Page 25 of The Wrong Vintage
Another epiphany raises its ugly head:what I've been doing to her—my absence, my rare and careless presence—is because I couldn't strike at Cesare, so I struck at her instead.
I've been punishing her for my lack of choice, for my anger, and—most unforgivably—for my wounded pride at being made to marry a woman I saw as beneath me.
Isn't that why I have been using Chiara unashamedly? She doesn't feel like she's being used and, in fact, enjoys the attention she's getting by being favored by me over my wife, but it doesn't change the truth.
I slow to a jog, pressure clamping down behind my sternum.
I shoved Chiara into my wife's space as a way to insult her. Intentionally. Even though I promised Alessia that if anything like that happened, it would be accidental—that Iwouldn't humiliate her on purpose. At the time, I told myself I was being honest. Now, with my actions, I have made myself a liar.
I told myself I was being honest by not pretending marital fidelity mattered. But it was dishonest of me to say that because it does matter to me, and isn't that why, despite the many opportunities, I have chosen not to betray my wedding vows?
I wasn't being honest.
I was being petty.
Slapping at Alessia right after the engagement because I was angry with her, myself, and the universe. It was a way to assert control, to remind everyone—including my future wife—that I hadn't been tamed, that I still belonged to myself.
My behavior offends me.
I run harder, lungs burning now as I cut uphill, sweat slicking my skin. Florence blurs—the Duomo rising in the distance, the sound of a delivery truck, the first tourists appearing like ghosts.
Last night, even while I was playing a man like boys sometimes do, to my chagrin, Alessia had the grace to invite me to Pietra Alta, saying that she'd cook for me.
I scoff softly, breath ragged. She did thatafterI told her that I'd have a guest room prepared for her, making it obvious that I had no intention of sleeping with her, my wife.
She didn't punish me for that. No, she opened the door for us to have a relationship.
Who does that? Who extends themselves like that to someone who's done nothing to earn it?
Someone who still believes effort matters.
I stop near a small piazza, hands on my knees, heart pounding, humbled by the woman I’ve been mistreating.
The city hums around me now, fully awake.
Church bells ring.
Life goes on.
I straighten slowly.
I wasn't just an absent husband all these days—I was small.
But that isn't even the worst part, because what makes my crimes unforgivable is that I knew exactly what I was doing throughout—and even last night, when I attacked her for us not having a marriage, blamed her for living in Bolgheri when I have geographic flexibility.
One look from her last night—her stormy hazel-gray eyes stunned at my rudeness—and guilt hit harder than any accusation she could have lobbed my way but never did.
She didn't say, "Hey, stronzo, you're the one who's gallivanting around social media with another woman on your arm, and you're giving me a hard time for not staying the night in Florence when I have to be up in a few hours to take care of the vines that keep the lights on in this Palazzo?"
No, she said in her sweet manner, that she wanted me where she was, so we could try and be more than what I warned her we would be.
Yes, I resent—resented—her. Because right now, in the cold light of day, ninety-two days after the wedding, I don't. Not at all.
Alessia was forced, too. More so than I ever was. She had no leverage. No exit.
That realization is sharpened later in the afternoon, when Renzo and I meet with Cesare in his office overlooking the Arno.
The room is exactly what you'd expect—opulent without apology. Gold-leafed frames, heavy brocade curtains, polished marble, and antique furniture arranged not for comfort but for effect. Every surface announces success, legacy, and money spent to be noticed. It's intimidating notbecause it's restrained, but because it's excessive—and entirely deliberate.
