Tangled In Strings

Chapter Two

It's my turn to stare into space.

Seated in Giovanni's king-size bed, in nearly complete darkness, I'm blinking at the harsh light from my cell phone screen. Two missed calls and three messages.

Rebecca: Scarlett, it's been days. What's going on? Norman said you're taking a vacation. And what's up? When did you get back with asshat Giovanni?

Carlos: If you don't start answering your phone, I'm going to be forced to track you down, and I won't be happy. In other words, pick up. Love you.

Norman: Scarlett, please. Answer my call. I don't want to keep disappointing you. Give me a chance to make this right. Please.

I hold the button on the side of the device to shut it down to a black screen and place it on the nightstand beside the bed. I lay back, pulling the covers back over my body, my gaze fixing on the ceiling, unable to get the nightmare that catapulted me from slumber out of my brain. Outside the windows, a crazed storm rages.

The nightmares are memories, as they always have been. Memories of my childhood. But now, there's something off in them. My subconscious has somehow managed to fit in the present, making me aware even in dreams that my parents were not who they said they were.

Realizing I won't be drifting off to sleep anytime soon, I push aside the cool Egyptian cotton, rising to my feet. Nearly two AM, Giovanni is asleep on his front, his arms encircling his pillow. I linger on him until I'm gone, watching the wide, straining muscles that are etched into a fine back move up and down peacefully.

His apartment rumbles with the sound of turbulent rain, which descends upon the city every which way, blurring the wall of windows with cascading water. I'm disturbed by the eerie quietness of his place, and without distraction, I'm unable to escape my thoughts. Giovanni doesn't own a television in this apartment, nor a radio. This is clearly a place he has simply to have.

I step up to a shelf, extending my arm for a framed photograph. The picture is of Giovanni and his sister, at least ten years ago. Giovanni looks to be entering pre-adulthood, fresh-faced and incandescently happy. He's nearly half the size he is now, still fit but lacking the Superman muscles he keeps up with diligently today. With a face-splitting grin extending ear to ear, they stand outside a rusted iron gate, overrun by bright vegetation.

I can't help but smile, finding it so odd to see him happy. My blood slows at the thought. He and I have been happy before, for fleeting, stolen moments. But never have we been able to bask in pleasure. Something has always disrupted, cut us down to the quick.

His little sister, Valentina, is so small in the photograph, which only reminds me of their age difference. She told me they are close. I wonder what she'll say when she hears we are back together. I wonder what his mother will say...

"Italy," I hear.

I pivot, finding Giovanni standing by the doorway to his bedroom. He's only dressed in charcoal-colored silk pajama bottoms. The rest of him is bare, undressed to my appreciative eyes. He straightens off the hinge.

"My family's place."

I tilt the picture to him. "You look happy."

"Italy is home for me."

"Your family is still there?"

He nods, and I watch his eyes crinkle in remembrance. "Yes, my aunt. My cousins. She owns acres and acres of land and lets it go wild, insistent on letting nature take its course."

"Where in Italy?"

"Florence. My cousins live in Naples, but they are constantly staying with her, taking advantage of the winery next door."