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Another man had climbed in after the first, and before I could move, the taxi was speeding away.
Without a word to Annalie, I hurried around the fountain to the spot where the crowd had gathered. “The man who fell?” I asked no one in particular. “Is he…?”
Okay? Blind? Is he Noah?
People stared at me, a few snickered at the American girl with a gelato dripping down her hand. Heat crept up my neck, as I suddenly felt so foolish. My aching heart was turning complete strangers into Noah. It did that a lot. I saw his face in passing men, hoping, wishing, always disappointed.
I made my way back to Annalie, throwing the remnants of my gelato in the trash as I went.
“Why would you run away?” she asked, studying her phone, then turning it to show me. “…When Sabina is giving you a solo tonight?”
My heart pounded on a flush of excitement. “She…what?”
Annalie smiled. “Come on. She’s calling an early rehearsal.” She gave me an appraising glance, lips pursed. “And you need to wipe that chocolate off your hands before you touch your Cuypers, yes?”
“Yes.” I laughed, and the man in the cab was forgotten.
chapter forty-four
I made my way to the lobby of the Hotel Hassler and asked the concierge to hail me a cab for theTeatro dell’Opera di Roma and slumped heavily in the backseat. My phone said it was ten minutes to seven while the GPS in my ear said the drive was fifteen minutes long.
“Fottermi,” I muttered. That one would come in handy, I thought.
Traffic was bad. At least I guessed it was judging by the herky-jerky starts and stops of the cab, and the intermittent swearing and honking I heard up front. I was going to be late, there was no way around it. And if the venue was the kind that didn’t allow late-comers to skulk in, I was fucked.
But seriously, who cared? All this goddamn rushing for nothing. For what? To listen to my girlfriend, but not see her? To not even hear her, if I were being honest; she was just one of three or five or however fucking many violinists a symphony needed. The dumb bastards didn’t even have the sense to let her play solo, so why the fuck was I bothering? What was all the toil and suffering for? To make myself better? This wasn’tbetter!
Rage boiled through my blood, and that old Monster-conjuring hate writhed and coiled through me like a nest of snakes. How did I ever think that this would work? Or that Charlotte would even be there for me when all was said and done? What if she was pissed that I was right there the whole time and she never knew it? Or if she thought it pathetic that I followed her around Europe like a stray dog whose owners had moved on without him? What if she got sick of waiting?
What if she met someone else?
My leg had been bouncing with impatience but stopped dead at the thought. Every part of me ran cold and my rampaging litany went silent.
What if Charlotte had met someone else?
Yes, wondered the snide voice in my head.What if she met some guy, some musician in the orchestra? A flautist with a big instrument he wanted her to blow?
“Shut up.”
“Che cosa?” my cabbie demanded.
I ignored him. I had more important questions to answer. Such as: with whom was Charlotte spending all her time? Some dorky musician, perhaps, who could talk about librettos and sextets and tempos until the fucking cows came home? Or a suave bastard who took her to sidewalk cafés and bought her gelato or coffee or wine? Enough wine to get her tipsy so that he could steal a kiss and she could decide she liked it? That she likedhim,this guy who could see her face and tell her how beautiful she looked in the Italian moonlight, and who could visit museums with her on their off-days, or the Sistine Chapel, or the Trevi Fountain…
A guy whose advantage over me—besides his perfect 20/20 vision, of course—was hispresence. He was there for her, sharing her journey, and while it wasn’t in Charlotte’s DNA to cheat on me, her heart was big and generous and full of love she was eager to share, that sheneededto share.
Why not? It made sense that she’d fall in love with a musician, a more cultured man who didn’t swear as much as I did, or havevision problems, or mood swings, or…who didn’t get drunk and allow her to be assaulted in an elevator by someone you called a friend?
Or that.
My fevered and jealousy-choked imagination even composed a sound bite of the email I was now sure waited for me on my laptop when I got back to the hotel.
Noah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen…
My hands clenched my white cane like it was her new boyfriend’s throat. I nearly told the cabbie to turn around. Towel thrown. White flag up. Stick a fork in me, I was done.
“Okay, Teatro,” the cabbie said, and I realized the cab had stopped.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to. It was too fucking much. Too hard.
