Page 43 of Angel

So far, I’d slept for hours, read three books on my Kindle, wept until my eyelids swelled, and nibbled on the gourmet meals Mrs. Campanelli prepared.

Angel never showed his face once.

He remained absent, yet his immense presence and brooding somehow permeated the villa.

One night I stumbled to the vast kitchen and wine cellar, uncorked a bottle of red, and downed it all to stave off the misery.

I woke with a massive hangover and vowed not to repeat it; besides, the alcohol failed to lift the ache inside me.

I tested the heated infinity pool and swam laps until my shoulder muscles burned.

Regardless of what I did to try to forget Angel, my thoughts drifted straight back to him.

I replayed the wedding on a loop, re-imagining his promise to end our marriage as soon as he could, and dwelling on his aloofness, punishing myself over and over.

He had no desire for me; he never would.

When would I be free from holding onto a man whose heart belonged to someone else?

One morning, lying in bed, I made up my mind to stop having my feelings for Angel control me.

I started with a series of tiny wins, from brushing my teeth to showering, which refreshed my body.

Yoga on the terrace lifted my gloom.

Eating a good meal nourished my mind and soul.

Later, I made one attempt to draw Angel out of his misery.

I tapped at his door one mid-afternoon with a cup of coffee for him.

Angel, it’s me, Rox. I brought you an espresso.’

I got silence.

When I knocked again, I caught the sound of shuffling feet and then his timbre rumbling through the door.

‘I can’t do it, Roxy. I can’t handle company right now. So please leave me be.’

The utterance was so agonized, his cadence so coarse and harsh, that it made me shudder.

I walked away, blinking back tears, shattered for him, and for me.

On the sixth afternoon of our horrendous honeymoon, I dragged my portable wooden easel, oil tubes, and a blank square canvas to the infinity pool.

The endless expanse of blue water soothed me, and the Mediterranean’s golden sun warmed me, giving me inspiration to paint.

Working from the shaded pergola, I went to work capturing the shifting hues of the sea.

‘You’ve a true gift, signora,’ Mrs. Campanelli murmured, appearing with a fresh pitcher of iced lemonade.

I wiped a smudge of cobalt pigment onto a cloth resting on my denim shorts.

‘I’m just trying to keep busy.’

She pulled up a woven wicker chair, her eyes softening. ‘There’s so much life to experience beyond these villa walls.’

‘I don’t want to get trapped in the tourist crowds,’ I admitted, swirling my camel-hair brush in turpentine.