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Massimo is the oldest of the three siblings and was always the leader of the family. Both of his parents and his siblings always look to him for everything. They all rely on him. He was always doing for others, giving to others, making sure everyone else had what they needed—putting himself last. Presumably, his father and siblings will do the same now. If that’s the case, knowing him, he won’t permit himself to grieve his mother’s passing but will internalize it. Instead, he’ll try and be the strong one for his father, his siblings, and his kids.
It’s awful of me to think, but what terrible timing. He’s been so preoccupied with my return and hell-bent on finding out why I left. But he needs to deal with his mother’s death before I unload all of my baggage onto him as well.
I roll my chair back and open the desk’s bottom-right drawer to pull out my pockabook and place it onto the desk. I trade my dress shoes for my boots so I can walk over to the North End. After I lace them up, I grab my bag and strut out of my office, stopping at Natalia’s desk.
“Why don’t you wrap up and head home,” I tell her. “I’m leaving for the day, and it’s quiet.”
“Okay, do you have the file for the Gomez hearing tomorrow?” she asks.
“I’ll come to the office early before going to court. I’ll get it then. Anything else?”
“That’s all. Thanks, Lena. Have a good night.”
“You too, Natalia,” I say as I stride toward the office exit.
Before taking the elevator down, I stop to use the bathroom. When I finish washing my hands, I run them through my hair to tame some of the crazy curls. I find my makeup pouch and touch up my lipstick, glancing at my chin to ensure none of those stubborn wire hairs that grow in are visible. After our encounter in my office last week, I’m nervous to see Massimo. Despite knowing he belongs to another woman, I want to look my best, even if I know it’s wrong.
A few minutes later, I exit the elevator, walking toward the exit on State Street, making a left once outside. I take the quickest route through Faneuil Hall. He owns three restaurants with his brother and sister: the one I worked at back in the day, which is on Franklin Street a few blocks from my office, one in the South End, and the one I’m going to now in the North End.
I still remember when they opened up Trattoria Lorenzo Restaurant & Bar, and he asked me to go work with him after we’d been dating for a few months. I was hesitant at first but ultimately decided to do it. Massimo had talked about expanding and opening up a few more restaurants with themed bars and that he wanted me to be the bar manager for all of them. So much for those plans—something else that I ruined.
I’m about to turn onto Salem Street when my phone rings. I ignore it because right now, my mind is on Massimo. As I approach the restaurant, I look left before crossing the street. Lorenzo’s Taverna is located diagonally across the street from me.
Inside the Taverna, a few people are sitting at the bar to my left. There’s an older man, his suit is dark gray, and the pant legs are tattered at the bottom. His orange tie hangs loosely around his neck, his shoulders are sagging, and he’s sipping a martini. The couple in the corner by the window is young. They both wear suits, his black, hers a red skirt suit with black opaque tights. They look like newlyweds and can’t keep their hands off of each other. Their drinks sit untouched next to the calamari that’s getting cold.
A young woman approaches me. “Hi, how can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Massimo. He’s expecting me. My name is Lena.”
“Yes, he’s in the office. Go through the back over there—” she points to the back door in the far-right corner “—and take the stairs down. Once downstairs, go through the kitchen, and you’ll see the wooden door to your left.”
I follow her directions, and when I find myself at the office door, I knock.
“Yeah,” I hear Massimo say.
I nudge it open and poke my head through. “Hi, can I come in?”
He peeks up at me from where he’s sitting on the couch, hands cradling his head, which hangs low. The radio plays softly in the background.
“God, are you a sight for sore eyes,” he whispers. His gaze lingers on me for a few seconds before looking back down.
I enter, closing the door behind me, and lean up against it.
“How you holding up?” I ask him.
“I’m not.”
“Is that why you’re here holed up and not at your parents’ house with your family?”
“Still know me after all these years, huh?”
“You’re not an easy man to forget.”
“It hurts so fucking much. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her last night. We knew it was near the end but never expected it would be this quick. That my father would call me this morning and tell me she passed in her sleep. I didn’t get to tell her so many things I wanted to say. My boys didn’t get to say goodbye.”
He barely mutters those last words, hurt overtaking him. As he shakes, I watch him move his left hand from his hair to wipe tears that must be dripping from his eyes. The absence of his wedding ring is glaring, but now isn’t the time for me to be inquisitive. He’s still looking at the floor, refusing to lift his head, most likely trying to hide his emotions from me, not wanting to expose his vulnerability.
I don’t have any words to comfort him. Instead, I thrust myself off the door and pad across the office until I’m standing before him. I drop my bag on the couch and push my hands into his wild mane, down the back of his head, to the nape of his neck, spreading them to his shoulders to gently massage him.
