Yesterday morning, our last “couples therapy” session, Marley again advised that Matteo do one of those mail-in tests that I keep bringing up. I just want him to know if maybe he has family, wonderful family somewhere that he never has to meet unless he wants to. I gave it one more push and again offered to put the test in my name and have it sent home, so that there was no chance his “brothers” finding out.
When he agreed, I tackle-hugged him then grabbed the kit from my bag.
We sent it out that afternoon.
Today is the day before I go home, and he is to go to England to change medications.
Holding his hand as we walk from the hotel to his studio so he can grab a few things, I ask him to reconsider.
His answer is a firm, “No.”
I ask him why, and he tells me it was torture lying in a bed, half-hard, holding a woman who he loves and being afraid to disappoint her.
“That’s never going to happen, Matteo. I don’t care about the act of intercourse. Kissing you, being held and loved by you, it is more than enough.”
He shakes his head. “Not for me. I want inside you. I want to be connected to you, and I want to know that the changes I make in medication allow that for years to come.” Then he shrugs and, in a lust-filled tone, adds, “And I want to feel you tremble around my cock, like you did in my arms.”
“If we weren’t walking down the freaking sidewalk full of people, I’d prove a theory I have.”
“And what’s that?”
I stop, and he turns toward me. Pushing up on my toes, I press my lips to his. “We’re magic together.”
Smiling against mine, he responds, “Half-mast, and the two minutes I may or may not last will certainly not be what disproves that theory.”
Groaning in frustration, I begin walking again, dragging him behind me and listening to him laugh.
Once at the front door, he unlocks it, opens it, and says, “After you.”
I walk in and look around. “Someone cleaned up.”
“Si.”
I inhale. “And, do I smell food?”
“A light dinner. Pasta.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s green.”
He steps behind me, wraps his arms around me, and kisses my neck. “It certainly is.”
Moving toward the doorway to the back room, the room that I once walked out of because I needed to breathe, I pause.
“Is everything all right?”
“Of course.”
He reaches around me and pushes open the door.
When I see what he’s done, I reach a new level of emotion—elation.
“It’s me.”
“It’s you.”
I step in and look around. There are several canvases, each one a different scene.
He points to the painting farthest left. “The first concert.”
“It’s a timeline. Our timeline.”
“The one in the middle is my favorite. It’s when I realized how beautifully complex and brilliant you are. And it’s when I thought I was damned. I thought that I would live every day missing your brilliance, your wit, your beauty, your heart.” He walks around me and takes my hands, eyes seeking mine with a sense of urgency.
“The day I realized every picture I painted was of you, I knew I was forever changed. Even before, when there was no talk of love, just urgency and need to know you, to allow you to get closer to me than I ever experienced, I begged God to make it stop. I knew it would hurt you, but I also know you’re unbreakable. You are the beautiful girl living amongst your monsters, as you call them, and I am the man who is broken inside. Two negatives truly become something positive.”
“God, I love you,” falls from my lips as easy as a breath.
He steps back and leads me behind the row of paintings. “I need you to see what I have witnessed since your last concert.”
In every picture, there is a woman bearing my resemblance. Behind her—me, this woman—are shapeless forms in various colors.
“My monsters,” I whisper.
“Your monsters. You are not theirs.”
He lets go of my hands and grabs a paintbrush. “Come.” He positions me in front of him and hands me the brush, wrapping his hands around mine. “Now, we paint together.”
I pull back my hand. “No way am I going to ruin your work.”
“This is ours together.”
“Matteo, I never even colored inside the lines.”
“Don’t you see? You never were meant to.”
I let his hand guide mine as the brush strokes the canvas, in gray around yellow. The first painting takes only seconds, and my anxiety is collared, a leash attached and my hand holding it.
“For red?” he asks.
“Black.”
Red—rage—is colored and the leash in my hand.
Every monster he’s put on canvas bears a striking resemblance to those in my mind, the colors exact.
With anxiety and rage done, we move on to black—depression—and then gray—disillusion—and one I not yet imagined—a black and white stripped monster.
“And this is?”
“You have no diagnosis yet, and I don’t think you truly need it. You have all the tools to control it, and you have your family and me to assist when necessary. Black and white is bipolar.”
After we paint that monster the same, I turn and hug him. I hug him harder than I have ever hugged anyone in my life.
“You are seen, Tris, and you are loved.”
Jersey
The first night home, I wait until My and Bris to go to bed. My was easy to outlast. He goes to bed before the sun goes down so he can hit the gym before it rises. I don’t understand that, but it obviously works for him.
Tonight, he told me that he was picked up by the Yankees club and would be taking off to join the minor league team in hopes of getting pulled up.
Brisa is all about talking about Matteo and how amazing it is that we’re engaged. I know it hurts her that I didn’t return her call, but I also know Mom and Dad showed them the video.
I hate hurting her, I do, but I also hate that I feel so out of place when I’m here.
I asked Mom and Dad not to tell them how soon after graduation the wedding will be, wanting them to enjoy their time, their moment, since I have taken so much from them, away from them over the past few years.
Brisa is hanging in there, though. I suppose she’s waiting for me to fall asleep, so I do what I used to do—I pretend. Only, this time, it’s not to unlock my bedroom window so Marc could sneak in and live out whatever fantasy we snapped back and forth to each other like before we moved here.
As soon as she leaves, I sit up and grab my phone. Out of habit, I hit Snapchat and see several unread Snaps from Marc. The last one … today.
I use my “tools” and tug the proverbial leash on yellow, who is fueling my worry, and gray, who wants me to believe that it’s an apology, and hit the messenger app. I shoot my parents a text, asking them to come to my room. Then I grab the book off my nightstand and my evening cocktail of pills to ward off the onset of the storm I feel coming.
When they come in, they look worried.
“I just wanted to show you something.”
“Yeah?” Dad says, plopping down on the bed and grabbing the book and jokes. “Not read this?”