It's an adoring kiss. It brings tears to my eyes, but this time I don't blink them away, for they're an emblem of joy. As they fall, however, Eagan mouths them all away.
Then my stomach growls. It takes me by surprise, because I'm never hungry.
“Breakfast?” Eagan demands.
I grin. “Yes, please.”
16.
Time is my enemy.
Our week of bliss is over. It's been three days now. And we've already established a hateful routine: While I'm still asleep, he leaves for work; I stay home trying to write my paper; then it's late afternoon, and I go to work; when I return home, late at night, I find him asleep.
We rest wrapped around each other, but it's not enough.
I try to write, but words fail me.
I try to play my blue guitar, but my fingers don't move.
I can't call the twins, because I'm afraid they will ask me about the paper; the answer will certainly disappoint them.
I can't call Clémentine, for she's very good at detecting distress and sadness in my voice. And, apparently, I'm a bad actress. I'm unable to hide my feelings from her.
I don't want to trouble Eagan with needy text messages; he's not writing me either, which means he's quiet busy. Besides, his colleagues consider me a burden, and I'm not willing to prove them right.
My appetite is absent, but I open the fridge anyway, to give my hands something to do. There are still some leftovers from the dinner we had with Enrico, the twins and Clém, after they'd helped me with the moving out and moving in. Mozzarella di bufala, fresh tomatoes and gelato alla stracciatella; it all tasted delicious only a few days ago. Now my stomach churns.
I move away from the fridge.
How I will survive Berlin, I do not know.
The mirrors show me an image I recognize too well; eyes as dark as empty wells, dry lips and pale skin.
My mother, Margherita, used to look exactly like this when my father, Jean, was working abroad and she had to remain at home with me, for I was still too small to be left alone, or to be brought along. My parents working trips led them often to very dangerous places.
I am exactly like Margherita.
I crave Eagan in the same way I need air for my lungs. He's my breath.
This truth frightens me.
Eagan is indubitable about our relationship. He believes we can face all kinds of obstacles. Or perhaps, his desire for me is not that strong.
I need distractions. I finish unpacking, then I focus my attention to the pictures displayed on Eagan's desk. One of them portrays the two of us with his grandparents, Peter and Beth; they're beaming, while Eagan and I are laughing. It's a laughter that involves our entire bodies. It seems to originate from deep down our hearts. It's beautiful.
Then I notice another picture. It depicts me, Eagan, my childhood friend Mina, with her curly red hair and pale blue eyes, Felia and her older brothers, Neal and David; the three of them have hair the color of chestnuts and brown eyes.
I avert my gaze. David's death, Eagan's grief, my guilt and cowardice; I feel like I'm suffocating.
I shuffle through my new home on achy feet. I'm welcomed by night shadows, so I switch on a few lamps along the way to our bedroom.
After my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I find Eagan already in bed and asleep. He's sprawled onto his stomach, his face buried in the crook of his folded arm.
I quietly undress and toss my clothes to the floor. Then I pad into the bathroom. As soon as the door is closed behind me, I grope along the wall on my left, searching for the light switch.
I take a long and steamy shower and let the water soothes my tired limbs; tonight the bookstore was crowded and busy. I feel drained.
I dry off briskly with one of Eagan's soft yellow towels, then I drop it carelessly to the bathroom floor.
I switch off the light and I patter back into the semi-darkness of our bedroom. I silently rummage into Eagan's wardrobe and dig out one of his T-shirts. In the process, I knock against the guitar case, which is well hidden in the back of the closet. Apparently, I haven't driven away all my demons yet.
Wearing only Eagan's T-shirt, I shamble into the kitchen.
Nausea grips my stomach the moment my eyes settle on the fridge. I brace my back against the counter and I slide onto the floor, then I wrap my arms around my bended legs. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet. The chill crawls up my skin and invades my body.
I stare up at the white fridge. It grows and turns into a menacing entity in front of my wide and scared eyes, while its low buzzing sound increases and becomes a loud roar.
“Brina.”
Eagan's deep voice drags me out of my twisted imagery.
He sits in front of me and rests his back against the fridge; Eagan's presence makes it seem positively less threatening. His strong legs, positioned on either side of me, creates a safe cradle.
Looking all tousled and sleepy, Eagan gives me his easy smile.
“I missed you today,” I admit.
“I missed you too,” he replies.
“Really?” I detest how surprised my voice sounds.
Eagan flinches. “Of course.”
For a brief moment he seems hurt, but then he shakes his head and his eyes fill with longing, so much so that my heart stutters in response.
Eagan leans toward me and trails open-mouthed kisses along my bare knees, even as he smooths his hands over my calves and up my legs.
I bend toward him to bury my face in his soft hair.
“At work, all I can talk about is you,” he murmurs. “Sara can't stand me anymore,” he adds.
“It's me she doesn't approve of,” I tell him.
Eagan nibbles at my skin. “It's my fault. I used her to make you jealous. It was unfair. She's a good person,” he confesses.
I mouth the delicate shell of his ear, then I whisper, “It worked, you know. I was so jealous I wounded you.”
