A Veil of Glass and Rain (12 page)

tasting the salt of my tears and a hint of

lipstick. “Pharmacy. Now.”

As he gazes down at me, fury fades away

from Eagan's expression, and a shady intensity

replaces it. He parts his lips, but he doesn't

utter any sound. Eventually, he nods.

In the pharmacy I fall into pieces again.

The young pharmacist, who's bravely

working the night shift, stares at me with

compassion mingled with fear. His eyes dart

repeatedly from my face to the door.

My tale is a messy tangle of sobs and words.

“He hates me. I know he does. Of course he

does. There's really something wrong with me.

I'm a very dangerous person!”

Then I just weep, while the confused

pharmacist keeps looking at me and then at

the door. Luckily I appear to be his only

costumer tonight. At length, I manage to calm

down and I ask for the medical supplies I need.

Eagan is sitting on a bench right outside the

pharmacy.

I sit beside him, then I gently take his

injured hand and place it in my lap. As I

medicate the wound and I wrap it with gauze,

Eagan's lips brush along my naked shoulder.

“Have you been crying again?” His warm

breath teases my skin.

I shrug. “A little. I'm sorry, Eagan. About

everything.”

I lift his now-bandaged hand and I bring it to

my mouth, so that I can kiss each one of his

fingertips.

Eagan heaves a shaky sigh.

“Don't hate me,” I beg him, as I cradle his

hand in my lap again.

“I don't hate you, Brina,” he says softly.

I run my fingers over the gauze. “But you

hate my driving.”

“You drive like a crazy person. And my best

friend died in a car accident. I don't want to

lose you in the same way, or in any other

way.” His tone is empty and emotionless,

despite that his words seep through my skin

and turn my blood into an icy stream.

I stare up at him. “What?” I gasp.

“David died.”

“I know that.”

“But you didn't know how he died.”

I shake my head.

It all happened a few months after the

concert and the stolen kiss in the park. When

Bea called to tell me about David's death, I

didn't ask questions. Bea didn't give me many

details, because she wanted me to talk to

Eagan. I didn't contact him though, because I

still felt too ashamed. I just ran away.

“I'm a coward. And I'm an awful friend,” I

tell him.

I search his face for disappointment and

anger, but I don't find them. I don't find

anything, and that scares me even more.

Eagan gives me a small and sad smile. “No,

you're not. You just live a lot inside your own

head. But I need you in the real world. With

me. I really do, Brina.”

I bury my face into the hollow of his neck

and I wind my arms around his broad

shoulders.

Eagan links his left arm around my waist.

“I'm so sorry, Eagan,” I murmur against his

skin.

“I know,” he whispers into my hair.

Our embrace lasts for a long time. I feel the

coldness and sorrow melt away from my skin. I

never want this closeness to end, but it has to,

for there's something else I have to fix tonight.

The silence before a performance. It is one of

the numerous reasons why I left music school.

It is a particular kind of silence, for it is

filled with anticipation. The audience expects

you to be amusing, surprising, memorable. But

if you aren't, you're presented with another

kind of silence, which is full of tedium,

disappointment, and resolve to forget about

you.

The audience I'm about to meet is quiet and

already upset. That's because they're Eagan's

friends and colleagues, and they've all seen me

hurting him and arguing with him.

I don't have only the brief music school

experience with me, I also have Ivan and

Alessio's teachings. The twins are very talented

composers and musicians, but more

importantly they are entertainers. They know

how to please a crowd, even a difficult one.

I have to make sure each one of my

spectators feels personally involved in my

show. In this specific situation my audience is

physically very close to me; hopefully, I can

turn this proximity into an advantage.

With only the sound of my footsteps and the

wild beating of my heart as accompaniment, I

approach the baby-grand piano and sit on the

stool. As soon as my fingers stroke the black

and white keyboard and give life to the first

song, the string quartet joins me.

I play and sing well known English and

Italian tunes for a while, then I look up at the

people around me and I smile. They smile

back. I play with just my right hand, and with

the left hand I motion for them to come closer

and to be part of the show. Some of them

accept the invitation, others hesitate.

Then I hear Enrico's distinctive voice. When I

glance at Eagan's portly friend, he winks and

begins to sing.

Finally, everyone joins the performance,

even Sara.

I don't see Eagan, but I can feel his eyes on

me; his gaze is a comforting caress along the

back of my neck.

When I sense that my audience needs some

kind of turning point, I kneel on the stool, as

gracefully as possible, then I reach inside the

soundboard to pinch and pluck the strings with

my fingers, while I keep singing. The

unexpected move pleases the spectators; they

laugh and they applaud.

I sit back on the stool. I conclude the song. I

take a small bow.

Afterward, along with the quartet, I keep

playing a soft accompaniment for Eagan and

Sara's presentation. The other guests are

gathered around them. I listen to Eagan's

familiar voice, but I don't really follow his

speech, I just pay attention to his sure and

controlled tone.

