a little longer… This new thought has wings and lightens my darkening spirit. But then I remember who else will be on this cruise.
Will Marco’s oither brothers hate me?Derek already does. Joining this cruise could result in me ending up stuck on the ocean with four dudes who loath my guts. And maybe they'll convince Marco I'm bad news, too. That I'm just after his money. I mean, I'd think the same thing if I was an outsider.
By the time we get close to the hotel it's getting dark. My mood is even darker. The little lights strung over the awnings and tiny tables on every sidewalk create a picturesque atmosphere, but one that’s completely lost on me. I wish I could enjoy it.
"Look at that," Marco says.
Lifting my eyes, I spot a small shop with a huge wooden Vespa arranged by the entrance. I've never seen anything like it––I sprint forward for a closer look. I guess technically it's a bike, but it's so much more. It's a piece of art. It's modern and sleek, with a swooping, one-of-a-kind body. It's unlike anything I've seen before. I gawk. It's amazing.
"It's beautiful," I murmur."Wow! Somebody made this?"
Marco points at the shop. "This is a woodworking store. It's full of handmade things like this. Want to go inside?"
"Yes, please!"
I run into the shop with Marco chuckling behind me.
The place is huge. The smell of cedar and sawdust saturates the air. Milling around at the entrance, I glimpse a glass counter where I spot.... I squeal, rushing forward. "Oh my God. Look at this, look at this!"
There's little horses, and candleholders, and a bunch of other things. The wood and the detail is amazing. "Do you know how to make this kind of thing?" Marco asks.
"I don’t but my dad, he’s a carver. All my life he’s always been whittling away at some creation. Little toys and figurines for me to play with. It wasn’t until I was older I realized just how good he was. Do you know how to make these?”He shakes his head. "I've always wanted to learn, though."
Considering his family could easily afford lessons of any kind, I guess his parents didn't see the value in something as physical and manual as this type of work..
I turn, noticing something that takes my breath away. On a small table is a glossy, miniature sized airplane. As I go close, crouching, I realize it's hollow inside. Tiny seats all carved from pale wood, miniature windows, a set of wheels. It blows my mind and it also makes my heart clench.
"Filia?" Marco asks softly. "Why are you crying?"
"Am I?" Sniffling, I wipe the tears away in a hurry. "Sorry, I’m just a little overwhelmed."
Marco considered the plane with his brow crinkled. "You're thinking about your job."
"And my father,” I say “I miss them both." My shoulders slump. "God, it sounds so dumb. But it's the truth. I really loved being a flight attendant. My dad is going to be so let down when I tell him what happened."
"Is your dad hard on you?"
"Not at all," I laugh weakly. Pulling in air to calm myself down. "My dad loves me like crazy. But he knows me, knows what I want. No matter how I spin it, how positive I try to be, he'll know how miserable I am about getting fired andthat'swhat will get to him. He wants me to be happy all the time."
"Nobody can be happy all the time."
"Sure," I admit, looking up at Marco, "but I bet your mom feels the same way about you."
His mouth falls open. I'm worried I went too far. Marco glances at the wooden plane, then at his phone. "It's late. We should get dinner, I saw a great pizza place on the way in. You haven't had pizza here yet, right? It would be a crime to miss it."
My stomach rumbles. "You don't have to twist my arm."
Together we leave the shop. As we do, I can't resist looking back once more. The wooden plane sticks out to me more than anything else on the packed shelves. I bet it costs a fortune, as it should, it probably took weeks to make. Deep down, I'd love to have it. But wouldn't that be torture? To look at something that reminds me of what I lost and can never get back?