Eagan's hands let go of my legs and steal underneath my T-shirt. He grasps my waist, pulls me to him and straddles me over his hips.
Our gazes collide. I link my arms around his strong neck and I fasten my mouth on his. At first, he lets me control the kiss, but soon he shoves his tongue between my lips to taste and to devour me.
When I feel his erection stir against my groin, I moan.
Eagan breaks our kiss, and I wail in protest.
He chuckles and rests his forehead against mine. Our jerky breaths mingle.
“I want to touch you,” I hiss urgently.
Eagan gives me a short nod. Then he rolls his hips upward, coaxing a whimper from me, and yanks the waistband of his sweatpants down.
The moment his shaft springs free, I wrap my fingers around it. Eagan's ragged gasp gusts along my cheekbone, as we both stare down at my hands. The tips of my dark hair tease my fingers and his sensitive skin.
“Velvet over steel,” I murmur, while I stroke him gently.
“Fuck,” he rasps.
I continue to caress his penis with my right hand, brushing my thumb over the sensitive head and smearing the first drops of semen. With my left hand I cup his testicles. As soon as I begin to fondle them, Eagan groans and his hips begin to rock. My own hips sway in response.
Then his fingers abandon my waist to capture my wrists.
I cease my caresses.
“Inside you. Now,” he utters huskily.
I nod and slowly let him go, so that I can brace my hands on his naked shoulders, as his hands grip my waist once again, and lower me onto his erection.
He breaches my entrance slowly and painfully. My mewling sounds echo throughout the kitchen.
Eagan feathers kisses along my cheeks and lips, and swirls his thumb over my clitoris, until I shudder with pleasure. My release allows him to wedge his swollen penis deep inside my core.
“My friend. My love. My breath.” He punctuates each word with kisses.
Tears fall along my cheeks, for his declaration twists my tender heart. I hide my fa
ce and my sobs in the crook of his neck.
Eagan holds me close against his frame; the heat of his strong body seeps into me even through the cotton of the T-shirt.
We stay still for an infinite moment.
“Make love to me,” I demand, as my inner muscles flutter and his shaft twitches in reaction.
“Life must be savored, not rushed. Remember?” He mumbles against my hair. “Let me savor your soft warmth.”
A sudden hunger grips my heart. It is irrational. It is strong. I need him to lose himself in me. I need him to crave me as much as I crave him.
I place my hands on his shoulders and lift myself upward. Then I begin to ride him frantically.
Eagan growls my name, fists the back of my T-shirt, and pushes into me from below; his shoves are vigorous, fierce, unrestrained.
Finally, the trembling of my body incites Eagan's intense orgasm.
I fuse my lips to his and claim his shout of relief along with his breath.
My breath.
17.
My dark mood from the last few days seems to have bled right into Eagan.
The bright light coming from the window speaks of a mid-morning hour, therefore Eagan's presence in our bedroom surprises me, as I blink away sleep. He should be at work.
“Yeah. Thanks for covering for me, man. I really need this day off. I worked all night. Yes, my pet project and Sara's project. Tell her not to worry.”
As he talks on the phone, he paces and drags his hand through his hair and over his neck. His movements are nervous.
“Sure. I'll talk to you later. Bye, Enrico.”
He thumbs his phone off and tosses it onto the desk, which overflows with drawings and blueprints.
I sit up on the bed and beam. “You're staying home today. I'm so glad. Come back to bed.”
I peel off the T-shirt I've slept in, I drop it to the floor, then I wait for him to accept my invitation.
Eagan pierces me with a hard and unexpected stare, as if resenting my presence in his space. Then he stalks out of the room.
As I'm about to follow him, he storms back in and hovers by the side of the bed. His face is a shattered and intense mask.
I fist my hands in the dark-purple sheets and brace myself. “What is it?”
“You want me to lose control, right? You like it when I do. You come every time. Hard. Well, today I'm losing it. Lie onto your stomach,” he barks.
I hesitate, not because I'm scared, but because Eagan's harsh tone rouses a sharp and surprising longing in my chest. My nipples pucker and heat pools between my legs.
Eagan's eyes settle on my breasts and darken. His erection strains against the cotton of his pants. He grabs the waistband and yanks them off; his gaze never leaves my body.
“Now,” he orders.
I gasp and roll onto my belly. Immediately, Eagan's weight blankets me. He nudges my legs apart with his knee and drives into me in one thrust.
I'm not ready for him, therefore his penetration hurts, but I press my face into the pillow to smother my cry, for I don't want him to stop.
Eagan slides his arms between my body and the mattress; his left hand palms my breast, while his right hand cups my mound. He withdraws his penis almost completely form my core, then he shoves it back inside me. He repeats the action again and again, as he groans against my hair
I claw at the pillow, I push back against him, then I grind my pelvis down onto his hand.
Pain turns into pleasure.
At length, his shaft throbs inside me. Before leaving my body, Eagan brushes my hair away from my neck and kisses my nape softly. I shiver and sob. Eagan licks my heated skin but, all too soon, he moves away from me.
