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I picked up my sandals and crossed from the kitchen to the large, open foyer of her country house. I could see her visitor through the window, see dark, curling hair and a physical stance I remembered.
My breath caught. Fort was here.
The gravitational waves had brought him after all. I remembered how dark his eyes could look when he frowned, and understood why Signora d’Averio had perceived them that way. Even from a distance, I could see his serious expression.
I stood where I was, staring out the window, trying to figure out my feelings, trying to figure out the breathless hatred and excitement I experienced at the same time. Even though he’d devastated me and ripped my heart out, I’d wanted him to come and admit that he was wrong, and that he cared for me despite all evidence to the contrary.
I walked outside, conscious of each step I took toward him, conscious of the many ways I’d changed, and the ways I hadn’t changed at all. I still wanted him to love me. My heart still surged with emotion when he turned to me. Our eyes locked.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “How did you find me?”
I sounded a little heated. He looked defensive, or worried. He clasped his hands together, looking me up and down. “Devin flew me as far as Pisa. After that…well, I visited hotels and art galleries, and asked questions in bad Italian until someone could tell me where the wild-haired American woman was.”
I put a hand to my unstyled mop. “How persistent of you.”
“Are you still angry with me?” he asked. “I deserve it. I shouldn’t have come, but I couldn’t stay away.”
It was my turn to rake my eyes over my ex-lover. He seemed achingly at home in the rustic surroundings, with his ebony hair and olive-toned skin.
Signora d’Averio stuck her head out the front door and yelled something in Italian. I waved to let her know I was okay. She waved a hand and disappeared, as I thought,Am I really okay?
“I’m glad to see you,” I admitted, “although I don’t want to be. You’ve always made me feel things I don’t want to feel.”
“Juliet…” He sighed, his eyes narrowing a little. “Right back at you. You make me feel too much. But I’m here anyway, because I need to talk to you.”
“Well…” I pointed down the shaded path to the signora’s vineyards. “I was just going to take a walk.”
“Can I come with you?”
“I guess.”
We set out, potential energy turned to kinetic energy. He asked polite questions. How long had I been here? How many people had I met? Did I plan to leave and visit other areas of the world?
The first two questions were easy, but the last one made me realize just how untethered I’d become. Was I going to stay here? Go home? Go somewhere else and hope it was as idyllic as this place? Was I going to fall in love with someone in another country, considering my job and my friends were back in New York?
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said.
I looked sideways at him, at long legs and strong arms beneath a white linen shirt. His strength and stature reminded me of his power and the way it had changed me…at least for a little while.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “Why did you make the effort to find me after the way you left things?”
“Because I don’t like the way I left things. I was horrible to you, and I never told you how sorry I was. That’s partly because I couldn’t deal with what I’d done.”
We walked a while longer in silence. I found myself unable to raise my eyes and look him in the face.
“Here’s the thing about me, Juliet,” he said, reaching to pluck at a bush as we passed. “I suck at trusting women. I’m terrible at relationships. I have a really hard time…making myself vulnerable. I want everything safe and predictable.”
“Like clockwork,” I murmured.
“I know. It’s fucked up. See, when I was growing up, my parents got divorced, and it was so acrimonious, so hateful, that I decided I’d never be like them. My first few relationships… Jesus, I went all in. I exposed myself and gave them everything, only to be used for my money, or accused of being abusive because of my kink. I started to believe after a while that I was abusive, that I was a rich, selfish asshole, this person they accused me of being.”
He stopped and turned to me, and now I could see that his eyes were dark, so dark, as he relived these past hurts. “But I wasn’t a rich, selfish asshole. I wanted to love them, but my relationships became these ugly things, full of hurt and accusation and emotional drama. I had to stop trying. I had to put the walls up and stay in control.”
I studied him, not knowing what to say. I felt bad that he’d been scarred by his parents’ angsty divorce, felt bad that he’d gotten mixed up with women who hurt him. But at the same time, I wouldn’t compromise on the love and connection I craved. “I’m sorry you went through that,” I said. “It helps me understand you more.”
“But it doesn’t fix us. I know.”
My breath blew out in a long, slow gust. “Do you want to fix us?”
