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AMALIA SCIFONI
Lake Geneva, Switzerland, three years ago
My boyfriend joins me on the deck of his thirty-foot yacht.
“You haven’t said much,” his gravelly voice rolls to me.
I angle my face and I’m met by the sight of his profile, staring at the calm water of the lake. The striking face of Aidan Rolland—I saw it for the first time along the Elbe River in Germany. He’s tall and athletic, built for the offensive like an elite quarterback. Yet, that cloudy morning, distraught coated him like moss blanketing a rock. I could’ve walked on by, but turning away from someone in pain didn’t sit well with me. I offered him a listening ear, then a shoulder to cry on, and eventually my heart. I did fall in love with him then.
But not with his temper.
Should I give him another chance?
It maddens me that I’m still asking the question. But Aidan is someone I can’t just walk away from. I’ve invested so much of me in us, and the emotional connection I’ve built with him isn’t something that I can just bury in an instant. Besides, he will follow me to every corner of the earth if he has to.
Getting no response from me, he heads back inside, only to pour himself another glass of champagne.
“You need to take it easy on that, skipper,” I say in a neutral tone, gauging his state of mind. Glasses are his favorite thing to throw, and I don’t want to be his target tonight.
He tosses a ‘watch me’ stare, gulping the whole glass.
Looking ready for another round, I approach, gently wrapping my hand over his. Beneath my palm, his fingers loosen their grip on the stem of the flute. Then he abandons the glass altogether. “I like it when you touch me.” He lands a peck on my hand.
Don’t fight fire with fire,my Papa used to say. I’m lucky this time. With this man, more often than not, neither ice nor fire subdues his anger.
I look up at the sky. The moon hides behind a cloud, as if telling me I’m on my own.
“I’m depending on you to take me back to dry land tonight,” I casually add as he leads me back out on the deck.
Aidan grips my waist, imposing a kiss on me, which I accept to avoid triggering him. “It’s not the worst place to be stuck in, don’t you think? What’s the hurry?”
It’s a lovely spring night, and my boyfriend’s brand new yacht has everything you need to be comfortable and more. It’s equipped with a private cinema, black-marble bathrooms, and Versace-dressed beds. But at the end of the day, it’s not the place—it’s who you’re with that makes or breaks a moment.
“I guess not,” I reply.
“Me, fucking you till the crack of dawn. You, sucking the life out of me until we both die.” He licks my earlobe, his hand squeezing my breast.
We used to fuck like that. As a matter of fact, he still does. Aidan is a man of sexual mastery who balances pleasure and pain to the last gasp; that has been constant since the first time he bedded me. But I’m an emotional creature who’s incapable of drawing the line between the great lover that he is and his actions outside the bedroom. I wish I could. That way I’d be able to at least keep one part of my life fulfilled. But because I only have one heart, everything I experience courses into it. Our intimate moments have metamorphosed into routines, and I play along just because I’m his girlfriend.
Leave him.
So people are telling me.
I tried. But he followed—he paid people to follow me—and then he apologized, and begged. My relationship with Aidan is one that people either look away from, sympathize with, or judge blindly. The cycle of control paralyzes, and unless you’re in it, you have no idea. It’s ride or die, and I’ve chosen ride.
Fog starts forming over the water. Lake Geneva is one of the most scenic places in the world, yet when the sky is black, so becomes the water. Aidan is my sky. When the sun is shining, I gleam. Yet, when he unleashes a storm, I get the brunt of the rain.
“Amalia, I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I’m going into therapy.”
His statement jolts me. With his alcohol-ridden breath, it doesn’t sound like something that would come out of his mouth. But I smile, welcoming his intentions.
“See?” He shows me confirmation of an appointment with a Dr. Schmidt. “I’m doing this for you.”
Maybe the right cable has been cut from the Aidan Rolland time bomb. I plant a kiss on his cheek, murmuring, “Do it for us.”
My eyes meet his, prompting him to ask, “What’s your dream, Amalia?”
