A Veil of Glass and Rain

by Petra F. Bagnardi

  After the visit, Clém gave me the exact same speech.

  Such a perfect day.

  Clémentine always assumes the role of the strong and caring friend, while I'm the needy one. I realize that I'm responsible for these circumstances, for I'm often preoccupied and distracted. So how can I expect my friends to believe that I can take care of them?

  It's been seven days since I've seen Eagan. I haven't called him, and he hasn't called me. I don't know how to be his friend anymore.

  I turn on the stereo that we keep near the register. I let my favorite compilation fill the space and be my accompaniment, as I shelve the new books.

  The speakers play blues and jazz tunes. These are Eagan's grandparents favorite songs. Lucrezia and Vittorio love them as well.

  Then, as if I were in an old romantic movie, the door of the store opens to let in my very last costumer, Eagan.

  Once again, I want to ask him if he's real, but I don't, for there's no smile on his handsome face.

  “You're mad at me.”

  “Yes, I am. You've disappeared. Again,” he says, his voice hard.

  “Well, it's been only a week. Besides, you haven't...” I begin to protest, then I shake my head and hide my face in my hands. “You're right. I'm sorry. I'm an awful friend.”

  “Yes, you are. I know where you work, because Clém told me. What do you know about my work and my new life here? Nothing. Because you don't want to know!”

  I perceive the smell of cinnamon, of new pages, and a whiff of spring air from outside; the scents seem more intense with my eyes closed. Even Eagan's simple words bear a stronger story and a deeper truth. I take in all of it. I accept it all.

  “I'm sorry,” I repeat.

  “Look at me.”

  I do. He's wearing black slacks, a dark green button-down shirt, and he's carrying a messenger bag. His face is shadowed by a light beard, and his bright blue eyes look tired. He's still my good giant, but right now he seems fragile; my heart breaks a little.

  I go to him and link my arms around his waist, not caring about the bag getting in the way. Without hesitation he hugs me back and nuzzles the top of my head.

  “Do you forgive me?” I mumble against his shirt.

  “Maybe,” he murmurs.

  I kiss his chest, right where his heart pulses.

  “Forgive me?” I demand anew.

  “Yes,” he says.

  I pull back a little to gaze up at him. His easy smile stretches his lips.

  “Will you help me with something?”

  “Absolutely,” he answers.

  He drops his bag to the floor and he follows me.

  I show him the window dressing: A light blue background; a small wooden table; travel-themed books and flowers scattered everywhere. Plenty of them.

  Eagan looks doubtful.

  “You hate it.”

  “Well, it's...” he hesitates.

  “Say it. You won't hurt my feelings.”

  He gestures toward the display. “Can I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He gathers up most of the flowers, until only the purple and yellow ones remain Then he hands me the discarded flowers. I place them inside a box, while Eagan collects half of the books and put them into another empty box.

  I glance at the new dressing. The composition is simple and effective; a garden of purple and yellow flowers encircles the small table, on top of which Eagan's piled books with yellow and purple covers.

  “Nice.”

  Eagan shrugs. “Less is more.”

  As I situate the subtracted books back in their section, Eagan stands beside me, to help when I need to reach the higher shelves.

  Then, as I sit onto the floor to open another box, he positions his taut body behind mine. His arms and his long legs on either side of me form a warm and protective cradle. While his chest pressed against my back makes my skin hum. It's a very distracting feeling.

  “So, tell me about your work.”

  His stubbly cheek rubs against mine as he speaks. “I design expensive houses for very rich people.”

  I grin. “Cool. Do you like it?”

  “I like my new life here, because you're here.” He breathes his words along the slight curve of my jaw.

  I realize that I'm staring at the books inside the open box without really seeing them, and that my hands are clutching the edges of the box.

  Eagan covers my hands with his and strokes my cold fingers. The effect is immediate; my limbs melt into his body. Eagan links our fingers and brings our joined hands to my chest.

  “Does it upset you? You know, the fact that I moved here because of you?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Good.” His lips brush the side of my neck, my cheekbone, my temple. As my skin absorbs his heat, Eagan hums the blue melodies against the soft shell of my ear.

  “You have a beautiful voice, Eagan.”

  “When will I get to hear you sing?”

  “Soon.”

  “Promise?”

  I nod. This is a day full of promises.

  His mouth lingers over my ear and I burrow deeply into his strength and bask in his heat, even as a shiver slithers throughout my frame.

  “Will you do something for me?” He demands.

  “Anything,” I gush.

  He chuckles and squeezes me. “There's a party-”

  “Another one?”

  “Yeah. Well, this one is more formal. We're going to present a new project to some very rich people. I need you with me, because I'll be giving the presentation.”

  “And if it goes well, they'll give you a lot of money,” I add.

  “Yes.”

  “I'll be there. But I want to drive. No cabs this time. It's too expensive.”

  He doesn't comment, but there's no need for words, for I can feel the muscles in his body tense. His mouth abandons my ear, and his hands slide away from my fingers.