When he finishes, and his colleagues show

their appreciation with words and an applause,

I end my piece and lift my fingers off the

keyboard.

Then I glance behind me. Eagan, hands in

the pockets of his slacks, walks toward me

with a serious expression on his face. I stand

and meet him halfway. For a moment we stare

at each other without saying anything, then I

give him a tentative smile.

“How did it go?” I demand.

“Very well. Thank you for your music. It

really improved the mood,” he says, but his

expression remains somber.

“I love you. You know that, right? I mean,

you're my family. And I love you,” I blurt out.

Eagan's jaw tightens. “You should go home.”

“What?” Suddenly, I feel like I'm

suffocating.

“Go home, Brina.” He walks away from me

to join his friends.

I do as he asks. I leave.

13.

In the story of Eagan and me two lonely kids

reach out for one another from across the

ocean. They give each other trust and love.

They use kind words and simple gestures to

make each other happy.

When I fell in love with Eagan, I ruined

everything, because all of a sudden I didn't

know how to be his friend any longer. The

moment I walked away from him I wasn't

protecting our friendship, I was shielding my

weak heart. I behaved like a coward. I should

have stayed and I should have told him the

truth. Eagan would have understood, and he

would have even helped me deal with my

complicated feelings. And then, I would have

been there for him when he was in pain, after

David's death.

Fear is another hideous dress to wear. It is

stained with mistakes and wrong choices. It is

so ugly, Eagan can barely look at me.

Eagan doesn't love me anymore. The painful

thought keeps pulsing inside my head, and the

grief is making me numb.

After parking my yellow car in the reserved

spot in front of my building, I kill the engine

and I rest my forehead against the steering

wheel.

The scent of cinnamon still lingers, and I

want to lose myself in it before it fades away.

I've been crying a lot tonight, but I don't

intend to do it anymore. I'll let the ache choke

me, but then I'll catch my breath again and I'll

try to find a way to make everything good

again. I'll be resilient, for Eagan deserves a

strong friend.

And he deserves the truth. I'll tell him

everything. I hope he will forgive me.

As I force myself to abandon my yellow

cocoon, the television set crashes down onto

the sidewalk.

The story of Clémentine and Marco is about a

Canadian girl, who moved to Rome to study

performing arts. Then she met a sweet Italian

guy and she fell in love.

But then the girl found another love:

Theater. This new love took almost all her

time and her heart, making the Italian boy feel

neglected.

Marco, in a clumsy attempt to regain Clém's

attention, began to flirt with Virginie, one of

his girl's best friends.

Clémentine found out in the most hurtful

way; she saw them in a moment of

uncontrolled lust. So Clém returned to her

apartment and threw the television set out of

the window, because it was a gift from her

disloyal boyfriend. She also threw away her

love and her trust.

Curled up in bed with Clém, I stroke her hair

until she falls asleep.

Then I quietly leave her room to call Ivan.

“What can we do?” He asks me.

“Come over tomorrow. Keep her company.

Cheer her up,” I answer.

“Sure. We can have a
resurrection
party.

What about you?”

“There's something I have to take care of.

Then I'll get junk food for our party. A lot of

junk food.”

“Sweet. We'll bring wine.”

“Seriously?”

“Fine. We'll bring beer.”

After the phone-call I begin to tremble. It is

a sort of coldness that blooms within my core,

then it unfurls and crawls underneath my skin

I'm unable to dispel it. I take a hot shower, I

wear my warmest sweats, I hide under a

mountain of blankets, but nothing works.

The ice bites my heart and marks it with

hurtful words.

He doesn't love me anymore
.

As soon as I emerge from the darkness of the

subway, the sun blinds me and I shield my eyes

with my hand. I stand for several moments in a

semi-blind status, drowning in the crowd and

in the bright light.

I don't feel anything.

In truth, I haven't really felt anything in a

long time. I've been walking on numb feet

since the day I stole the kiss from Eagan, and I

ran away.

I'm crumbling; food tastes like ash, there's

the constant feeling of icy fingers worming

under my skin, and my love for music is fading

away. Without Eagan in my life I am a frozen

pond reflecting the sun, but never absorbing

its heat.

I drop my hand and I stare up at the

Colosseum; my resilient giant, with its

numerous arched windows open to the world

and all that comes with it: Sorrow, pain, joy.

And still it stands.

I find a grassy spot, where I can sit. I dig my

phone out of the front pocket of my jeans and

I send a message to Eagan, asking him to join

me for lunch.

I want the Colosseum to witness my small

act of courage. I'm going to be honest with

Eagan. I hope he'll understand. I hope I can

save our friendship.

Eagan's answer arrives almost immediately.

He's coming right away. I check the time on my

phone screen; it's the middle of the day.

The turf is humid. My legs are cold. My

jeans don't seem to offer any protection. I'm

wearing a black T-shirt, but it appears to

deflect the warmth of the spring sun, instead

of holding it in.

I need a distraction. I look around and focus

my attention on the tourists. They're speaking,

their lips move, but I can't hear them. The rush