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“I was referring to her not being able to have kids, in general, and not to that being the reason she left. But yeah, it doesn’t make sense to leave over something like that,” he clarifies.
“So I’m not crazy for thinking that. I’ve been racking my brain about it. I mean, she made this decision that would change both of our lives, except she forgot to consult with me. My head is all sorts of fucked up over it. Between her and my mother’s death, I’m a mess.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
“She’s been texting and calling, but I’ve ignored her. Giving myself time to chill out because if not, I’ll ruin shit again.”
“To not ruining shit.” Benny raises his tumbler to mine, and our glasses clink before we both throw back our drinks.
CHAPTER 21
La Verdad
MARIALENA
The Next Day
MASSIMO HAS IGNORED MYcalls and texts for five days. I know it’s his way of processing what I told him the other day. When we were together, he’d always take time away from the person he was upset with, including me. When we would argue, he wouldn’t delve into the issues until he had time to sort it out in his mind and calm down but never went this long. Of course, the difference is now he owes me nothing and has no obligation to discuss anything with me.
Even though I know he’s still upset and trying to work through his anger, I need to set the record straight with him. I want to respect his need to come to terms with everything before discussing it, but the entire situation’s uncertainty gives me anxiety. I haven’t had a good night’s rest since that day last week, and I can’t focus. I cannot continue this way. It’s starting to affect my work.
I know he’s usually at Trattoria during the week. I open a web browser on the desktop computer and type Trattoria Lorenzo Restaurant into the search engine. When the number displays, I reach across my desk to pick up the phone receiver, dialing the number.
After four rings, a woman answers, “Trattoria Lorenzo.”
“Hi, can I speak with Massimo, please?”
“Sure, may I ask who’s calling?”
Quickly, I hang up the phone. I push my chair back, slide off my heels, replacing them with my Dr. Martens, lacing them up but leaving them untied. I grab my jacket and pockabook and rush toward the front door.
“Natalia, I’ll be back later. Please reschedule my 2:30 p.m. phone conference for later this week, if possible. I’m not sure if I’ll be back before you leave.” She’s about to say something, but I dash toward the exit before she has a chance to.
Once outside my building, a burst of cold air jolts me. I zip my jacket up and stuff my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. Clouds blanket the sky, and the day is gray, matching my mood. I beeline it to the restaurant, which is six blocks away.
Trattoria is still full from the lunch crowd, even though it’s past 2:00 p.m. I scan the dining room searching for him, but he’s not here.
“Hi, table for one?” a young lady I’ve never seen before asks me.
“I’m here to see Massimo. Is he downstairs?”
Her posture stiffens. “Um, let me check.” She picks up the receiver and punches a few numbers on the keypad. “Hi, Massimo, there’s a woman here to see you.” She moves the receiver from her mouth and asks, “Your name, please?”
“Lena,” I say, exasperated. I know he’s downstairs. Will he turn me away?
“Her name is Lena,” she pauses. “Okay.” She hangs up the phone.
“You can go downstairs. It’s through—”
“I know where it is, thank you.” Her eyes widen at my rudeness.
I dash through the dining room, and in no time, I’m at the door in the back corner where stairs are leading down to the cellar. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the office door is only a few feet away from me. Images from when I visited him at the North End restaurant a couple of weeks ago flash through my mind, and I clench my legs at the thought of Massimo’s touch. “Focus, Lena. I need to make things right with him and not let myself be seduced,” I tell myself, taking in a deep breath.
I knock on the door before pushing it open. I don’t wait for him to respond; I enter the office, closing the door behind me.
Massimo is sitting behind the desk, papers strewn across it in messy disarray. The dim yellow light causes me to squint, and Matchbox Twenty’s “Back 2 Good” plays softly in the background. His eyes lift from what he was working on. His hair is wild, sticking up in all directions. No doubt he’s been running his hands through it in frustration. He dons a five o’clock shadow, and the dark circles under his eyes scream exhaustion.
I lean against the wall behind me and unzip my jacket, letting it hang open. “You’ve been ignoring me.”
