by T. K. Leigh
“Then where are you going dressed all business-like?”
I finished fixing my coffee the way I took it, then faced her as she made some oatmeal for the girls. “I’m not sure yet. I have a list of lawyers who were opposing counsel on the cases I previously worked on. Maybe if I run into them, get a little face time, I may be able to talk my way into a job.”
“So you’re just going to drop in at all these firms?” She lifted a brow as she stirred the oatmeal.
“No.” A conniving smile crossed my mouth. “But I know where they like to grab their coffee when they need their mid-morning break.” My expression fell and I shrugged when I saw the skepticism on Mila’s face. “It’s worth a shot. Better than sitting here and hoping my phone rings with someone wanting to schedule an interview.”
Mila stopped what she was doing and placed her hands on my shoulders, giving me an encouraging smile. “You’re a brilliant woman, Ellie. They’d be crazy not to hire you. Just like your old firm was crazy to let you walk away from them.”
“Thanks, Mila.”
Her confidence in me was exactly what I needed at that moment. I’d never sought out anyone’s assurances. I always had tenacity in spades. But that was before. With each day that my phone didn’t ring with a potential job, my determination and belief in my abilities began to waver, even though I’d only been back a week. I guess I didn’t think it would be this difficult, particularly with the credentials I brought to the table.
“You bet. Have a good day lawyer stalking,” she called out as I headed from the kitchen.
I stopped to give Ashlyn and Harley a kiss goodbye on my way out the door, then hopped into Steven’s car to begin the traffic-filled journey toward the Starbucks by the courthouse in downtown LA.
I sat in that coffee shop all day, updating my resumé, searching for jobs online, trying not to think about my father and his situation as I waited for a familiar face to pop in. And many did. We would chat about the unseasonably high temperatures, the drought, how long it took to get hearing dates set by the court clerk. Everyone seemed a bit antsy around me, not wanting to bring up the wedding that never was and the job I no longer had. Whenever I broached the topic of whether their firm may be hiring, they were suddenly late for a meeting. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it still stung to think that the one thing I loved, the one thing I was good at, had been ripped away from me, too.
Day after day, I chatted with some of my colleagues in the legal profession. And day after day, they rushed off the instant I mentioned any job openings. After a week of nothing but rejection, I stopped dressing in a suit, opting for a comfortable sundress or pair of capris instead. I branched away from the courthouse area, deciding to take advantage of my unemployment to explore LA. I found some beautiful parks hidden away and would sometimes sit beneath the shade of a tree and people-watch. Occasionally, I thought I saw Dante sitting in the same park, or riding in a passing bus, or walking on the opposite side of the street, but reminded myself it couldn’t be him…and it never was.
The more time that went on, the more frustrated I became about my current situation, the more I saw him everywhere. He was the barista at Starbucks. He was the hipster playing Frisbee in the park. He was the tortured artist sketching while he waited for the train. With nothing but my thoughts to fill my time, I found myself missing him more and more, the pain like a vice squeezing my heart.
To keep from completely breaking down at the morose direction my life had taken as of late, I started playing a game. No matter where I was, what I was doing, where I was going, I pretended Dante was just around the corner, that he was on his way to meet me, that I was mere seconds away from being in his arms again. It was the only thing that kept my idle mind from wandering, from thinking about what he was doing, from wondering whether I’d imagined the whole thing.
So I allowed myself to remain hopeful, thinking when I crossed the street, entered a shop, sat in the park, he would be there. He never was, but keeping the hope alive was all I had, regardless of how misplaced that hope was. I drew comfort in the fact that I could look at the same sky, fall asleep beneath the same moon, and wish on the same stars, praying this would all work itself out.
This hope, this faith, this dream was the only thing that kept me from having a complete meltdown as I lay awake in Mila’s guest room each night, the double bed I slept in cold, wondering whether I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by getting on that plane and coming back to the States.
I had no job. No home. No car. No family. I couldn’t lose my hope, too. Hope was all I had left.
On a Thursday in July, as I was leaving MacArthur Park in Westlake, fate finally intervened, albeit in a small way. I’d been back for a month, but was still jobless, homeless, carless, and becoming closer and closer to being penniless with each passing day. When I attended my mother’s weekly Friday evening dinner parties, my father offered to loan me some money, which I vehemently refused. That would defeat the purpose of my returning here, not to mention he could have been trying to buy my silence in regards to whatever he was involved in. I kept trying to get him to talk about what he knew, but he remained silent. There was only so long someone could remain tightlipped, and I hoped to be there when the dam finally broke.
As I was about to cross the street to begin the drive back to Mila’s, I came to a quick stop when a metro bus nearly hit me, despite the fact I had a WALK signal. It took me a minute to recover. When I did, my shock only heightened as I came face to face with an image of Dante on the side of the bus in an advertisement for the upcoming season of his show.
