I hope the ones she’s wearing now brings her comfort.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
The only response I can give her in my current state of exhaustion, due to the fact that I spent the entire evening and much of my morning preparing for this moment, is the truth. “I’m sorry.”
What I wasn’t prepared for is to feel a connection to her that is deeper than any kind of attraction she may feel. Not to mention, she is a beautiful, young woman, but I’m drawn to her hazel eyes. Eyes that seem to tell a story, making her appear to have lived even longer than I.
She’s confused, she’s tired, she thinks there is something wrong with her, and the hand I played in her present state will haunt me for the rest of my time on earth, because I understand those feelings more than she will ever know.
“I feel”—I pause and consider my words before finishing— “a connection to you.”
She looks up at me. “You shouldn’t. You should run and never look back.”
I pull her head back to my chest. “Descansa, alma hermosa.” Rest, beautiful soul.
It has been far too long since I have held a woman to comfort her, and although I do not take consolation in her pain, I have never felt more like a man than I do at this moment.
“Be my friend, Tris.” I kiss the top of her head as I untangle my legs so that she and I can get into a more comfortable position. I couldn’t have sculpted a more perfect fit. I kiss the top of her head again and repeat, “Be my friend.”
“I don’t know how to be anyone’s friend.”
“No entiendo.” I don’t understand. “No friend?”
“Only family. And I’ve made them hate me.”
“Hate? No es possible.” Not possible.
“You should go.”
Holding her head tight to my chest, I tell her, “No. Rest.”
Within minutes, she’s asleep, purring like a little kitten, curled up against me, her breathing slow and steady. She is calm. I like her this way, too.
I rest my head against the arm of the sofa behind me and close my eyes. It’s been some time since I have had a moment like this, a moment that makes me wish life were different.
I wish with everything I am that I could tell her to embrace the love that surrounds her, because love is truly a gift.
Startled by the vibration in my pocket, I open my eyes. How on earth did I fall asleep? Did I fall asleep or—
The thought is interrupted by the second vibration that wakes Tris, who sits up quickly, picks at the hair that is stuck to her full and soft pink lips, some of the deep brown is stuck to the chocolate from the ice cream that dried there amongst the chaos.
“Gross,” she mumbles, making a face that implies its meaning, and I once again and easily find delight in her. She shakes her head, and I see the change in her beautiful features. A metamorphosis from strikingly relaxed to agitated and anxious. “You have to go.”
Stretching my legs out on either side of her, I reach in my pants pocket and pull out my phone. Looking down at the screen, I tell her, “Un momento.”
“Matteo, you have to—”
“You have a beautiful soul, Tris Steel,” I quickly read from the screen. “I see it in your eyes, in their depth, and in hues of greens and browns, all equally as striking. However, when you woke rested, even the morning sunrise across the Mediterranean would pale in their splendor.” I look up to see her eyes widen in surprise and tell her, “Be my friend, Tris. I would like that, mucho.”
She looks between my eyes, at a near frantic pace, and I smile, hoping she can see that I am being nothing but sincere.
“If you do not take this man, this poet, up on his offer of friendship, bella regazza, I may.”
She jumps up, and I look behind me to see a woman, the woman, her grandmother, sitting across the suite at the table, sipping coffee.
Tris begins talking much too fast for me to keep up with as she picks up the carton of melted ice cream and towels that she used to clean up the mess.
I stand.
Señora Steel smiles at me as she interprets what Tris just said as I stand. “He just came here to return the card. I left it at the restaurant last night. I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that.”
She then replies to Tris in English. “You were tired; no need to be sorry. I should have called Thomas back instead of leaving you alone in a strange place. It all seems to have worked out for the best. You’ve made a new friend. And artist, like yourself.” Then she repeats it in broken Spanish.
“Cool. Awesome. Let’s do that. Friends. Yay,” Tris calls from over her shoulder as she pumps her fist in the air and scurries into a different room of the suite. “Bye, Matteo.”
She slams the door.
This leaves me alone with her grandmother, who smiles genuinely as she stands, walks toward me, and extends her hand.
I shake her hand as she speaks to me in Spanish.
“Hello, Matteo, it’s nice to finally meet the man who has been tagged on social media with my Tris.” My Tris said not only with love and kindness, but an obvious protective edge.
“It is lovely to meet you, too.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
I nod. “I’ve gathered that from the posts. First heartbreak is hard to bounce back from, yes?”
“Can be devastating enough to cause great insecurity and self-doubt.”
I look back to see if she’s coming back as I respond. “Even in the most beautiful and talented.”
“Sometimes, an even heavier burden to an artist.”
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I look down at the screen. “It was very nice to meet you. I have an event to prepare for.”
“I hope to see you again, Matteo Arias.” She leans in and gives me a kiss, one on each cheek.
“Likewise.”
I return the gesture.
“Please let Tris know I think she is lovely, and your son know I have no ill intentions. I only seek friendship.”
Due to my tardiness, Gabrielle, the owner of the gallery, whom I met for dinner last night, and her staff took care of setting up everything for the exhibit. It was extremely unlike me to not do so myself, to care for what I created. Admittedly, the need borders obsession.
Looking around the gallery, at my sculptures, always the main focus, and the paintings hanging, I see nothing at all that I feel a deep desire to change.
“Are you pleased?”
“Very much so.”
“Is there anything else I could do for you, Matteo?”
The sexual overtone in her offer is obvious, and although it’s been some time since I have taken offered pleasure, I have no desire toward her, or anyone else for that matter.
“I think I’ll head back to the hotel and—”
She steps forward, easing into my personal space. “Would you like some company?”
“I am flattered, but …” I pause, unsure how to deliver the news that I am uninterested, so I decide to look at my watch and tell her, “I have a meeting.”
“The girl? The American pop star? The one who took you away from me last night?” She pouts then smiles and waves her hand toward the door. “I’m joking. Enjoy.”