  I turn to look back at him. His face is pale.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “I don't want you to drive.”

  I sigh. “Seriously? I'll drive very carefully.”

  He shakes his head.

  I cradle his face in my hands and stroke his rough skin with my thumbs. “Trust me, Eagan.”

  His extreme protectiveness both pleases and confuses me. I believe there is a deeper story behind his uneasiness, but I'm afraid to dig.

  Eagan closes his eyes and his jaw unclenches a little. I keep caressing his face and I giggle, as his stubble tickles my palms.

  “I need a shave,” he mutters

  “I don't mind.”

  He opens his bright blue eyes and gazes intently at me. ”I'll have to remember that,” he utters huskily.

  I want to believe that a deeper truth hides behind his words.

  I want to shut my eyes, so that I can sense it and keep it.

  This is a story I'm not afraid to discover.

  11.

  “Are you sure you don't want our help?” Ivan asks.

  “I want to do this on my own, but thank you though,” I tell him.

  “Fine. But no black, and no jeans. We absolutely forbid it!”

  I'm walking down Via del Corso, one of the most famous shopping streets in Rome. The wind bears the scent of trees and flowers, along with the smell of car exhaust and sweat; it's a never-ending battle of contrasting odors. The winner is uncertain, as the traffic is thick and the sidewalk is so crowded, it is almost impossible to walk.

  As I clutch my phone and scan the windows of the shops, I keep colliding with people.

  “Your first date! Are you excited?” Alessio is on the phone now.

  “Ouch! Scusi,” I apologize to a lady, then I give Alessio my answer. “It's not a date. He just needs me for moral support.”

  “Whatever. Call us if you need us, sweetie!”

  “Will do.”

  I put my cellphone inside my purse. Then, as I raise my head, I see it. It's peach pink, it's made of lace and silk, it's n
ot something I would ever wear or buy, therefore it's ideal.

  I stop right in front of the window, then I position my body so that my reflection superimposes over the mannequin. The dress has short sleeves, a low neckline and a high waistline. In the reflection the hem grazes the top of my knees. I imagine wearing the dress with a short black jacket, black stockings and black pumps. The mannequin is carrying a small pink purse, made of soft velvet, but at it's feet lies the black version of the same purse.

  I stare at my reflection and picture Eagan's reaction.

  “You look beautiful,” Eagan says.

  For once, imagination and reality coincide.

  I'm standing inside Eagan's small apartment. The door behind me, I push my palms against its cold, wooden surface for support. Eagan looks magnificent in black slacks, a wine-red button-down shirt and dark Italian shoes.

  The house smells like him. Delicious.

  I quickly notice that the entry space where we're standing opens directly into the kitchen. On my left I see two open doors, that allow me a partial view of the bathroom and of Eagan's bedroom.

  Eagan, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, approaches me slowly but purposefully. Then he stands before me, close but not close enough. I can feel his warmth and sense the familiar and teasing scent of cinnamon. I want to touch him, but I'm frozen. And I'm holding my breath. Finally, when Eagan reaches out and brushes my cheek with his knuckles, I exhale. I take a few steps backward, and I let the door bare my weight.

  Eagan grins. His bright blue eyes follow the path of his fingers as they trace my jaw, the column of my neck and my exposed collarbone.

  My nipples harden and poke against the soft silk of my dress. I'm not wearing a bra, because I don't need to. Eagan doesn't notice the response of my body, I hope, for his eyes are roaming my face.

  “Eagan.” My voice is a pleading whisper.

  His hand interrupts its teasing caress for a moment, then his fingers slide into my hair and curl around the back of my neck.

  Eagan grips my nape almost roughly. The possessive gesture makes my core throb and clench.

  His other hand is still in his pocket. His body is not touching mine, just leaning toward me, even so he's able to rouse my senses. It only takes him a few, simple actions.

  “What are you doing?” This time my voice is a feeble moan.

  He presses his cheek against mine, and he rubs his beard stubble across my skin.

  “I'm playing for keeps,” he responds.

  “You'll leave marks.”

  “I know.”

  I sigh and close my eyes.

  Abruptly, Eagan's fingers slip away from my neck and his warmth doesn't envelop me any longer. My eyes flutter open. My head spins.

  “Eagan?”

  He's standing a few feet away from me, both his hands are back in his pockets, and his head is tilted toward the bedroom door.

  “Let me show you the rest of the house,” he says.

  I follow him into his bedroom on unsteady legs. Like the rest of the apartment, the walls are painted a light blue. Here, however, the color makes me think more about the ocean, because of the curtains that decorate the window. They are a deep-blue color that fades into green, and then it bleeds into blue again; they're exactly like the curtains in my bedroom.

  “I found them in this famous flea market,” he tells me.

  “Porta Portese,” I finish for him.

  “The color makes me think about the ocean,” he admits.

  I give him a small smile and a brief nod of understanding. Then I let my gaze wander around the rest of the room. The furniture is simple and functional; a desk, a chair, an armchair, a wardrobe. Finally, my eyes settle on the king-sized bed. What really grabs my attention is the bedding; dark-purple blanket and sheets, and yellow pillows.

