Page 52 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
Wingo picksus up and chatters nonstop the whole ride. He talks when he’s nervous. I know the cause is Melissa’s presence. Girls—women—in general make him nervous. I can’t blame him. He’s not a lady’s dream. He’s short and skinny and has a prominent pointy nose and chin to match. Lucky for him he has a good heart and an on-again-off-again romance with a childhood semi-sweetheart. He calls it an understanding, the kind where if they’re still both single when they’re fifty or so, they’ll get married. I asked him why they’d bother at that point, but I know he won’t last until he’s thirty before he marries the girl. One of them will crack.
“Tony Wingo. Interesting name,” Melissa says and I’m sure she means it, sure she’s trying to categorize him and is having trouble.
Tony smiles and launches into his family history which is long enough to take us to the departure curb in front of Alitalia. He jumps out of the car and gets our bags, my worn leather Bosca duffel and her classic Hermes overnight bag. I remember this bag is all she has left of her previous designer lifestyle and feel a pinprick of worry about her pride, her need to be worthy. The legacy left by her high-society birth father’s rejection of her.
“Kind of light on luggage for a trip abroad,” he says. Before I have a chance to say a thing, Melissa speaks up.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make do. I can always buy what I need there.” She flashes a bright and convincing smile and I realize she has already figured the shopping into her plans. Out of necessity rather than pleasure I’m sure.
Then I wonder fleetingly if she has money to shop, or if she’s planning for me to pay.
Damn. I hate myself for thinking the words. Who the f—ck cares if she wants me to fund a shopping spree? I want to buy her things. It’s my fault she’s leaving on short notice with barely a pair of panties and a sweater and jeans in her bag. Then I realize my guilt is clouding my thinking—along with lack of sleep—because I know there’s no way in hell she would let me pay for a stitch even if she had to wear dirty rags. Her pride would prevent it.
* * *
After rushing through allthe lines, we’re the last ones to board the Alitalia flight to Marco Polo Airport in Venice. We managed to get two seats together, by ourselves in the first row of first class.
“Thank you for getting us first class tickets,” she says as she sits back in her seat next to the window. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”
“You’re not paying me back. I practically forced you to come with me,” I say. When she looks like she’s going to argue, I put a finger to her lips.
“Rest,” I say. She settles back in her seat, quieted, though I know it’s temporary.
“I’m going to try my damnedest to lie back and sleep, but even with the reclining seats, I think I’m too wound, too revved to get a wink.”
Slipping out my phone as soon as I sit down, I make the call to cancel two ice sculpture gigs.
Melissa whispers, “I truly would never have guessed you had this artist thing going on.” I shut off my phone and I can feel her thinking about all the things she didn’t know about me until now, all the things she still doesn’t know.
I say, “Weren’t you going to call Margo?”
“It’s still so early, but I guess you’re right. I won’t have another chance until we land and by then she may be worried.”
I watch her take out her phone and punch Margo’s picture on her speed dial screen. Margo finally answers after five rings.
I hear Margo’s excitement and worry from where I’m sitting, without needing to lean in, as Melissa tells her the story of my family emergency. It’s not lost on me that she doesn’t share the details of my identity and who my family is with her best friend. It’s like she’s holding back on responding, on making a judgment call, until we’ve had a real chance to talk about it. I know that moment is coming soon.
“How long are you staying?” I’m listening and when Melissa looks a question at me, I shrug.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be able to return, but you can return anytime you want.” I feel sick saying the words, but I have no choice. She looks at me with an odd expression. I’m not sure what she’s thinking—whether she’s disappointed that I don’t insist she stay with me or disappointed that I don’t know when I’ll be back. Either way, it’s clear it isn’t what she wants to hear from me.
After Melissa ends her call with Margo, she looks pensive. My chest tightens because I’m afraid I know what she’s thinking.
“What’s going on, Lucas? Tell me about your family. Tell meeverything. I don’t want to get there and be blindsided—wait, I guess I already was blindsided.” She gives a light chuckle. “But I’m kind of nervous now that we’re on the plane. I’m on my way to meeting a family I never knew you had.”
My gut feels like lead. I’m not sure if she’s only nervous or maybe getting around to resentful and angry, but I knew it was coming, knew I’d need to deal with it.
“How about if I order us mimosas,” I say, looking toward the flight attendant, “because no matter how much I want to, there’s no way I’m going to sleep.”
The flight attendant comes over and I order us the drinks while Melissa studies me. I watch as curiosity and puzzlement play on her face, turn slowly to wariness. My heart starts pounding faster because I know what she’s thinking, She’s judging me, and not favorably. She’s finally reacting to finding out about my background, which she’s been begging me to tell her about since we met.
“I still don’t know your whole story Lucas.”
I take her hand and squeeze it. I want to reassure her, want to take that wary look off her face. I tell myself to relax, take a deep breath, because I know what’s coming next.
She continues. “I think you let me believe something totally different about you, purposely. You wanted me to believe you were a poor grad student whose sole means of support was driving for Uber.” She pauses, then whispers the words that I don’t want to hear.
“You deceived me.”
