I let the glass touch my lips, but don’t drink. "Do you know what he looks like, Mom? In person?"
The question blindsides her, or maybe it's just that I used "Mom" and not "Mother." She blinks, bracing for a trick. "I know what he looks like in the newspapers. The answer is no. Why?"
I try to picture Alessio as she would see him: older, almost legendary, the kind of man who can make even a New York Times photo look dangerous. "He's not what you think," I say. It’s the kind of lie I used to hate as a child, because it’s both a lie and the truth, which is the only kind our family deals in.
A sigh. This time, she closes her eyes before speaking. "This inappropriate relation threatens everything. Your father is?—"
"He's what? Scared?" My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, and something trembles in the glass I’m holding. "Let him be scared. Maybe he should've been scared twenty years ago, whenhe decided to befriend men who believe their money entitles them to skirt labor and tax laws.”
A flash of horror crosses her face. I shut my mouth. I’m not supposed to mention the Bad Old Days, when my father’s "business lunches" with certain politicians led to surprise contract approvals, or when Grandpa had to call his friends at the DA’s office late at night. The Stuyvesants are ambitious, but they must never be seen as people who bend the rules.
Mother smooths invisible wrinkles from her skirt. "That's not the point. Grandmother wants you home in Rye. You can take the guest house until this blows over. Or until," she adds, soft as a threat, "you come to your senses."
I finish the wine and feel the sharp burn in my throat. "I'm not coming home." My voice is calm and steady, which surprises me. "And you can tell Grandmother she can have her apartment back. Maybe she can rent it to one of her Hartley grand-nephews. I’m sure they’d love the prewar mold."
A pause. The clock on the wall ticks, loud as a countdown. "You have until the end of the month," she says finally, standing with a fluidity that belies how brittle she has become.
I set my empty glass down, careful not to break it. "I'll be gone by next week. Don't bother sending movers. I can pack my own boxes."
She wants to hug me then; I see the urge appear and fade. Instead, she picks up her handbag and coat, turns to the door, and leaves with the seriousness of a funeral director. Her perfume lingers, French and sharp, a scent that reminds me she will always own the air, even when she’s gone.
I count to ten to make sure she’s really gone. Then I get up from the sofa and start opening cabinets and drawers, looking for a bottle good enough for a night like this. I find a half-finished Barolo behind the pasta flour and pour some into a mug. The cheap ceramic stains my lips purple, and I drink quickly, hoping the day will fade away.
How did this happen? Two weeks ago, I had a future: a studio gig lined up, a possible pop-up to manage in SoHo, and that strange, quivering happiness you get when you think you’ve figured out how to be alone. Now I have three more weeks of shelter, then—what? Go crawling back to a family that only wants me silent, married off, small enough to fit inside a scrapbook photo? I slam the cabinet shut, the sound ricocheting around the kitchen.
Without thinking, I fetch my phone from my purse and pull up his contact, the one I swore I'd erase away a week ago after I told him we were finished. My vision blurs with tears as I run my thumb over his name.
I haven't spoken to him since that night. Seven endless days of silence that felt like drowning. I pick up my phone, tears falling freely now, and type before I can stop myself:
I need you.
Three pounding heartbeats later, his reply appears:
Alessio: I'm here. Always.
I let out a long, shaky breath. The taste of wine and salt on my tongue is heavy with regret. I miss him with an ache that feels like hunger. I type again:
Can I see you?
The answer comes before I've finished expecting it:
Alessio: Look out your window.
It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. My building is six stories high, and the entryway is empty except for rain pooling on the curb. Still, I check, just to have a reason to move and pull the curtain aside with two fingers.
A black car is parked at the hydrant. Next to it stands a man, holding an umbrella over his shoulders, collar turned up. He doesn’t look up; he doesn’t need to.
My phone buzzes again:
Alessio: Should I come up, Lucia?
God help me, I do.
I’ll unlock the door.
I put my phone down and avoid looking at my reflection in the glass. My face is puffy with emotion, my eyes red, but for once I don’t feel embarrassed. Instead, I feel strangely light, as if falling apart has left only the floating pieces of me. I tiptoe to the door, unlock it, and turn off the foyer light. I don’t want my mother’s scent to linger on anything Alessio might touch. I want him to walk into the darkness, into me, and nothing else.
My hair is matted, and the earlier rain left my skin sticky and cold, but none of that matters when the elevator dings and I hear his steady footsteps in the hall. I wait in the dark, barely breathing, arms wrapped around my waist as if I’m afraid to let anything in. The doorknob turns slowly, not rushed. Then the door opens wide, and Alessio steps inside.