  As I stare, Eagan moves to stand behind me. Once again, his heat warms my trembly limbs.

  “Purple is my favorite color,” I murmur.

  I know that I whisper frequently when I'm with him, but if I raise my voice, I'm afraid my real feelings will appear too loud and clear, so I try to be quiet and muffle them.

  “I know. And yellow is mine.” His words tickle the back of my neck, then he steps away from me, leaving me once more dizzy, cold and confused.

  “Time to go, kitty-cat.”

  We exit his building and step into a warm evening. Even so, I'm glad I've decided to wear a jacket over the dress, for Eagan's presence keeps my skin in a feverish state. The light cotton of the jacket is a small protection, but I need it nonetheless.

  As soon as we reach my yellow car, I find myself with my back pressed up against the passenger door; Eagan's firm body pushes into mine, his knee parts my legs. I can feel the buttons of his shirt and the zipper of his pants scrape my skin through the silk and lace dress. I give in to temptation and I grind my groin against his leg. My entire being sighs with bliss and relief.

  Eagan's soft laugh makes me glance up at him. There's a mischievous grin on his handsome face, even as his blue gaze darkens.

  I rest my palms on his broad chest. I part my purple-painted lips. I wait for him to accept the silent invitation.

  Eagan's left hand cups my face, while his right hand rummages inside my purse. When he digs out the keys of my car, his grin turns into a triumphant smile.

  “I'll drive,” he says. Then he pushes away from me.

  “Eagan!” My voice is an exasperated cry.

  “What?” He demands innocently, as he circles my car. He unlocks the doors. He opens the driver door, then he slides into the seat, still smiling.

  With nervous and jerky movements, I open the passenger door, I get in the car, then I close the door, still seething.

  This is going to be a very long night.

  Eagan proves to be an experienced and controlled driver; he's careful but, at the same time, he manages not to upset the crazy Roman drivers by getting in their way.

  “Are you nervous about tonight?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “Not really. I won't be giving the presentation alone. A colleague of mine will help me out.”

  “Who?”

  “Sara. You met her. At the museum.”

  “The young woman with dark hair?”

  He smiles. “Yes. She's been helping me a lot with this project.”

  I wrap my arms around my middle, for I feel the need to protect myself against a reality I don't appreciate.

  “Why am I here, then?” I demand.

  Eagan frowns, but his eyes remain focused on the road in front of us. “What do you mean?”

  “She obviously has your back. You clearly like her. What do you need me for?” My words are so full of venom, they leave a sour after-taste in my mouth.

  “She's a colleague. You're my friend. There's a huge difference.” Eagan's tone is even. Regardless, his body tells another story. His fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles are white. I observe, with a sort of detached fascination, the rise and fall of his chest, as he takes long and calming breaths.

  “Fine. Still, you admire her, and you dislike me,” I insist.

  His right hand leaves the wheel and moves to the stick shift. I expect my yellow car to lurch, as he quickly switches gears, but Eagan is in complete control.

  “What are you talking about? I adore you, Brina. You know I do. What is wrong with you?” There's a note of desperation in his voice.

  I know he doesn't need this, especially not tonight, but I'm hurting and I selfishly want him to share my pain.

  “According to you, everything is wrong with me and my life,” I retort.

  Eagan huffs out a deep sigh. “Tonight. You want to have this conversation tonight? I can't believe it,” he mutters.

  I don't get to reply, because Eagan breaks abruptly and, finally, manages to upset the Roman drivers. They maneuver and speed by on each side, like an enraged swarm of bees.

  “Eagan?”

  “This is it.” He gestures toward an old bui
lding on our right, then he scans our surroundings. “I don't know where to park.”

  The angry drivers behind us honk wildly. It's their way to show how much they hate the fact that my car has stopped almost in the middle of the road.

  “We can't stay here, Eagan.”

  “You think?” He snaps.

  I ignore him and the other drivers, and I quickly search for a solution. On our left I see a spot between a motorbike and a truck. “Over there.”

  Eagan follows the direction of my gaze. “It's too small, Brina.”

  “It's perfect. The alternative is a long night of aimless searching. Welcome to Rome.”

  “It's-” Eagan's retort is swallowed by a louder and more infuriated car-horn. His hands still clutch the steering wheel and his limbs seem paralyzed by fear. I don't recognize my brave giant.

  “Get out of the damn car, Eagan. I'll park it!” I yell, exasperated and terrified.

  The apartment is a pristine kingdom of white and crystal. Walking down the spacious hallway, I can see my reflection in the polished marble floor.

  Tonight I wanted to be pretty and supportive. I wanted to be a good friend for Eagan. I feel ugly instead, because jealousy is a disheveled and dirty dress to wear. It smells of unkindness and loneliness. It's what I'm wearing tonight. I doubt Eagan even notices any longer the peach-pink dress I bought for the occasion.