I remained frozen in place, my mouth agape, blinking repeatedly, no longer startled that I’d almost been hit by the bus. My gaze was glued to Dante’s smiling face, his perfect white teeth, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt. It was one thing to live in my fantasy world where I pretended I would see him whenever I turned a corner or crossed a street. It was another to stare at a life-sized image of him. I’d done my best to stay strong, to tell myself this was all part of fate’s plan. Now I felt like fate was a cruel, sadistic bitch taunting me, reminding me of everything I once had but threw away.
The driver of the bus looked at me with apologetic eyes, then gestured for me to cross. I shook my head, stepping back onto the sidewalk, waving him on. I doubted I could put one foot in front of the other at that moment, my legs weak, my hands shaky.
For weeks, I’d seen Dante everywhere, heard him everywhere, felt him everywhere. But I knew those people weren’t really him. This was different. I’d done my best to steer clear of all reminders of him. I refused to watch TV and avoided all social media on the off-chance I may catch an unexpected glimpse of him. His face had slowly faded from my memory, the curves, dimples, and perpetual five o’clock shadow gradually becoming little more than a dream. And I’d begun to wonder if I had dreamt it all.
Now that I was faced with a reminder of the man I’d spent a week with, I knew I hadn’t. I remembered that cocky smile, his teeth flashing from across the aisle of the airplane. I remembered the brush of his fingers on my shoulders as he hung his jacket on me to keep me warm. I remembered the feel of his breath on my skin, every muscle in his body becoming tight as he moaned my name. He was real. What we had was real. The ache in my heart was real.
Once the bus continued past me and disappeared out of sight, I took a moment to pull myself together, then hurried across the street and jumped into Steven’s car. I spent hours driving aimlessly around LA, doing everything to get the image of Dante’s mysterious eyes, breathtaking smile, and full lips out of my mind. Trying to forget how perfect it felt when he wrapped his strong arms around me, swallowing me whole. Trying to forget the love we shared for a too-brief moment in time. I hated it. Hated this feeling. Hated Dante for making me feel this way, for shattering the walls I’d built around my heart, for showi
ng me how it felt to fly.
As I drove, I swore I saw him everywhere, more so than usual. I even called out a few times to complete strangers who I thought looked exactly like him, only for me to realize there was no resemblance at all, my brain playing a cruel trick on me. After the fourth such encounter, I pulled off the road, thinking I shouldn’t be operating a vehicle in my current state.
I tugged on my hair, my heart rate picking up, my breathing increasing. Gripping the steering wheel, I fought back a scream as the world around me spun out of control. This was it. I’d lost my mind. I was jobless, homeless, penniless. It was only a matter of time until I became a crazed woman begging beneath the bridges downtown. All it took was seeing Dante’s face to make me lose control of everything I’d kept at bay since returning home.
“Where did I go wrong?” I asked myself softly as I stared out the window at the setting sun, a slight breeze blowing the tree branches.
When I came back from Italy, I had a vision for what my life would be like. I would quit my job and get a new one. I would tell my parents I was done with them. I would find my own apartment and buy my own car. It had been a month, but my life wasn’t even close to resembling any of that. All I’d done was quit my job. I’d yet to find a new one. I still saw my parents once a week. I was living in my best friend’s guest room, which was smaller than Dante’s walk-in closet, and driving her husband’s car. It was a miracle I’d been strong enough to not go crawling back to Brock. I hadn’t seen him since the day I boxed up my things. That was the only silver lining in my life, the only thing that had gone right, although I was just waiting for the bottom to drop on that, too.
Drawing in deep breath after deep breath, my muscles eventually began to relax, my tears slowly subsiding. When I felt relatively calm again, I started the car and navigated back toward the freeway. I took my time as I drove north to Mila’s house in the suburbs, stopping for dinner and a strong drink along the way. I was in no rush to walk into her perfect family dinner, to be faced with a reminder of everything she had that I didn’t. I loved my friend. I loved that she found someone who made her happy. I loved how much she supported me during this trying time in my life. But everything hurt a little too much today. Maybe tomorrow would be better, but right now, I just needed to be alone with my heartache.
It was dark when I finally pulled into Mila’s driveway. Killing the engine, I looked up at the house, a peaceful tranquility about it, at complete odds with the turmoil and storm raging inside me. The last few hours a complete blur, I eyed the time to see it was after ten. The girls would be asleep, and I assumed Mila would be getting ready for bed herself. Not wanting to disturb anyone, I did my best to make as little noise as possible as I unlocked the door and headed through the darkened living room and toward the stairs. When I was safely enclosed in the guest room, I let out a long breath.
I kicked off my shoes and stripped out of my clothes, throwing on Dante’s old t-shirt, his scent having faded over the weeks. After brushing my teeth, I slipped into bed and pulled the duvet tightly around me, pretending it was Dante’s arms keeping me warm. I tossed and turned for hours, sleep evading me.
Close to midnight, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. My heart jumped, a misplaced hope building in me that it was Dante, that he could sense my struggle, but I knew it wouldn’t be. Instead, the text was from Mila.
I’m up if you want to talk.
I didn’t know how she could tell I had a rough day. As much as I appreciated the offer, I just couldn’t. Not right now. I just wanted to wallow, to cry, to hurt. Then maybe I could finally start healing. I could finally start the next chapter in my life. I could finally let go. Maybe this was fate’s way of telling me I needed to let go, to move on.
