by Shelly Cruz
But growing up Latina in Newton wasn’t always easy. With olive skin and a name like mine, I was often asked by kids and adults alike, “What are you?” or “Where are you from?” It made me self-conscious. I always looked different than most of the girls I went to school with because of my height and big, frizzy hair. When I hit my growth spurt in junior high school, though, I really stuck out. I was taller than all the girls and boys, had curvy hips, thighs, a big, round ass, bouncy curls, and full lips. I hated being a teenager because I always felt so different and didn’t know how to love myself.
The ascent up the backstairs leaves me in the kitchen where my parents are making dinner—the aromas reminiscent of my childhood. It smells delicious, and the scent of Adobo seasoning fills the air. My father is standing over the stove, flipping something in the frying pan, and I kiss him.
“Hi, Papi. Huele rico, what are you making?” I ask.
My father is seventy, yet carries his age well. He’s taller than me at six-foot-one, has thick curly hair, the gray hair evenly mixed with the black, and the wrinkles creasing his eyes show years of experience.
“Hola, Nena. Right now, chicharrones,” he says. “I know you love them. The rest of the food is almost ready. We were waiting for you.”
“Mmm, pork rinds. Thanks, Papi,” I say, before turning to where my mom is standing at the counter. “Hola, Mami.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. My mother, also seventy, is petite with dark blonde hair and striking green eyes.
“Hola, Nena,” she says. She’s washing lettuce and spinach, probably to make a salad.
“Can I help?”
“Si,” Mami says. “Cut some bread. It’s on the dining room table.” She gestures to her left.
I pick up the bread from the table and see a picture of Massimo and me that my mom has in a metal frame on the china cabinet. I wonder why she kept this photo up. We’re all dressed up, him in a black suit and me in a purple dress. We had been dating for about one year, and I asked him to be my plus one at my friend Gina’s wedding, a couple of hours away from the city. We rented a hotel room for the night since we would be drinking at the wedding.
Eleven Years Ago
“Will you zip the back of my dress for me?” I ask.
Massimo sidles up to me—his front to my back—and nuzzles his nose below my ear.
“I’d rather take this dress off of you right now,” he says, placing kisses along my neck between each word.
“You know I would love that too, but we’re gonna be late. You’ll have to save it for later.”
Massimo’s hands separate from me and he pulls the zipper up. “I’m gonna have a fucking hard-on all night watching you in that dress.” His voice is deep and husky.
After he zips me up, I turn and see his shirt buttoned except for the top one, his purple tie loosely hanging around his neck. He’s so handsome—lean and statuesque at six-foot-three with a chiseled jawline and a Greek nose. I could stare at him for hours on end.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask.
“Just need to fix my tie.”
I watch him close the top button and adjust the tie, his left hand holding it while his right hand tightens the knot. His hands are large and olive-colored, with veins prominent along the top. How I love feeling them on my skin. They’re masculine, yet he’s so delicate when he explores my body with them, when he holds my hands in his while walking.
Later at the church, we watch the wedding party enter. I’m sitting closest to the aisle, and Massimo is to my right. We rise to our feet to watch my friend enter on her father’s arm, her wedding dress straight cut and simple with a long train. Massimo leans into me, whispering, “You’re gonna look beautiful when I marry you.” He softly kisses me on the cheek.
I blush at his statement, questions swirling in my head. Instead, I smile at him and continue watching Gina march toward her groom.
“Nena, where’s the bread?” My mother’s words bring me back to the here and now.
I love the memory this picture evoked. If Massimo had known then that I would crush his soul, he never would’ve asked me to marry him.
“Coming,” I respond. I grab the bread off the table and return to the kitchen.
We enjoy dinner at the large round kitchen table, the same as we always did when I was growing up. We would all gather around the table, the space tight with the six of us kids squeezing in with my parents. They cooked together on most nights because they both worked all day, so it was their time to catch up with each other. They would steal kisses when they thought we weren’t looking. Back then, it would gross me out to see my parents kissing or being affectionate with each other. Looking back on it, they set a great example of what love is.
“Mami, la foto of Massimo and me, why do you still have it there?”
“Porque me gusta,” she responds, matter-of-factly.
“I like it too, but we’re not together anymore.”
“Have you seen Massimo?” my father asks.
“Not yet,” I lie. They don’t need to know he was at my office earlier today. All it would do is require me to explain things I can’t tell them yet.
“You know,” he says, “I never told you how I felt about what you did, leaving Massimo in secret. You never wanted to hear it, always made some excuse about it because you weren’t living here or were in law school, and I didn’t pressure you. But now, you’re going to hear it—no more excuses. We disapproved of it. You never told us why you did it or what happened. The truth is, the reason doesn’t matter. It was wrong. He came here asking for our help, but you shut us out too because you know what I would’ve said had you told me your plans. You know I would’ve helped him find you. Massimo is a good man, and he didn’t deserve what you did to him. And it’s not the way we raised you. I hope you understand the damage you caused, the hurt you inflicted, and you seek forgiveness,” he lectures.
