Authors: Marie Meyer
Lucas couldn’t make promises like that, especially when he had no idea what his promises entailed.
Dammit, Sophia. What have you done?
I
’d made it in time. The second I slammed the rental car door shut, the small trickle of tears leaking from my eyes turned into full-on sobs. Burying my head in my hands, my body convulsed with sadness and anger. A vise wrapped around my guts and squeezed like a boa constrictor. The last time I’d cried like this was the night of Penley’s funeral.
I’d held it together all day. Through each hug, every condolence, I’d plastered on a thin-lipped “thank you for coming” smile and pretended to be brave. I didn’t cry. Didn’t shed one tear. Crying was for the weak, for those who had no control. I could control myself even in the face of tragedy.
I reminisced with school friends, teammates, and relatives while Penley’s made-up, plastic-looking, lifeless body was laid out in a casket behind me.
I refused to look at her. Pen hardly ever wore makeup, but the funeral home decided she needed some color. Why did a dead person need color? Penley’s color came from life, not makeup…the red flush of her cheeks when she ran down the soccer field…the spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose that darkened in the sun…her smiling hazel eyes that lit up when she got a text from her crush. Life was color…not death.
I’d never see the light in her eyes again. Her freckles were hidden under a permanent layer of flesh-colored spackle, and the flush on her cheeks was painted on. I didn’t understand why my uncle and aunt, Mom’s brother and Penley’s parents, insisted on the artifice, the illusion of a colorful Penley. Maybe it made them feel better? I didn’t know.
To me? It made me want to puke…to expel the monstrous, angry beast that had taken up residence inside me.
Everyone prided me on how well I was holding up, how strong I was.
But that strength was a farce. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t in control. I had as much control over the things in my life as Penley had, and look where that got her. Every time someone wrapped their arms around my neck and whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss,” tears stung my eyes, my stomach twisted in knots, and control slipped through my fingers.
That night, when Mom, Nonna, and I came home, I held on to my dignity a moment longer. I walked stoically to my room. I heard them mutter, questioning whether I should be alone, but they respected me enough to let me go. As soon as I shut my bedroom door, the monster clawed its way out of me. I crumbled to the floor, empty, lifeless, and out of control. My world had turned black and white. Colorless.
Just like Graziana’s pictures. Even though she’d been alive in those pictures, Huntington’s had stolen her color, robbed her of life.
Would it steal mine? Had it already?
Still blinded by tears, I shifted my hands to the sides on my head, trying to stop the blaring siren of Martino’s words
. Get tested…don’t start a family…I watched my wife die…now my son…not you, too, Sophia.
The driver’s side door pulled open and the car shifted as Lucas climbed inside. He closed the door with a quiet click. “Sophia,” he said somberly. His voice was warm and soft, like a blanket just pulled from a dryer. I wanted to wrap myself in its warmth and hide forever.
“Martino wanted me to give you this.” He held his hand out to me.
I looked up from the floor, my eyes tired and bloodshot. I sucked up snot running from my nose. I suppressed the mocking laughter in my chest. If the way I looked right now didn’t send Lucas running for the Tuscan hills, then my awful genes were sure to do the trick. He needed to get away from me; I would only end up hurting him, and that was the last thing I wanted. He’d already been through so much.
The confusion and sorrow in his eyes crashed into me, knocking out what little air I had left in my lungs. “What is it?” I croaked, swiping my hand across my eyes, clearing away the tears that hadn’t fallen.
He picked up the silver chain with his other hand and stretched it out. Swinging from his fingertips, a beautiful antique pendent twirled at the end. “Martino said it was your grandmother’s.”
Reaching for the necklace, I scooped the delicate charm into my palm. A figure of the archangel Raphael was etched into the metal. Lucas dropped the chain into my hand.
My eyes flicked back to him. “I can’t accept this.” I shook my head. “I have to give it back.” If this was Graziana’s, she’d probably had it for years. It was an heirloom. I didn’t deserve something that special. Heirlooms were reserved for loved ones. Graziana hadn’t known me. I wasn’t a loved one.
I turned toward the door and reached for the handle, ready to march the necklace right back to Martino.
I felt Lucas’s strong hand on my shoulder. “Sophia,” he said softly.
I looked over my shoulder.
Lucas licked his lips and sucked in a breath. “I think it would mean a lot to him if you kept it.” With the hand on my shoulder, he guided my body around. He brushed his fingertips across my tearstained cheek and went on. “I don’t know what happened in there, but I want you to know that whatever it is, you’re not alone.”
