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“Boys, could you go play in your room, please? I’m trying to read something,” I ask, feeling a bit ridiculous to be asking them to leave instead of telling them. Their bedroom is enormous. They could build a civilization of wild lizards in there if they wanted to. Why do they always have to be exactly where I am?
Finding out about my pregnancy two months after I got back from Italy was, in a word, devastating. I wasn’t at all ready to be a mother, and knowing that my baby’s father was nowhere to be found made me feel lower than I’d ever been. From that moment onward, I resolved to work as hard as I could to make a good life for my baby. I was willing to go the extra mile in everything I did to try and make up for the fact that my child wouldn’t have a father.
Then I found out I was having twins.
Receiving the news about the twins felt like a cosmic joke. I was already going to be in the red every month with one child if I didn’t find a better job. The idea of having to supporttwonewborns on one salary made me want to break down screaming right then and there in the doctor’s office.
As if things couldn’t have gotten worse, the pregnancy was miserable from start to finish. I was sick every day for six months, struggling through nausea to go to work every day in order to save up enough for a one-bedroom apartment. It was absolute hell and is still have nightmares about waking up to find my bank account completely wiped out by overdue bills or insurance payments that I’d forgotten about.
Of course, I absolutely love my boys both as my sons and as individuals. Calvin is a voracious reader for his age, and I can already see a glimmer of artistic talent whenever he has the ambition to sit down and really focus on something. Most of the time, he doesn’t possess this quality, but I can only hope that with time he will recognize the potential of his gifts.
Archer is more of a boy’s boy, and he’s already obsessed with sports due to the influence of his uncle. My brother Mike watches the boys when I go to work, and he’s always watching archives of old games from the past that allegedly made history for that sport at that point in time. To be honest, he’s a little too deep in the sports culture for me to relate to him, and he’s difficult to talk to about much else, but he’s an excellent caregiver to my kids that I would truly suffer without.
The boys make their way up to their bedroom, squealing that familiar little boy scream as they run. I try to allow them to express themselves however they can without hurting themselves, though I might have given them a little too much freedom with the shrieking.
When they’re far enough away, I re-open the article in an attempt to read it for the fourth time. It’s about the impact of fast fashion in third-world countries, and I’ve been trying to be a more conscious consumer.
Just as I’m about to begin the article again, I receive a phone call from my boss. It’s past business hours, and he knows I don’t like to be bothered when I’m not at work, but sometimes he calls when he gets some important info that can’t wait until the next day. I get annoyed with him very easily since we don’t save lives and aren’t a vital part of any supply chain or civil ecosystem, but I have to admire his commitment to his work.
I guess.
“Hey Dave, what’s up?” I ask, putting on my cheery corporate voice to the best of my ability.
“June! I’m so happy you picked up. We just got an email from our headquarters in Italy that they need a product designer to come out and rework some of their drafts. Their in-house designer is out on maternity leave, and you know how long that could be in a European country,” he replies excitedly.
My stomach drops at the very mention of Italy. Lately, it seems like reminders of that place, ofhim, are everywhere.
“Oh yeah? Are you asking me to go to Italy?” I joke, trying to keep a somewhat casual tone to avoid seeming over-eager. I’d be so embarrassed if that wasn’t the case.
“Well, yes, actually. You and a few others have been selected to work in different departments for a few months. I know it’ll be taxing, but you’ll be compensated very well for your time. We wouldn’t ask you to just pick up and leave your life behind for your base salary. That would be insanity.”
I freeze. Do I want to go back to Italy at all?
Of course, Italy was absolutely stunning. I still dream of some of the meals I shared with my friends there, the sunsets, and the smell of the ocean. I’d go back in a heartbeat if it weren’t for Marcello.
When I found out I was pregnant, I tried voraciously to find him and tell him. The phone number he had given me was disconnected, which led me to believe that he had known about the impending disconnection before we slept together and used it to his advantage. Mere weeks after our encounter, he was unreachable.
I tried searching for him on social media, but his first name is so common in that part of the country that my feed was flooded with people to sift through. I felt like such a fool for allowing him to cum inside of me. Hadn’t I learned anything in health class? Wasn’t I a fully-grown woman who was capable of making safer choices for myself?
“When do you need me to leave?” I ask without really thinking. As anxious as I am at the prospect of going back, my curiosity is going to get the better of me no matter what.
“Preferably in the next two weeks. We wanted to give you some time to make arrangements, and if there’s anything we can do to make the transition easier, just let us know. We understand that this is a lot to ask of someone on such short notice,” he says earnestly.
“Um, let me get back to you. Can we talk about this on Monday? I should have an answer for you by then,” I reply, sitting down at my kitchen island to steady myself.
He clears his throat after coughing briefly, likely after swallowing his cocktail too quickly as he so frequently does. “Of course, just let me know when you’ve made your decision. Have a great rest of your night!”
I tell him to do the same, hanging up the phone and placing it face-down on the countertop. I breathe in deep, holding the breath for just a little too long before I let it go.
Every night since I left Italy, I’ve thought about Marcello. It feels pathetic to pine after someone who not only ghosted me but had only known me for a matter of hours. On paper, he’s just some guy that I fucked. Why would I hold onto him so strongly?
But there was something about him that drew me in, and the fact that this energy has nowhere to go is killing me. All I want is to feel his chest against mine again, to look into those forest green eyes knowing that whatever he wants to do to me is beyond what I’ve ever experienced.
I’ve tried time and time again to talk myself out of maintaining these unfounded feelings that have gripped me for five years. How could I allow a stranger to command so much of my mental attention? How does he take up so much space in my mind when he should hardly be there, to begin with?
Not to mention, leaving me with these two babies without even so much as a way of contacting him feels like the ultimate betrayal. He got to cum inside me, and I was left as a single mother who had to scrape myself together and go to all of my doctor’s appointments by myself. I had to work twice as hard to get where I am in my career, and I’ve sacrificed all kinds of personal luxuries and expenses just to keep food on the table. I paid an incredible price for his pleasure. All he had to do was leave.
I glance around the house I’ve managed to buy for myself despite all of the drawbacks and limitations I’ve encountered. I imagine what my life would be like if I had somehow gotten in contact with Marcello, convinced him to move to the States with me, and created a life with him. Maybe we would cook meals together, have date nights at home while the boys are staying with a relative, or hold each other on the couch while we watch movies that transformed us during our most uncertain years.
