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“Che problema c’è?” Translation: what is the matter?
“Everything. Get the fuck out of my bedroom!” I push her out of the door. “Get out!” I scream.
“I don’t understand!” she cries in an outrage. “You want me, I know you do. You always want me.”
“What I want is for you to get out of my house. Get out!”
Her face falls. I push her out into the hall, slam the door shut, and flick the lock.
My breath is labored. I’m physically rattled.
I get into the shower and under the steaming hot water. I’m shaken that I nearly just accidently fucked Sophia. How do you nearly accidently fuck someone?
I nearly cheated on my darling Olivia.
I close my eyes, and I can hear my Olivia crying from last night through the door. I can hear the hurt in her voice.
She’s not your Olivia.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Olivia
I stare out of the window of the café in a daze. My coffee and breakfast are getting cold on the table, but I can’t bring myself to start them.
I’ve cried all night, and my eyes were too swollen to go to work today.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt but it’s definitely the deepest.
I know there’s no way around this.
I’m not Italian. I will never be Italian, and he will never make a future with a woman who isn’t.
My heart wants me to call him so that he can come over and make us better—so he can hold me and tell me that he’s never leaving. I want to be warm and safe in his arms.
My brain wants to bomb his office for daring to think that I would be his mistress.
He drew a line in the sand last night, and now I know what kind of man I’m in love with. A womanizing pimp who sleeps with his whores. One who has zero respect for me.
I want to pack up and go home to Australia, but I know I can’t. I won’t let a man ruin everything in my life. Nobody has that power. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, but honestly, who cares about the job if it costs me my sanity to stay here? Is the job even really fucking mine? I got it at his request.
I can’t be here in Milan with him and his Italian wife. I’ll choke on my own fucking vomit.
“Is everything all right?” the waiter asks as he looks down at my untouched coffee and breakfast.”
“Yes, thank you.” I pick up my knife and fork. “I’m eating now.”
He smiles, pretending not to notice my swollen eyes, and he puts his hand on top of mine as it sits on the table, knowing I need comfort. Unexpectedly, my eyes fill with tears at his kindness. “Are you all right?” he asks softly.
“Yes.” I nod as I fumble around in my bag for a tissue. “I will be.” I dab my eyes and drop my head in shame. He leaves me alone and I go back to staring into space.
I’ve hit rock bottom.
I’m on the other side of the world from home, alone, and heartbroken.
I get a vision of Enrico and the week we have spent together, laughing and making love, and it only makes it worse.
I can’t even hate him.