As he spoke, his eyes never wavered, never flinched. I believed him, every word…and that’s what scared the shit out of me.
* * *
I clutched the necklace in my hand as we drove back to the hotel, rubbing my thumb over Raphael’s image. The little bumps in the metal massaged my skin. The symbolism behind Martino’s gift wasn’t lost on me. Even as a non-practicing Catholic, I knew Raphael was a patron saint; I just didn’t know when he was to be invoked.
Curious, I pulled my phone from my purse. Tapping the Chrome app, I typed “St. Raphael the Archangel” into the search bar. Scrolling through a dozen hits of various churches and schools by the same name, I found Raphael’s Wikipedia page. I touched the link and waited for it to load.
Lucas remained quiet in the driver’s seat, never once pressuring me to explain what my grandfather had meant when he’d said I needed to be tested. After my outburst, Lucas was probably looking for a way to ditch the crazy girl. I wouldn’t blame him. Heck, if he were smart, he’d go his own way and forget he ever met me…If I were smart, I’d tell him to go.
Wikipedia populated. The information I sought was near the top of the page. Scanning the patronage list, I noticed Raphael was called upon for many different reasons.
For Graziana, I imagined she’d prayed to St. Raphael for healing, as he’s the patron saint of bodily ills and sick people. He also warded against nightmares, served as a guardian angel, watched over young people, and guided lovers to one another. A very busy saint.
Martino’s gift made sense and was very thoughtful. I didn’t think I’d find it comforting, but I did. “I wish I had told him thank you,” I mumbled, breaking the silence.
I glanced at Lucas just as he turned in my direction, our puzzle pieces snapping together when our eyes met. It was like that every time. We fit.
“I don’t think he’d mind a phone call,” Lucas suggested with a soft grin. He put his hand on my leg and squeezed gently.
“You’re right. I should call him.” Now that I had some distance between the ghostly memories filling Martino and Graziana’s home, I realized rushing out like I had was incredibly rude. I owed Martino an apology as well.
I found his name in my recent calls and dialed.
After a couple rings he answered gruffly.
“Pronto?”
I hoped he wasn’t angry that I’d left so abruptly.
“Martino?”
“Sí.”
“It’s Sophia,” I clarified, not sure he recognized my voice.
“Oh, Sophia,” he sighed in relief, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. “Sweetheart, are you all right?
Mi dispiace
, I called your father. I was worried about you. He may call you soon.”
I doubted Gio would call, but I’d bet my last euro he’d call Mom, and she’d be calling me shortly. “That’s okay. I’m okay. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have run out like that. I’m sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right. Did Lucas give you the necklace?”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me; it was habit. “Yes, he did. I called to say thank you. It’s very beautiful.”
“Wonderful.” I could hear the delight in his voice. “Your grandmother is smiling down from heaven. I know for a fact that she’d want you to have that necklace.”
“I love it.
Grazie mille
.” After almost six weeks, my Italian was sounding more authentic.
“
Prego
,
Tesoro
. Sweetheart, it was my pleasure.”
I smiled for the first time all day and glanced at Lucas. He smiled back.
“Call any time. I’d love to hear from you.”
“
Ciao
, Martino.”
“Ciao, Tesoro.”
I ended the call and immediately opened my translator app. I didn’t know what
Tesoro
meant and I needed to find out.
“What are you doing?” Lucas asked.
I typed the word into the app. “Martino kept calling me
Tesoro
. I don’t know what that means, so I’m looking it up.” I clicked go, and the translation popped up. “Sweetheart.
Tesoro
means sweetheart.”
“Yeah, that’s about right,” Lucas said, turning into the hotel parking lot.
“Oh really? What about ‘Linebacker’?”
“That’s definitely right.” He glanced at me with a wink.
Lucas found a place to park and killed the engine. During the hour-and-a-half trip back to Sorrento, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and now the city glowed in amber lights. This was when Lucas and I usually got ready to go out (Italy had turned me into a night owl), but tonight I was content with staying in. It had been a long day, and all I wanted to do was collapse into bed.
Unbuckling my seat belt, I pulled the latch on the door and stepped out. My phone buzzed. Looking at the screen, sure enough, it was Mom. My parents had the strangest relationship.
I ignored the call, opting to send her a quick text. I didn’t want to hear the panic in her voice, and I wasn’t game for a lengthy phone conversation.