My father is staring at me, disappointment in his eyes. He waits for me to respond to his admonishment.
“Perdóname, Papi. I’m sorry for hurting you—” I turn to my mother “—and you.” She extends her hand across the table and softly pats my arm.
“It’s not us you should apologize to,” my father says before drinking from his beer bottle.
Despite being thirty-five, I’m left feeling like a petulant child because of my father’s words.
CHAPTER 16
Heart’s Desire
MARIALENA
The Next Day
“WHAT’S UP, NATALIA?” I ask when she buzzes my office.
“Mr. Gentile is on line one for you. Would you like to speak to him, or should I take a message?”
“I’ll speak to him,” I say, smiling. I look at my watch, and it reads 4:28 p.m. I’ll be seeing him in less than two hours, and I have butterflies in my stomach.
“Hi, Mr. Gentile. How can I help you?” I ask in a low, breathy voice.
“Lena, my mother passed away.”
“Oh, Massimo, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m. I. Fuck! Lena, my mother died,” he croaks out.
I don’t know what to say to him. I want to hug him, hold him, console him. But alas, I have no right to do any of those things anymore. Massimo was extremely close to her, especially since he didn’t have a great relationship with his father. Because of that, I grew close to her during the time we were together. She was so caring and had a huge heart, took me in as one of her own as soon as Massimo introduced me to the family. She was the matriarch, always trying to keep everyone united. It saddens me to think she’s gone and what it means for them.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“I’m at the Taverna in the North End. Can you come here?”
“Um,” I begin, hesitant to say “yes.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lena.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I’m just shocked by the news. Of course, I’ll stop by. Be there soon.”
“Okay,” he says before the line goes silent.
I pla
ce the phone receiver back onto the cradle, and my hand lingers there. I’m stunned at hearing that my almost mother-in-law passed. I loved her and will never get the opportunity to apologize to her for the harm I inflicted upon her and her family. Life is unpredictable and can change in the blink of an eye. Death is always a stark reminder to not take anyone or anything for granted.
My heart hurts for Massimo. I haven’t lost either of my parents yet, but the loss of a parent is devastating. Massimo always tried to keep up a tough appearance throughout our relationship, to not let emotions affect him, at least publicly. But as our relationship progressed, he allowed his feelings to show. He started opening up with me, sharing the turmoil that plagued him, the anger he carried, letting me see inside his hard exterior.
Massimo is the oldest of the three siblings and was always the leader of the family. Both of his parents and his siblings always look to him for everything. They all rely on him. He was always doing for others, giving to others, making sure everyone else had what they needed—putting himself last. Presumably, his father and siblings will do the same now. If that’s the case, knowing him, he won’t permit himself to grieve his mother’s passing but will internalize it. Instead, he’ll try and be the strong one for his father, his siblings, and his kids.
It’s awful of me to think, but what terrible timing. He’s been so preoccupied with my return and hell-bent on finding out why I left. But he needs to deal with his mother’s death before I unload all of my baggage onto him as well.
I roll my chair back and open the desk’s bottom-right drawer to pull out my pockabook and place it onto the desk. I trade my dress shoes for my boots so I can walk over to the North End. After I lace them up, I grab my bag and strut out of my office, stopping at Natalia’s desk.
“Why don’t you wrap up and head home,” I tell her. “I’m leaving for the day, and it’s quiet.”
“Okay, do you have the file for the Gomez hearing tomorrow?” she asks.
“I’ll come to the office early before going to court. I’ll get it then. Anything else?”
“That’s all. Thanks, Lena. Have a good night.”
“You too, Natalia,” I say as I stride toward the office exit.
Before taking the elevator down, I stop to use the bathroom. When I finish washing my hands, I run them through my hair to tame some of the crazy curls. I find my makeup pouch and touch up my lipstick, glancing at my chin to ensure none of those stubborn wire hairs that grow in are visible. After our encounter in my office last week, I’m nervous to see Massimo. Despite knowing he belongs to another woman, I want to look my best, even if I know it’s wrong.
A few minutes later, I exit the elevator, walking toward the exit on State Street, making a left once outside. I take the quickest route through Faneuil Hall. He owns three restaurants with his brother and sister: the one I worked at back in the day, which is on Franklin Street a few blocks from my office, one in the South End, and the one I’m going to now in the North End.
I still remember when they opened up Trattoria Lorenzo Restaurant & Bar, and he asked me to go work with him after we’d been dating for a few months. I was hesitant at first but ultimately decided to do it. Massimo had talked about expanding and opening up a few more restaurants with themed bars and that he wanted me to be the bar manager for all of them. So much for those plans—something else that I ruined.
I’m about to turn onto Salem Street when my phone rings. I ignore it because right now, my mind is on Massimo. As I approach the restaurant, I look left before crossing the street. Lorenzo’s Taverna is located diagonally across the street from me.
Inside the Taverna, a few people are sitting at the bar to my left. There’s an older man, his suit is dark gray, and the pant legs are tattered at the bottom. His orange tie hangs loosely around his neck, his shoulders are sagging, and he’s sipping a martini. The couple in the corner by the window is young. They both wear suits, his black, hers a red skirt suit with black opaque tights. They look like newlyweds and can’t keep their hands off of each other. Their drinks sit untouched next to the calamari that’s getting cold.
