A Cup of Comfort for Couples (20 page)

Love, Italian Style

I
fell in love when I was eighteen and visiting family in my mother's hometown in Italy.

“Do you remember this young man?” a relative asked me as a motorcycle roared to a stop behind us on the cobblestone road.

I turned around shyly, self-consciously tugging at my miniskirt as the young man took off his helmet and beads of perspiration tickled my chest.

“Yes,” my voice cracked as I forced a smile. How could I forget? “Ludovico, right?”

“Sylvia,” he said, looking at me intently, his eyes filled with passion. “The last time I saw you, you were ten years old.”

And
I'd
had the hugest crush on you
, I wanted to scream, but instead licked my dry lips. “And you were thirteen.”

He broke into a dazzling grin, and my heart melted.

I felt his gaze rake over me with silent appreciation, and my body tingled.

“You've changed,” he said.

The last time I'd stood before him, I was a gawky child. My appearance had improved somewhat, my body having filled out in the right places, contact lenses replacing my thick glasses, and a bad haircut grown into long, flowing red tresses. I wasn't a super-model, but I certainly had changed.

“Yes. So have you,” I said.

He was just as beautiful as the last time I had seen him, only now his dark features were more refined and mature, his boyish body now muscular and lean. He was gorgeous.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“Um, only a few more days.”

“Do you want to go for a ride later?”

“Sure.” I swallowed nervously. “I'm staying at my aunt's place. Up on the hill?”

“I know where it is.”

“I'll be there around five o'clock then?” Ludovico asked.

I nodded.

“Great!” He smiled and put on his helmet. “See you then!”

Five o'clock couldn't come soon enough!

I was very nervous as I waited for Ludovico in the front hall of my aunt's house. Right on time, a motorcycle revved its way up the drive.

“Hello.” He smiled as I walked toward him.

“Hi,” I breathed.

“Have you ever been on a bike?”

I shook my head no. “I'm a bit nervous.” At least that gave me an excuse for my chattering teeth.

“Don't be,” he reassured me. “I've been riding for years; you're in good hands.”

“Okay,” I gulped.

“Let's put this on you.”

He gently placed a small helmet over my head, his fingers brushing against my chin as he fastened the clasp. I felt tingles down my spine as his skin touched mine.

“Now, hop on.”

I quickly realized that riding on the back of his motorcycle meant sitting quite close to his beautiful form. I tried not to think about how good it felt.
It's
only a ride
, I told myself.
He's
just being nice
.

Then, before I could think about it any more, we took off like a bolt of lightning — or at least that's how it felt to me — and were zipping along antique streets and weaving up the steepest road I had ever seen in my life. We stopped atop a mountain over-looking the town.

“Wow!” I gasped. “This is so beautiful!”

“Yes.” His voice was full of emotion. “Beautiful.”

It took a moment for me to register that he wasn't looking at the view; he was looking at me!

The breath caught in my throat as Ludovico leaned toward me, his energy encompassing me like a cocoon. I felt frozen to the spot. I could barely pull air into my lungs. He leaned closer, then our lips touched. From then on, I was completely love struck.

Ludovico spent every spare minute with me in the remaining days of my trip. He even accompanied me to the obligatory visits to my many older relatives, suffering through endless espressos at quaint kitchen tables while the summer sun continued to blaze outside.

“Wouldn't you rather be at the beach with your friends?” I asked him as we left yet another boring visit.

“What?” he gasped, pulling me in for a big hug, “Don't you get it? I would rather be anywhere that you are.”

I hugged him fervently, clinging desperately as I realized that time was slipping away from us. “It's going to be so hard to leave you.”

“Let's not think about that now.”

But inevitably, my last night arrived. I had thought of every way possible to extend my stay, to no avail. I had to leave. My family and the new school year were waiting for me back in Canada. I had no choice but to leave.

For the first time since I'd arrived in Italy, the rain began to fall over the quiet, quaint town.

“I feel like my heart is breaking,” I told Ludovico, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

We were sitting in his small hatchback, parked in the piazza, listening to his favorite music CD. The yellow glow of the street lamps cast a sad shadow on the desolate, wet streets.

“I know,” he sighed. “I've never felt this way before.”

I blinked. Was I hearing him correctly? I hadn't wanted to let myself believe that he could feel as strongly as I did.

“Neither have I,” I admitted.

“I . . .” He reached out and took my hand, a pained look in his eyes. “I'm in love with you.”

“This is crazy.” My tears spilled over. “We hardly know each other, but I'm pretty sure — ”

“Yes?” He inched closer.

“ — I love you too,” I continued through sobs.

Saying goodbye to Ludovico was one of the most painful moments of my life.

“Please, promise me you'll come back soon,” he implored. “You must!”

“I will,” I was adamant, “at the end of the year.”

It was September. How I thought I could make it back to see Ludovico in only three short months, I don't know, but we swore that our love for one another was real and we would be together soon.

I cried for weeks when I got back to Toronto. My parents didn't know what to do with me. They tried to make me see that I couldn't very well pursue a future with a boy that far away, not while I still had my schooling to finish. Besides, they said, I was too young.

I cried until I had no more tears to shed. As the months and then the years passed, it became clear that I would not be returning to Italy anytime soon. Although the pain of missing Ludovico never went away, I pushed it to the back of my heart and continued living my life. I dated other boys, but I never gave my heart away completely.

Ten years later, I realized why.

“Do you remember Ludovico?” my mom asked me casually one morning as I poured a cup of coffee. “He is here visiting, and there will be a party for him at my cousin's place tomorrow night.”