My thumbs flew over the keyboard:
I’m fine, Mom, really. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Her response was immediate.
Are you sure? Your dad said Martino was very concerned about you.
Yes, I’m good. I promise. Just tired. I’ll call tomorrow,
I typed again.
Love you, Patatina. Call me. Can’t wait to see you in a few days.
“You okay?” Lucas had come around to my side of the car and draped his arm around my shoulder.
I looked up at him. “Yeah. Just texting my mom.”
While we walked to the hotel’s entrance, I sent one last text.
Love you too, Mom. See you soon.
I slipped my phone into my purse. The events and conversations of the day clinked like heavy armor between Lucas and me. All the unasked questions and silent answers had reached rock concert level decibels, making the ringing in my ears unbearable.
I owed him an explanation. He needed to know what Martino had meant when he pleaded for me to be tested. I could only imagine what had been running through his head this whole time.
Last week, Lucas had confided in me; he’d finally let me in. It was time I put on my big-girl panties and did the same.
L
ucas swiped the keycard in the door handle and ushered me inside. He was so quiet. Without a word, he flipped on the light and went straight for the bathroom, shutting the door. I didn’t get the vibe he was angry, but he definitely wasn’t acting like himself.
I kicked off my sandals and pushed them under the desk before I fell onto the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I raised my right hand above my face, the one clutching the necklace. Holding on to the end of the chain, I let go of the pendant. It swung freely over my head. When it slowed, I tapped the angel with my left index finger, making him fly again.
I always wondered why people prayed to saints. Didn’t it make more sense to go directly to the source? If we could pray to God, why did we need an intercessor? Ultimately, wasn’t God the only one who could answer the prayer? The saint had no power to fix things, only God did.
How many prayers had Graziana sent up to Raphael? Would it have made a difference had she prayed to God directly?
I felt Lucas lie down. Glancing his way, I saw we were both on our backs. Lucas lay in the other direction, so we were nearly cheek to cheek, our bodies drawing a horizontal line across the middle of the bed.
St. Raphael watched over us.
Lucas reached for the pendant, catching it between his thumb and two fingers. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Raphael, the archangel.”
Lucas rubbed his thumb over the image.
“He’s a saint,” I said.
“It’s pretty.” He let go and dropped his hand to his stomach. I lowered my arm, too, the necklace still in hand but resting against my belly. I let my head fall to the side. I watched him.
He stared at the ceiling as my eyes traced the outline of his profile. A few tousled strands of hair brushed against his forehead. His long eyelashes curled in just the right way, barely touching the skin at the top and bottom of his eyes. Most girls would kill to have lashes like that. There was a slight dip at the bridge of his nose before it straightened out, turning up slightly at the end. His full lips were pressed together, surrounded by a shadow of scruff covering his cheeks, chin, and upper lip.
I took in all of him, the way each feature tapered and flowed into the next. How his sun-bleached blond hair darkened to a dirty blond at his sideburn, and in front of his right ear was a tiny birthmark, no bigger than the pad of my pinky finger.
I smiled. It looked like an upside-down outline of Mickey Mouse’s head.
God, he is beautiful.
Lucas shifted, looking at me. The tips of our noses touched and my eyes had the perfect view of his heart-shaped mouth.
“Checking me out?” He smirked. Even his laugh lines were gorgeous.
His warm breath spread across my face. I inhaled, my eyes fluttering closed for a second. I wanted to remember this moment, because after I told him what Martino had meant, our good-bye was inevitable. He deserved so much more than me.
“Yeah,” I whispered, a hesitant smile at my lips.
Lucas shifted on the bed, moving upward, the crown of his head touching my shoulder. “Soph…”
I loved the way his mouth caressed my name. His lips puckered around the “o” and his bottom lip barely touched his top teeth, making a gentle
ffff
sound.
He searched my face, scooting closer. Bringing his hand up, he put the heel of his palm on my cheek. His fingertips brushed against my neck and under my chin. With a slight part in his lips, he leaned in and closed his mouth over mine.
I shivered and let my eyes fall shut, bathing in the sensation of our lips wrapped in an upside-down embrace.
Lucas pulled at my bottom lip with delicate pressure. Slowly, our mouths moved against each other while his hand massaged my cheek with the same unhurried passion.
I guided the tip of my tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, deliberately slow, its half-moon curve sending hot chills coursing through my veins.
Lucas sucked in a breath and swept his tongue over mine.