Thanks. I just want to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.
She replied almost instantly.
Okay. Love you.
I was about to click the screen off when my eyes fell on the Facebook icon in the lower right corner, almost mocking me, begging me to press it. I didn’t know what came over me at that moment. Maybe it was the combination of feeling like a failure and seeing Dante’s beautiful face earlier that pushed me forward when I normally would have warned myself that what was meant to be would be. The truth was, I missed him. And I wanted to surround myself with a reminder of him, even if it came in the form of stalking his Facebook page. Even if it ripped my heart to shreds.
Despite my brain telling me to just fall asleep, I entered Dante’s name in the search bar and navigated to his official page. It was mostly information about shows currently airing and possible locations for the next season of his series. I could tell it was probably run by his staff. This was the Dante Luciano everyone else knew. It wasn’t the Dante Luciano I knew. I wanted to see that Dante. The Dante who made love to me in his vineyard. The Dante who kissed me in front of the Trevi Fountain like no one was watching. The Dante who begged me to consider a future with him.
I almost put my phone back on the nightstand, but decided to look at his Instagram account first. I’d watched his show in the past, recalling him snapping photos routinely during the episodes that aired. Those photos must be posted somewhere.
I opened the app, typed his name in the search bar, then clicked on his official Instagram page, scrolling through thumbnails of hundreds upon hundreds of photos from his travels, some of them selfies. I could instantly tell that Dante had put his mark on each and every photo posted. This was what I wanted. Not some page promoting shows and appearances.
Scanning the photos, I marveled at the images. This man had been everywhere. I doubted there was a country he hadn’t visited, apart from North Korea and the Arctic. Even then, if he could find a way to go, he probably wouldn’t hesitate. He was in some of the photos, others were just incredible shots of his surroundings. Many didn’t require any sort of filter, showing how truly remarkable this planet was. There were some places I’d never seen before. Others were from more noticeable locales — the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids.
As I continued scrolling through the feed, my breath caught when I noticed a shot of a place that was all-too-familiar. I clicked on the thumbnail, bringing up a larger version of it, and swallowed hard as I stared at a wide shot of the Spanish Steps. It must have been taken from the top, the plaza and fountain perfectly visible from his perch. To the far right was the tea room he’d taken me. To the far left, I was able to make out the narrow street leading to his apartment. I could almost hear the busy chatter from all the tourists. I could almost smell the scent of the city. I could almost feel Dante standing beside me.
Then I noticed something. If I hadn’t been there and remembered precisely where I stood when Dante had approached me that day, I never would have seen it. But there I was…directly in the center of the photo, pacing in front of the fountain, wondering whether I could really go through with what I’d intended to simply be a one-night stand.
My eyes floated to the caption.
“I’ll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.” — William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew.
I brought my hand to my mouth to cover my trembling chin. This photo was further evidence of his claim that when we finally slept together, it wasn’t to get information. It was because he was drawn to me, just as I was to him. It made my soul ache with regret. I wondered if I would have taken a different path had I seen this before getting on that plane.
Backing out of the photo, I scrolled through everything he’d posted during my week in the clouds, clicking on every single one. To the casual observer, they simply appeared to be travel photos, some staged. But I knew better. This was Dante’s love letter to me.
I couldn’t help but sigh contentedly when I stopped on a photo of his breathtaking bedroom in his villa in Tuscany where we’d spent the second half of my week in Italy. The French doors were open, the sheer curtai
ns blowing in front of them. The sun streaked long lines against the hardwood floor. I could almost picture myself in that room at this very moment. I focused just past the curtains, able to make out my silhouette as I leaned against the railing, gazing out over his expansive vineyard.
Then I read the caption of this one.
“I burn. I pine. I perish.” — William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew.
“Oh, Dante,” I exhaled, swiping at the tears steadily falling down my cheeks. But they were no longer tears of sorrow. They were tears of pure joy, of ecstasy, of love. Pain no longer filled me, regret no longer ate me up. I found exactly what I needed…affirmation that our love was real, that it was true, that it could transcend the ocean, the miles, the distance. That it would all work out.
I continued scrolling through several dozen more photos that were obviously meant for me, many containing various quotes from one of Shakespeare’s plays or sonnets. I stopped when my eyes fell on one that was taken on my final day in Italy. The photo showed two hands on a pillow. The room was dark, apart from a bit of a glow from the moon. Just beyond our linked hands was my face, my eyes closed, a lone tear falling down my cheek. I thought I had stayed up all night with Dante, but I must have dozed off at some point, giving him the chance to snap this beautiful, heartbreaking photo. My eyes floated to the caption.
“For where thou art, there is the world itself. And where thou art not, desolation.” — William Shakespeare, Henry VI.
Blinking back my tears, I allowed the words and image to bathe me with the love and pain Dante must be feeling at this moment, as well. Until this evening, I thought I was alone. In my despair. In my regret. In my grief. The knowledge I wasn’t reinvigorated me with the same hope that had pushed me forward each day since our separation began.