A Winter in New York(86)

“Gio.” I say his name because it’s all I’m capable of, and he shakes his head and holds his hand up to stop me speaking.

“I don’t believe this,” he mutters, his eyes running all over the unit, taking in my temporary home. “This stops right now, do you hear me?”

We stare at each other, and a tear of temper rolls down his face and breaks my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing I’m crying too when I taste salt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just get your stuff,” he says, and when I don’t move, can’t move, he does it instead, grabbing my things and shoving them into bags. “I mean it, Iris, get your stuff. Is this yours?” He holds up my pillow. “This?”

I’ve never seen anyone contain so much tension in their body. He looks in pain from it.

He picks things up at random, Felipe’s clothes, I think, and I shake my head, mortified, not knowing what to do or say.

“There’s a cab outside and you’re going to get in it. It’s going to take you back to the noodle house, where you’re going to unpack your stuff and sleep in your own bed like a grown-up, do you hear me?” He dashes a hand over his eyes, furious at his own tears, and at me.

“You’ll have a fridge and running water and you’ll be safe.” He turns away from me as he chokes the last word out and thumps the metal shutters hard, a harsh noise that reverberates around the quiet building.

I stand up and go to him, put my hand on his rigid shoulder.

“Gio,” I say, my mouth trembling with tears. “Gio.”

He turns to me and he’s in such a mess that we just hold each other, hard, and rock each other, because we’re so very wounded.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Stop apologizing,” he says. “Just stop. I can’t hear it today.”

He grips me by the shoulders and stares down at me. “You never have to run from me,” he says, his voice raw and ragged. “Do you get that? I’m so fucking mad at you I can’t think straight, but I’d never hurt a hair on your stupid, stubborn, beautiful head.”

He lets go of me and pushes his hands through his hair and then sits down heavily on the sofa. I sit on the other end, my hands pressed hard against my mouth, trying to pull myself together.

“I’ve spent the past two days thinking about you, and about Penny, and about Bella…” He looks sideways at me, still struggling to speak. “My daughter. For fuck’s sake, Iris. She should never have been caught up in this shit.”

There isn’t anything I can say to make it okay. I feel empty of any words anyway.

“Just go home,” he says, weary. “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re safe. Go home and get some proper rest.”

He picks my bags up and waits while I put my coat on and turn everything off, then we catch the elevator down onto the sidewalk, too exhausted to speak to each other. There’s a cab, just as he said, and he puts my stuff in and then turns to me, his expression bleak.

“If this thing between us is over, then we say goodbye properly.” He swallows hard and looks away down the deserted, cold street. “Take a few days. Look after yourself better than this.” He gestures toward the storage building and sighs. “I need some time to get my head straight, okay? I’ll come to your apartment on New Year’s Eve, and we’ll treat each other kindly, because I care about you too damn much for it to end on a sidewalk like this.”

I nod and get into the car, because I don’t know how to say goodbye properly to Gio Belotti. Not on this sidewalk today, in my apartment on New Year’s Eve, or ever.





36.


I DO AS HE’S ASKED. I let myself back into my apartment and drop my bags by the front door, and I stand in the quiet cold space I didn’t think I’d see again. I don’t know if it feels like failure or reprieve. I make tea and put the heating on, and I let the cat in when he appears on the fire escape. I go through the motions until I strip off and stand under the hot shower, and then it finally gets me. All of it. My mother’s death. Adam. The Belottis. Gio. I sit on the floor and wrap my arms around my knees, and the last three years swirl around me as if I’m surrounded by IMAX screens. Words and memories. Black dresses at funerals, kisses on rooftops, painted glass doors, Moonstruck Monday nights, vacuuming the same room three times, terrified I’d missed something, singing in the park, Maria’s perfume, Sophia’s curls, Bella’s fragile hands on piano keys, streets full of houses covered in Christmas lights, my mother looking into my eyes as she laughs down the lens. They all slide and clash against each other, jumbled and discordant, and I close my eyes and lay my forehead on my knees, battle weary.



* * *



—

I’M SITTING AT THE table with a cold cup of coffee in front of me. I slept deeply as soon as my head touched the pillow last night, yet I still feel as if I’ve been hit by a bus this morning. I jolt inside my dressing gown when the buzzer goes. I sit still, hoping it’s a mailman who’ll decide he’s out of luck, but it goes again, insistent, and I sigh when I look outside and see bouncing black curls.

I open my door as Sophia runs up the stairs with grocery bags in her hands, and she steps inside and puts them on the kitchen surface.