Page 87 of One Week
I don’t know what to say.
“You had no right to bring me into this, and not even tell me the truth,” he goes on. “Don’t you think I deserve the truth?”
Before I have a chance to answer, he barrels on. “If I’d known the full consequences of this week, I would have never agreed. I would never have wanted to say goodbye to you, Gabriella.”
“I know… it’s why I didn’t tell you,” I confess.
He slaps a hand on the table. “Oh, I get it now,” he says. “You knew I’d say no if you told me the whole truth. You knew you wouldn’t get to come here, and have your little adventure. You knew you wouldn’t get to sleep in my bed and get fucked nice and good, sideways, and up on the wall. Well, I hope it was worth it. I hope I satisfied you, Gabriella.”
“Eli, don’t—”
“Now, you’re done slumming it, and you can go back to your fucking perfect little life, with your perfect husband, and perfect kids, your little house and your little picket fence, and you can tell all your besties what it was like to fuck the glass artist from Copenhagen, how hot, how fucking good.. Isn’t it great to be you!”
His words slice. He’s split me in two. I’ve never seen this side of him. I didn’t even know he could be like this. I’m shell-shocked, unable to utter a single word.
“How can you expect me to ever say goodbye to you? Do you realize how hard that’ll be for me? Do you even know what you mean to me? Did I even mean anything to you? Or was I just a fun lay? A midlife crisis?”
He’s speaking so fast, barking all these things at me, I don’t have the time to put a single word together.
“I thought you were better than this, Gabriella. You’re not who I thought you were. You’re a selfish and spoiled woman. I don’t even know what I ever saw in you.”
It hurts so much, I feel like I might break, but he looks even more broken than I am. He gets up to stand, but then falls again. “I’ve only ever loved two women in my life. The first one broke my heart, but then the second one mended it, made me feel like I could put myself out there again, made me think that I could give myself to someone else again.”
He gets up to leave, and grabs his jacket. “And then she destroyed me too. She was even crueler than the first.”
He shrugs into his jacket, and adjusts his scarf. His movements are slow and deliberate, almost robotic. His stunning eyes are dark with anger. “We’re done,” he says. “I have no problem with this arrangement of yours. No problem at all. We’ve had our week, and now it’s over. No more contact. I’ll be blocking you from all my accounts tonight.”
My eyes are wide. “But…”
“I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. You can spend your last night at my place… I know you have nowhere else to go.”
He drops a few Euros on the table. “I’ll be spending the night at my studio with Floyd. You have enough money to get back to my place?”
I nod, still speechless.
“Good.” And with a quick wave of his hand, he says, “Have a nice life, Gabriella.”
And then he’s out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I’M NUMB AT FIRST. I can’t move. I don’t cry. I just sit there, in the back of the little café, and stare at the wall. I’m still shell-shocked. I never expected him to react this way. I didn’t think he had it in him. He’s such a gentle soul. I never saw this coming.
I slowly stand, and leave the café. The barista shoots me a pity look, and there’s curiosity in her expression. I wonder if she heard our fight.
I wander aimlessly around the island, not sure where to go. The sights and people are a blur. All I can think about is Eli. I can’t believe we’re never going to speak to each other again.
The world works in such cruel ways.
I sit on a bench, my blue shopping bag on my lap. I pull out the vintage purse and the pins from the bag, and study them. This beautiful purse will remind me of this day forever. I decide to donate it to our local thrift store. I tuck everything back in the bag again.
A man sits down next to me. He has a salt and pepper beard but looks pretty young, and he’s very fashionable. A petite blonde smiles at him as she inches closer. A little boy with big blue eyes holds her hand. “Come and sit on daddy,” she urges. “There’s not enough room on this bench for all of us.”
The man kisses the boy’s forehead. They look happy, all of them. She gazes into her husband’s eyes and he just seems to light her up. I’m not sure I’ve ever had that with John, and not sure I ever will. But I know I love my children as much as this woman loves her son.
The sun is setting when I can finally manage a coherent thought and think straight enough to get myself back to Eli’s. There are hundreds of faces around me but I don’t see them. I’m surrounded by noise, but I don’t hear anything.
When I get back to his place, I drop my purse and shopping bag and let myself crumple to the floor. I lie on the floor and let the tears flow. I can still smell this morning’s breakfast, Floyd’s scent, and even Eli’s. It’s so cold here now — walls with colorful pictures, perfect furniture; a flawless space. It is not a home. It is certainly not mine. I feel like an intruder. Not so long ago, I felt like I belonged here.