I keep my face buried against the pillow; it smells of comfort and safety.
“Every year, on this day, I forget about rules and I just let myself go.” His voice seems to come from far away.
“What's special about today?” I demand.
“It's the anniversary of David's death.”
Acute pain knifes my heart. I turn my gaze to him. Eagan is reclining onto his stomach. His face is hidden between his folded arms.
“Eagan?”
He doesn't answer. He doesn't budge.
My limbs still shaking and his cum seeping down the inside of my thigh, I shift near him, then I cover his body with mine. His muscles roll and ripple beneath me; icy fingers run under his skin. I recognize the agonizing sensation, and I intend to chase it away from him.
I whisper kisses across his neck, even as I glide my hands over the expanse his shoulders.
“Talk to me, Eagan.”
He heaves a hurtful sob.
My caresses and kisses become more urgent. “Please, Eagan.”
“I was in the car with David when we had the accident. He was driving.”
An unbearable pain knots my insides, but I remain silent and I keep soothing him with my touch and my lips.
Eagan continues, “We were in Provence. We were speeding down a dirt road. There was no one. The road was ours. We were laughing like idiots. I don't remember what we were talking about. Then, out of nowhere, a cow appeared in front of us. David swerved. He lost control of the car. It crashed against a tree.” Eagan utters a mirthless laugh. “Such a stupid way to die.”
As Eagan concludes his terrible tale, I notice that the skin I'm kissing is wet and that Eagan is trembling; then I recognize that the moisture is caused by my tears and that I'm the one shaking.
I move away from him and I sit up.
Eagan yanks his head up and stares at me. “Brina?”
His eyes are filled with tears, just like mine.
“It could have been you. You could have died.” The realization annihilates me. An uncontrolled shiver grips my entire being.
Eagan covers my body with his. His mouth captures mine. Our sobs blend. Then he makes slow and soft love to me. He reassures me without words; he's here with me, he needs me, he loves me.
Afterward, I dig out my guitar and play for Eagan and for David. My melodies tell about a precious existence crushed and about a wonderful boy, who was in love with life.
18.
We spend the weekend mostly in bed. We cuddle, we kiss, we make love. We leave the bedroom only to go to the bathroom, or to prepare and share quick meals. Then we hurry back in our cocoon of lust, suffused with lemon, cinnamon and the musky scent of sex, and imbued with our sobs, whimpers and moans.
Eventually, when everyday life requests our attention, I don't feel sad, I feel invigorated instead.
“Clém? Where are you? The reception is awful!”
“I'm in this stinky and smelly hole we call, theater.”
“How is it going?”
“Not so good. My one and only male actor left us. He found a job, which is good with this economy and all. But he left me with a group of very discouraged actresses.”
“Sorry.”
“We will be fine, as soon as I find a replacement. I have good news, though. I found a roommate!”
“Good.”
“Very. She's my assistant director. Well, she happens to be also my manager and one of my actresses. Anyway, it's a convenient solution.”
“I can see that. You'll be working non-stop.”
“That's the plan. So, how's your American dude?”
I chuckle softly. “He's good. Look, I have a gift for you and your theater company. I want to give you my car.”
“What? Why? I mean, thanks! But why?”
Eagan's fingers grasp the steering wheel so tightly, that his knuckles turn white.
Twisted metal and shattered glass. A car crashed against a tree. Two boys are trapped inside.
“Brina? Are you still there?” Clém's voice wrenches me away from the terrible images inside my head.
“Yes, I'm here,” I reassure her.
“I appreciate the offer, but-”
“Please, take it,” I insist, trying not to sound too desperate.
“What's wrong? You
like that car.”
I love Eagan's peace of mind more. “Nothing's wrong. Just take it. Please.”
In the end she accepts my gift. After we hang up, I call Ivan and Alessio.
“Hey, boys. Do you want to go shopping?”
“At last!” They yell in unison.
I need them to help me select some new undies, for I plan to surprise Eagan tonight, but I also require their advice.
I intend to go to Berlin only for a couple of weeks; enough time to interview the fabulous professor, who teaches Italian Cinema at the university. Then I'll come back and I'll finish my paper here, after all I'm planning to write about movies mainly shot in Rome. The scholarship will allow me to quit the job at the bookstore, so that I will be able to concentrate mainly on the paper.
All these arrangements will let me stay close to Eagan. I crave him too much. Without him, I am certain, I will crumble.
The moment I step into my home and let the door close behind me, the voices swamp me. One of them belongs to Eagan, the other two seem to be owned by a man and a woman; the voices I don't recognize sound distant and metallic.
I remain rooted to the spot, unable to leave the small entry space, because the words I'm listening to tell about me, and they wound me.
She's fragile. She's my friend. You're not her doctor. You're her boyfriend. She's my family. Is she worth it? I'm not letting her go. Consider her family history. She needs me. She will drag you down. I need her.
The voices are like violent waves. They lash and twirl my small body, until it dissolves and becomes liquid. And then the currents pull me down.
A Veil of Glass and Rain Page 12