“Why wait, right, Zandor?” Mom asks Dad.
He nearly chokes on his champagne, which makes me laugh so hard tears spill down my face.
“Kitten,” he tries to scold Mom but, once his eyes land on me cracking up, he pushes his sunglasses off his eyes and onto the top of his head and tries really hard to hold a scowl at Mom and myself.
He fails.
“Momma Joe once said, I hope you have at least one who acts just like you. When you were born, that finally happened.”
“Yeah right.” I roll my eyes.
“I’m being serious right now.”
“Which stage did that realization hit? The fuck-boy stage?”
Matteo shakes his head in disapproving amusement, and Mom laughs.
“Your father never liked when I swore, either. I did it just to taunt him.”
“Foreplay?” I joke. Well, sort of.
“Kitten.” Dad clamps his hand on Mom’s knee. “I was trying to have a moment here.”
“By all means, Zandor, have your moment.” She lifts her glass of champagne.
“The passionate side and the struggle to hide it amongst the common folk.”
Mom, who I think is a bit tipsy, finishes her third glass and sets it down on the table. “Well, there you have it. Your father’s moment. It’s a good thing we’re outside so his big head can inflate to its full potential.”
“How can I not love a woman who appreciates my full potential?” He winks at her.
I look at Matteo. “If you ever question why I am the way I am”—I point to Dad — “direct your questions to him.”
“Exactly.” Dad claps. “Passion.”
Still looking at Matteo, I lift my sparkling wine. “In October, one minute after my birthday, I’ll show you all sorts of passion.”
Mom giggles. “Here’s your chance, Zander. Shine.”
“You have agreed to stay home for a couple weeks. After the graduation, use that time with your mother to plan your wedding.”
I look from Matteo to Dad. “In October?”
He shakes his head. “Why wait? After all, tomorrow isn’t a guarantee for any of us, and love is gift.”
When Mom and Dad leave us to head to the airport, thankfully in a hired car, we spend the next few hours alone, walking around an area that Matteo referred to as the substitute museum.
Outside amongst the residents’ clothes hanging to dry and small gardens, as well as other tourist looking at buildings with paintings, we walk around an apartment complex of sorts. He talks about the fact that artists from all over the world have come to take part in this street art that many of its residents were wary of when the project began.
Between kisses, he tells me about the artist who painted these buildings and meanings behind the pieces and how it is the most unique museum in the world. And then I tell him about my cousin’s, Bella, husband, whose nickname happens to be Tags, who got arrested when he was younger for doing sort of the same thing in Brooklyn.
Then we laugh.
Within two hours, I can tell he is growing tired and see the agitation it brings him.
I squeeze his hand. “I’ve done a lot of peopling today. How about we go back and—”
“Rest?”
After using the bathroom, I walk out to classical music playing. Matteo told me it calms his heart.
Lying on the bed, with my fiancé, music playing while we kiss and hold each other, in theory, we are not speaking in words, but that’s because it isn’t always necessary. He’s shown me that. And we fall asleep just like that. No pills, no booze, no exhaustion due to monsters, or fights with them inside of my head keeping me awake. Matteo the monster slayer, whose mere presence lulls me to sleep.
After a much-needed nap, I woke alone.
It only took me a moment to find him. This beautiful man, sitting on a stool, painting while the setting sun illuminates him from behind, giving him an even more heavenly appearance, in front of the easel that, upon our return to the room, I discovered was blank. Paint brush in his hand, he is lost in that canvas.
When he finally looks up, he shakes his head. “No move. Stay. Rest. Let me paint you.”
“How does one say no to that?” I stretch a bit and resume what I hope is the position I need to be in.
“Stunning, mi coraźon. You are absolutely stunning.”
“Do I get to see the piece from the fountain?”
It takes him a beat to reply. I assume it’s been a long day and his brain needs to rest.
“In time, there will be galleries full of you. You will see them all.”
“Then, in time, there will be a whole album dedicated to you.”
“Our love shall be timeless.”
“It already is.”
Lying in bed, watching the way he looks at me with such deep concentration, I feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, which is amazing in itself, but add to that the way he loves me, accepts me, I wish I could freeze time.
This is Us
Tris
Sitting on the bed, notebook on my lap, staring down at the empty pages, I feel irritated.
For two weeks, when we haven’t been busy planning our lives. We have agreed on keeping our passions a priority. He tells me it’s never been easier to create since I have come into his life. The sculpting has taken a backseat to the painting. I, however, am obviously having a difficult time writing because, as I told him, watching him is my new passion.
We spent a day sitting amongst the Roman Forum ruins, discussing in detail the artists who he found while researching bipolar disorder. The painter, Vincent van Gogh, author Virginia Wolf, all lived with what was speculated to be bipolar disorder. He told me that Vivien Leigh, the actress that played Scarlett O’Hara, was diagnosed but, in those days, there wasn’t medication, therapy wasn’t like it is now, and publicist weren’t able to protect her from the scrutiny of the public eye.
“Things have changed in the world, Tris. Someday, others may see that what they consider madness is actually genius.”
“So, I’m a genius?” I joke.
“Studies have been conducted around the world on mood disorders. Some came to the conclusion that deeper thinkers with higher intelligence are, what they call, suffering from it. I believe it’s a gift.”
“Perfect. Do you promise, no matter what, you’ll continue thinking that way?”
“I believe the suffering part is behind you, and your healing and acceptance and all the work you’re doing with Marley will soon allow you not to feel it’s a burden. I certainly don’t. I love how deeply you feel.”
And I love you more now for that.
Side note: Fuck you, monsters.
We spent another day at the Coliseum, discussing beauty in everything around us and how being in the presence of buildings like the Coliseum allow us to feel strength and resilience.
For two weeks, we have become the best of friends and lovers at a much deeper level than I ever imagined experiencing.
Love isn’t sex. Love is so many other things. Love is patient and kind. It is waking up in the morning and kissing without worry that your breath smells like Doritos or, in our case, whatever green things and fish we consumed the night before, or the flavor of the Italian ice we fed each other while watching TV for thirty minutes before the classical music began playing, which was right before we kissed and touched and loved each other. Love is acceptance and kindness and honesty and trust and seeing the truths in each other and loving past them.