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Marcello is still sleeping, and I realize that I’ve never actually been able to watch him sleep before. He always wakes up before me, and there have been multiple occasions where I’ve awoken to him stroking my face before he would head downstairs to his office.
Seeing him in a vulnerable state like this sheds a whole new light on him. I never realized how much of his composure was a front, an effort to always appear in control. Without the persistent, intense stare and tight jaw, he looks so much more human.
Even though the changes are insignificant in the grand scheme, it shifts something in my mind as I think about the kind of father and partner he’ll be. If I can just break through the part of him that feels the need to be so stoic all the time. I wonder if it could break down some of the barriers that have been preventing us from connecting fully.
“Hey, we’re landing,” I whisper, running my fingers through his hair the way he always does to me when he wakes me up.
“Hm? Shit, it’s already been eleven hours?” he asks, still dazed and half-asleep as he tries to sit up on his own.
His arm is still sore from the gunshot, so I help him up when he falters. He doesn’t say anything, but the looks he gives me are a small reminder that he truly does appreciate me. If that’s the way he shows love, I’ll take as much of it as I can get. If knowing glances are our secret language, I’m ready to remain silent forever.
When we exit the plane, I call a taxi to bring us to my apartment before we go to pick up the boys. I figure it makes more sense to show Marcello the place we’ll be living so that he has a little bit of time to get used to his new surroundings before two screaming little boys join the mix.
“This city is so different from where I’m from. It’s exactly the way I’ve always imagined America,” he says as we’re driven through the city center.
“What does that mean? What did you always picture America to look like?” I ask. I’m shocked that this hasn’t come up before, especially given the fact that I’m a tourist. With all of our cultural differences, I’m surprised that Marcello hasn’t teased me for being tooWestern.
“It’s just so... industrial. Everything is very angular, modernized to the point of obsession,” he replies as he points to a yogurt shop on the corner with a greyscale color scheme. “Why does everything have to be grey?”
Thinking about the unique architecture that he grew up around, I realize that life in the US is going to take some getting used to for Marcello. He’s used to everything having a certain charm or authenticity about it that he’ll have to sacrifice for efficiency here. For that, I feel a little sad for him.
But he chose to come here, and he can leave if he wants to.
When we pull up to my apartment building, Marcello helps me unload my bags even though he’s still significantly injured. I feel a slight rush of excitement, not enough to act on but enough to light me up inside. I finally have a protector, someone who will treat me like his queen.
Riding the elevator up to my apartment with Marcello is completely surreal. I’ve pictured this moment in my mind hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. It almost feels awkward, but I can’t place why.
“Okay, this is my apartment,” I say as I fumble for my keys. “I don’t remember what it looked like when I left it, so you might just have to work with me. It’s not what you’re used to.”
“It doesn’t need to be. I’ll find us a better place in a high-rise downtown. We can afford it, maybe a three-bedroom or a five-bedroom penthouse,” Marcello replies, picking up my keys and handing them to me after I’ve dropped them three times.
I’m so nervous about having him here, and the fact that he wants to move us into apenthousemakes me want to faint from joy. I was worried about space as the boys got older, but this apartment was all I could afford at my old job.
“How are you going to keep up with a penthouse if you’re not... doing what you were doing before? I mean, are you going to get a regular job or something?” I ask as I finally unlock the door.
“You think I didn’t have multiple passive income streams? I’ll still be collecting tons of money from my side businesses back in Italy. You won’t have to worry about a thing. Even if one of them fails miserably, you’ll hardly notice a thing,” he replies.
After we’ve dropped off our bags, it’s time for me to face what I’ve been fearing. I used Marcello’s phone to call my mother, tensing my shoulders as the line rings endlessly. I know she’ll pick up after the tenth ring, which is a quality of hers that’s always driven me crazy.
“Hello? If you’re calling for Henry again, you need to take him off your call list! This isn’t his number anymore!” she shouts in frustration.
“Hi, mom,” I reply awkwardly. “I’m back in the states. I’ll be on my way over to pick up the boys in a few minutes here.”
“What?! When did you get back? Are you alright? Did you get your passport back?” she asks, her voice frantic and grasping for reassurance.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, completely forgetting about my passport lie in the first place. “Can you have the boys ready to go by eleven?”
“I mean, sure, but this is all so sudden. I had no idea you were coming back anytime soon. How was working in Italy?” she asks, and I can practically hear a thousand more questions brewing in her head.
“Can we talk when I get there? My phone battery is pretty low,” I lie.
Marcello opens his mouth to say something, but I motion to him not to say a word. She doesn’t need to be suspicious ofanythingbefore we get there.
She agrees to wait until I’m there at her house, and we exchange goodbyes.
“You didn’t tell her yet, did you?” Marcello asks with a questioning glance.
“No, not yet. I didn’t really know how to have that conversation in a productive way. I figure she’ll be more open to accepting you if you’re already there in front of her,” I reply with uncertainty.