My heart skipped a beat. My first love was here? A million conflicting emotions raced through my mind.
Would he even remember me
?
Had he found
someone else to share his passion with
? I didn't think I could endure the embarrassment and disappointment of seeing him with another girl. Though ten years had passed and I'd moved on with my life and forced myself to forget Ludovico, I still had feelings for him. And the thought of seeing him again and not having those feelings reciprocated was more than I could bear.

“Mom, I'm not sure if I can — ”

My mother's warning glance stopped me in my tracks. I knew what she was going to say, that it would be rude of me not to go.

“Okay, I'll be there,” I acquiesced.

The next night, I said a few polite hellos as I removed my coat, my heart racing with anticipation. I had barely stepped inside when I felt his presence. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I glanced across the room at the man I had once declared my eternal devotion to. He stared right back at me, his gaze unreadable. We both broke the connection, hastily looking away. For the next two hours, we avoided each other awkwardly, careful not to glance in the other's direction.

Wanting to retrieve my sweater from the closet, I turned down the corridor into the small front hallway. I was shocked to bang straight into Ludovico.

“Oh, hi.” I smiled meekly, nervously tucking my hair behind my ear.

“Hi.”

“How are you?” I sounded breathless, even to my own ears, “It's been such a long time.”

“I know. It has.” His tone was serious. “I've been good. How about you?”

“Good.”

The silence was deafening.

“So ten years since you came to Italy?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I remember it like it was yesterday.”

I searched his dark eyes, surprised by his words. “I do, too.”

Leaning forward, he whispered in my ear, “Nothing's changed for me, Sylvia. I still feel exactly the same.”

I closed my eyes, taking in the familiar scent of him. “I do, too.”

He pulled me into his arms. “This is ridiculous. I don't want to wait another ten years to see you again.”

“I know. But how?”

“I have a few more days here, and then we have to see what we can do about this situation.”

His lips lightly grazed against my cheek, and I felt shivers down every nerve in my body. This man was my destiny; I knew it.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you.”

I was so excited I could barely make sense of it all. Ludovico was moving to Canada!

It had been a year and a half since we had been reunited — a challenging stretch of long-distance love. Now, he had sent me a ticket to join him in Italy so I help him pack and get organized. We would leave together to begin a new life in my world.

“Can you believe it's finally here?” he embraced me at the airport enthusiastically.

“I can't!” I giggled with excitement. “It's too good to be true.”

It was amazing to be together while we scrambled to take care of the many loose ends involved in moving to a different country, but a nagging feeling tugged at my gut. Ludovico would have to say goodbye to everyone — including his ill father — and leave them thousands of miles away . . . for me. Guilt chewed at my insides.

Faces around us were drawn with tension as the final day drew nearer. And then it came: the goodbye.

It was four in the morning on the day of our departure. The night wind whirled eerily in through the open balcony window. Ludovico's mother placed two cups of coffee on the kitchen table and then burst into tears.

“Don't cry, Ma. It's okay,” he comforted, embracing the tiny woman as she sobbed.

Then he hugged his father, who whispered, “Don't turn around. Just go.”

Tears rolled down my face as I realized what Ludovico was giving up for me, the enormity of his sacrifice and pure love.

It poured rain in Rome that day. Our flight was delayed, and we spent endless hours watching the water pour down the walls in sheets. The sky had never been grayer.

“I'm sorry you have to go through this,” I cried.

“No,” his voice was laced with sadness. “Don't be. It's just a difficult moment, but this is what I want. I love you.”

And just like that, I learned the true meaning of what it meant to love someone. Love isn't only roses, kisses, and poetry. It isn't only sunny days. True love is also sacrifice, compromise, and selflessness. It is storms weathered together.

Six years later, Ludovico and I are happily married with a beautiful baby girl, and we continue to face each storm as it comes our way — hand in hand, heart to heart.

—
Sylvia Suriano-Diodati

Retiring Bill Pullman

O
ver the years I've had a low-simmering but perpetual fear of being the Bill Pullman character in my romantic life. For those who don't share this obsession, Bill Pullman is an actor who appeared in a string of 1990s date movies, usually as the guy who doesn't get the girl. Pullman's characters are nice but tend to lack the romantic zing needed to make a woman's heart skip a beat.

In
Singles
, he's the plastic surgeon who tells Bridget Fonda she doesn't need bigger breasts, which empowers her to win back the boyfriend who said she did. In
Sleepless
in Seattle
, he's the dull fiancé who Meg Ryan dumps on Valentine's Day so she can pursue a complete stranger. Pullman's date-movie credentials are so entrenched in my psyche that when he showed up as the U.S. president in
Independence Day
, I kept waiting for the First Lady to find someone new. Instead, she died.

Throughout most of our twelve years together, I worried my wife would wake up and realize she'd married her own personal Bill Pullman. As soon as that happened, someone more glamorous would show up to whisk her away. It's a shallow fear and a shallower way to view my wife's affections, but knowing that didn't stop me from feeling it.

Around the same time I first fell in love with my wife, I began to understand I was not her type at all. She preferred sinewy tall men who lived to climb mountain peaks and paddle rapids. I was chubby, short, and hadn't climbed a mountain in my life. But she fell for me because of the strangeness of chemistry and because I made her laugh, was kind to her, and shared my sugary cereal with her between classes. (Never underestimate the power of sugar rushes in a relationship; I think my wife accepted my marriage proposal partly because she had just consumed some really good chocolate.)