If what just happened back at DeLuca’s is any indicator, I’m not ready for anything. A sob escapes me, and the cabbie looks at me through his rearview mirror. “Everything okay, miss?” he asks.
I nod. A blatant lie considering my steady flow of tears. Was that a glimmer of love in Massimo’s eyes, or am I imagining it because it’s what I want to see? And if it is, what does that mean for us? Is there even an us? I have to stop getting ahead of myself. First things first, I need to get a grip. His mere presence today shook me in a way I’ve never imagined it would.
The Pour House is a laid-back dive bar—dark inside, with random decorations strewn around the whole place and across the bar’s top. There’s a brick-wall mural along the entire left side, old bowling pins, a skeleton, trophies, plastic drink trays stuck to the air vents, and a pinball machine. Although it’s a dive bar, it’s been around for years, and the bar food is phenomenal, especially their burgers. Locals sporting their team pride with Red Sox or Patriots hats fill the booths along the brick wall or in the backroom.
When Luci sees me, she walks over, smiling, but as she gets close, she sees the tension and anxiety written all over my face and asks, “What happened?”
“Pour me a Grey Goose and soda, heavy on the Goose, with two limes and order me a mushroom burger, medium with onion rings, and I’ll tell you about it,” I tell her as I’m removing my jacket to place it on the back of my stool.
Luci and I have been best friends since the third grade, and I almost lost her when we were in junior high. In eighth grade, Luci was rescued from the house fire at her family home. She and her sister were sleeping in their bedroom with the door closed. Her father had fallen asleep on the couch while smoking a cigarette. Luci told me she was woken up by the firefighters outside the window, yelling to move back because they would be breaking through the bedroom window to rescue them. They later learned that their bedroom was spared from the fire damage because the door was closed. Thankfully her mom was at work that night, and her dad was okay. After that, her parents got divorced, and it was a rough time for her and her family.
Despite our lifelong friendship, I also betrayed her when I left Massimo all those years ago. She’s mostly forgiven me for the hurt and betrayal, and I’m grateful for her love. I now know my decision hurt a lot of people. Hindsight is 20/20 and all.
“Spill it, Lena,” she quips as she pours the Grey Goose over the ice-filled glass and tops it off with soda water before dropping two limes in and sliding it toward me. “The rush won’t begin for about an hour. We have time to chat before it’s a full house,” she tells me, boring her eyes into mine with a force that says, “Don’t fuck with me.”
I hear Aerosmith’s “What It Takes” playing from the jukebox behind me. How appropriate—singing about letting go and moving on. I grab the glass and give the straw a twirl before taking a sip. It’s strong, burning as I swallow—precisely what I need.
“I went to DeLuca’s after work to pick up a few things. Massimo was there, and he confronted me. He caught me off guard, and words failed me. I wasn’t ready to see him yet. I basically ran away like a scared little girl. Oh, and he’s still sexy as ever.” I sigh before taking another sip of the liquid swirling in my glass.
“Whoa, slow down, Lena. What do you mean he confronted you?”
“He asked me what I was doing here and if I planned on seeing him.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I barely muttered a full sentence. When I was working up the courage to say something, his two sons showed up, and it freaked me out,” I spew, exasperated thinking about the encounter.
“That’s rich, Lopez. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know, Luci. Massimo is the only one who makes me act like a fool. He’s always had that effect on me,” I remind her. “I guess he still does,” I say, shrugging as I sip my drink again.
“Honestly, Lena, you’ve been back a few weeks, and I still don’t know why you left. I can’t imagine what he’s feeling. Can you blame him?” she retorts, shaking her head. She leans into me and lowers her voice. “You were two months away from your wedding when you up and disappeared and left him a heaping pile of shit to clean up! One I helped clean up! You fucked him up pretty bad,” she proclaims.
I glare at her because I need her to be my friend now and not scold me, even though I deserve everything she’s throwing at me, and then some.
“Luci, I—”
“Don’t Luci me, Marialena. Look, I love you. You’re my best friend, but a spade is a spade, and you fucked up. Now own it and go make it right.”
“I want to, but I don’t know how.”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe talk to him instead of running away.”
A long sigh escapes me. “Touché.” I slurp the remaining liquid in my glass.
I decide to walk home from The Pour House. It’s a mild night, and I need fresh air. Before turning left, I pull my iPod Touch out of my purse, pop my earbuds in, and hit play on Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
How I’ve missed my city. Being back is like seeing an old friend; she welcomes you with open arms. Boston is big city life with a small-town feel. She’s old-fashioned yet contemporary, traditional yet chic. A perfect blend of old and new thrives here.
Boylston Street is relatively quiet tonight, and as I stroll home, I can’t help but look up at the Prudential Tower lighting up the sky. The Back Bay is one of the areas I love most with all of its coffee shops, boutiques, and restaurants. When I was in college, I would be in this neighborhood often because the Boston Public Library is in Copley Square. Luci and I would spend hours studying in the Bates Hall reading room. It seems like a lifetime ago.
Luci’s words hit me hard: “You fucked him up pretty bad.” Although I know I hurt the only man I’ve ever loved, I didn’t think he was that messed up over it. I mean, he’s married, has kids. Ugh, just the thought of him belonging to someone else makes me nauseous.
The encounter at DeLuca’s replays in my mind. I couldn’t even string a sentence together. It’s the Massimo Effect. He’s like a magician who’s had me under his spell since the first day he sat down at my bar, cocky and arrogant, but oh-so sexy. I still remember the day I met him as if it were yesterday.
Thirteen Years Ago
Cutting limes and fruit for the garnish jars that sit on the bar is what I hate most about bartending. When I hear the front door’s open chime, I stop the knife mid-cut and raise my eyes. Massimo enters the Florentine and struts his way through the restaurant. He’s wearing sunglasses, smiling as he greets the hostess, then saunters the length of the bar following its curve until he slides onto the last stool next to the servers’ station. My eyes follow him the entire time. When he walks, he commands attention. His tall frame is lean, arms firm, the black ink on his upper-left arm peeks out from his solid black T-shirt snug around his biceps.
When he sits, I gait over to him and his friend, placing two cocktail napkins onto the bar. “Hi guys, what can I get for you?” I ask, smiling at them both, but Massimo is speaking with his friend when I arrive.