Our mouths explored the landscape from this new and exciting angle.
My lips tingled, hungry for more. My body screamed to be close to him…as close as humanly possible. I wanted Lucas to replace the only memory of sex I had.
He moved his hand from my face, sliding it to the bed. He broke away and sat up, turning his body around. I scooted up on the mattress just as Lucas swung his leg over, straddling me.
Both of his hands cupped my face as he tilted his head, crushing his mouth against mine. He kissed me deeply. His right leg pressed back and he used his knee to push my legs apart. Stretching his body out, he planked me, holding his weight in his arms.
Chaos and desire threatened to shatter my control. Circling my arms around his neck, I drew him closer. I wanted to be devoured by him.
Our tongues knotted together, mesmerized by the feel of the other’s.
He tasted so good. What was it about him that made him taste so delicious? I couldn’t explain it, but I knew it was everything a man should taste like. Raw…tender…bold…sweet…hot. Sex. He was killing me. He made my head spin, dizzy with want.
Carried away, I nipped at the corner of his bottom lip, just as he’d slanted the other direction, changing the angle of our kiss. Lucas growled against my mouth, “Sophia, God”—he rocked his hips against me—“you’re driving me insane.” I could feel just how insane I’d made him.
His left hand traveled down my body like it was on a mission. Lifting the hem of my shirt, his heavy palm pushed its way up my abdomen, across my rib cage, until he found what he was looking for. Cupping my breast in his hand, he squeezed greedily. His tongue explored my mouth. Our bodies moved in a way that demanded we lose the clothes; they were only in the way.
I wanted him so badly. I loved the way he made my body come alive. How, with a simple smile and a sultry kiss, he could drive away the ghosts that haunted my unknown future. I wanted to bask in his light and forget about the shadows that lurked around the corner.
But what I wanted didn’t matter. He did. And more than anything, I wanted him to have a happy future, unblemished by sorrow and tragedy.
His hands moved to the button on my shorts. My breath came up short. “Lucas,” I muttered. “Stop. Please.”
There. I said it. Albeit, not very authoritatively, but the words passed from my lips and touched his.
He stilled immediately, obeying my command. Pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes, he scanned my face and swept a hand across my cheek. “Baby, what’s wrong?” A knife sliced through my heart. For the second time today, I knew I was going to cry. I refused to let the tears fall this time, though. I was stronger than that.
I put my hands against his chest and pushed. He didn’t fight me but quickly stood, giving me the space I needed so I could muster up the courage to set him free.
“Soph?” He wiped his thumb and forefinger over the corners of his mouth and down his scratchy chin. The fire in his eyes was still there but was close to being extinguished by confusion. It was written all over his face.
I sat up on the bed, scooted closer to the headboard, and crossed my legs. Lucas sat on the edge, waiting for me to say something.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, reaching for Graziana’s necklace in the middle of the bed. It had fallen out of my hand. I picked it up and laid it on the bedside table.
“Talk to me, Soph,” he demanded, his voice deep with concern. He caught my chin with his thumb, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I know this has to do with what happened earlier, with Martino. Tell me.”
A single tear escaped my right eye. Lucas ran his thumb over my cheek, wiping it away.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I whispered. If I talked any louder, I wouldn’t be able to hold the rest of the tears at bay.
“What made you run out on Martino this afternoon?” he asked.
Okay. This was good. If he asked the questions, I could answer. I’d get through.
I shook my head. “Those pictures of Graziana were too much.” I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “She was so pretty. Brimming with life…” I trailed off, remembering the black and white photo of my grandmother holding her pregnant belly, smiling, infinitely happy.
Lucas pulled his legs onto the bed and sidled up next to me. My shoulder rested against his bicep. Sitting like this would make things easier, too. I could stare off into space and detach myself from the conversation if I didn’t have to look into his eyes.
“Here, sit up.” He pushed me forward, wrapping his arm around me. “That’s better.”
Yes, this was better. No soul-searching blue eyes to drive the knife in my heart deeper, not to mention being cradled at his side gave me an extra measure of confidence.
“Graziana died of a genetic disorder.” Just pull the Band-Aid off quickly. “The same one my dad is dying of,” I added.
“God, Sophia,” Lucas said. “I’m so sorry.” He flexed, squeezing me closer.
Based on his reaction and the sound of his voice, I was sure he’d missed the implication behind what I’d said, the unspoken truth I was skirting around. I’d hoped he’d be able to jump to conclusions so I wouldn’t have to spell it out. It didn’t look like that was going to happen.