A young woman approaches me. “Hi, how can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Massimo. He’s expecting me. My name is Lena.”
“Yes, he’s in the office. Go through the back over there—” she points to the back door in the far-right corner “—and take the stairs down. Once downstairs, go through the kitchen, and you’ll see the wooden door to your left.”
I follow her directions, and when I find myself at the office door, I knock.
“Yeah,” I hear Massimo say.
I nudge it open and poke my head through. “Hi, can I come in?”
He peeks up at me from where he’s sitting on the couch, hands cradling his head, which hangs low. The radio plays softly in the background.
“God, are you a sight for sore eyes,” he whispers. His gaze lingers on me for a few seconds before looking back down.
I enter, closing the door behind me, and lean up against it.
“How you holding up?” I ask him.
“I’m not.”
“Is that why you’re here holed up and not at your parents’ house with your family?”
“Still know me after all these years, huh?”
“You’re not an easy man to forget.”
“It hurts so fucking much. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her last night. We knew it was near the end but never expected it would be this quick. That my father would call me this morning and tell me she passed in her sleep. I didn’t get to tell her so many things I wanted to say. My boys didn’t get to say goodbye.”
He barely mutters those last words, hurt overtaking him. As he shakes, I watch him move his left hand from his hair to wipe tears that must be dripping from his eyes. The absence of his wedding ring is glaring, but now isn’t the time for me to be inquisitive. He’s still looking at the floor, refusing to lift his head, most likely trying to hide his emotions from me, not wanting to expose his vulnerability.
I don’t have any words to comfort him. Instead, I thrust myself off the door and pad across the office until I’m standing before him. I drop my bag on the couch and push my hands into his wild mane, down the back of his head, to the nape of his neck, spreading them to his shoulders to gently massage him.
His body stiffens, but I don’t stop, although I should. I have no right to be doing this when he belongs to someone else, but I’m selfish when it comes to Massimo. His hands find my hips grasping them tightly, the feel of them evoking memories of him making love to me. He rests his head on my belly, and I move my hand back through his hair, tangling my fingers through the thick strands.
Massimo is shaking. I can hear his labored breaths and the sniffles that undoubtedly accompany the tears I cannot see. My heart breaks for him, and I want to ease his pain, so I continue tousling his hair with my fingers. It’s all I can do.
We remain in that position for what seems like forever. The silence between us is filled with unspoken emotions, accompanied by Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash Into Me” playing on the radio.
I am at a loss for words. I don’t know how to console the man before me because he’s no longer mine. Aside from our last two encounters, I haven’t seen Massimo in nine years. The last place I expected to find myself is comforting him as I am now. There is still much unsaid between us, much I have to apologize for, yet now is not the time to get into all that. He needs to grieve his mother before he can do anything else.
“Lena,” he murmurs while tightening his grip on my hips, the burning between my legs intensifying under his touch.
“I’m here.”
Massimo lifts his head, peeking up at me, letting his gaze linger before shifting his eyes back down to my tummy. He moves his hands to the front and begins pulling my blouse out from where it’s tucked into my skirt until my skin is exposed. He places his lips on my belly—the touch of them like flames licking at my skin.
My head tell
s me I should ask him to stop. My heart begs for him to keep going.
“I missed you so much, you have no idea,” he mumbles, kissing the area above the skirt’s waistband between each word.
My eyes burn when I hear his confession. I lean my head back to fight the tears from releasing. I should stop him, but my self-restraint has always been weak whenever I’m near him, his presence stripping me bare. Despite not seeing him in nine years, he’s dominated my thoughts nearly every single day. I am selfish and want him to touch me. Having him so close to me fulfills all of my heart’s desires. I let out a long breath, shifting my head back down to watch him.
Massimo begins unbuttoning my shirt, starting with the bottom button. He moves to the next, his large fingers struggling with the small buttons, kissing the skin he exposes with each one that comes undone. When he reaches my bra, he opens my blouse, placing his hands over each breast and squeezing.
I’m feverish and groan from the welcome pressure. His lips skim along the skin above the waistline of my skirt, his tongue licking its way up, stopping just under my breasts, leaving a trail of scorching heat along its path.
His kisses torch the wildfire within me, each stroke of his hands incendiary. My skin tingles and comes alive under his touch, at the feel of the stubble growing on his face scraping my skin. My hands play with his hair, back, forth, around—pushing and pulling it every which way in slow, circular motions.
Massimo’s hands move over my hips and down the sides of each leg, landing on the bottom of my skirt, hiking it up until it’s bunched around my hips. He kisses the skin along the top of my thighs, grasping the panties between his teeth. He drags his hands from my hips down to my apex, until his left hand finds its way between my thighs and rests on my panties, pulling them to the side. His right index and middle fingers rest on my heated folds just exposed. He begins rubbing them up toward my sensitive nub and back in a slow dragging motion.