I pulled in a long, calming breath through my nose and exhaled slowly through my mouth.
Just tell him, Soph.
“There’s a chance I might have it, too.” My voice was monotone, devoid of any emotion. If I kept it clinical, I wouldn’t fall to pieces. I’d told Mom without tears; certainly I could do the same with him.
My heart beat loudly in my ears. I didn’t move…didn’t breathe. I waited for him to say something, anything. I half expected him to spring off the bed, give me a wave and a hurried
arrivederci
, and get the hell out of Dodge. But he didn’t move either. He was as still as me.
Is he breathing?
I turned to look at him, violating rule number one: Don’t look into his eyes. But I had to see. I had to know. What was he thinking?
His eyes were wide. He pierced me with an icy stare. The knife in my heart had been removed, dipped in poison, and reinserted, burning me from the inside out. I couldn’t read the expression on his face. Anger? Sadness? Indifference? It could have been any of them. Or all of them. I hated that I couldn’t tell, but more so, I loathed the fact that he wasn’t talking. I needed him to say something before I went out of my mind.
Then his mouth moved, forming words, quieting my mind just a little. “What is it?” he asked. “What disorder?”
He still had his arm around me, but it was heavy, dead weight.
“Huntington’s disease.”
There it was, out in the open. The part of me I’d hoped to keep quiet. My Italian summer fling didn’t need to care about terminal genetic disorders when there was no future for us. In three days, I’d leave for the States, Lucas would go wherever the wind blew him, and we’d have the memory of our month and a half in Italy. That was it.
Then why does this hurt so much?
My heart bled. Even through the pain of Dad leaving when I was little and missing my best friend every single day, I was always able to move forward, despite the ache their absence left behind.
But this was different.
“Well, what do we do?” Lucas asked. He lifted his arm from my shoulder and climbed across the bed. He sat in front of me, crossed his legs, and stared me down with his blue eyes.
I blinked and shook my head, trying to make sense of his question. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘might have it.’ That means there’s a possibility that you might not. How do we find out?”
We?
Why wasn’t he running? Getting as far away from me as possible? “There is no ‘we,’ Lucas.” My eyes flooded. The dam was full and about to be breached.
He pulled his eyebrows tight, creases forming between them. “What the hell does that mean? Of course there’s a ‘we.’” He grabbed my hands. “You don’t think I’m going to let you figure this out alone, do you?”
More damn tears spilled over my bottom lids. “That’s really sweet,” I choked, “but I can’t…I just can’t.” I cried. My resolve washed away. “You deserve so much better.”
He put his hand on my wet cheek. “Sophia, I don’t know what scares me more, the fact that you think you’re not good enough for me or the reality of being without you.”
I brushed his hand away. He did need a dose of reality. “Where’s your computer?”
“In the safe. Why?” he answered, confused.
I looked into his eyes, a challenge to myself not to let my guard down just because his eyes could see into my soul. “You need to see what reality will be like if you
do
stay with me. You saw Graziana’s picture. At sixty-seven she was already confined to a bed, having lost most, if not all, of her motor function. She was on a feeding tube and oxygen. Is that what you want?” I yelled through my tears. “To wipe drool off my mouth because my body no longer works? To sit by my bedside until my heart gives out and I flatline?”
“Yes,” he said with a simple nod. His eyes were a soft, honest, tranquil blue. A placid sea of truth. I believed him.
But I didn’t want to. He didn’t deserve that sucky reality. “No,” I protested. “You are going to find someone who colors your world with life, gives you children, someone to grow old with.”
“I’ve had more color in my life these last six weeks than I’ve ever had, Sophia.” His words were biting but not angry. I knew what he was trying to do; he saw my defenses crumbling and he was prepared to bring them down. “Do I need to spell it out for you?” he asked, gripping my hands so hard between his. “Crimson: the color of your cheeks when you’re embarrassed or excited. Espresso: the color of your hair in the lemon-yellow Italian sunshine and a drink that makes you stick your tongue out and cringe with disgust. Almost black: your eyes beneath the white, twinkling stars at night. Mint green: your chin, after you dribbled mint chocolate chip gelato all over. Olive: the night you saved that little girl who was choking. Periwinkle: the color that knocked me on my ass.”
He remembered the color of the shirt I was wearing the day I bumped into him. I closed my eyes, bombarded with so many different emotions. Why was he doing this?