Page 44 of Bitter Poetry

My food turns to dust in my mouth. I take a sip of wine to cover my difficulty swallowing. “It was a gift from my mother,” I lie. “I’ve not worn it for a long time. When I noticed it in my jewelry case tonight, I thought… I feel close to her wearing it.”

Please forgive me, Mama.

“That’s understandable.”

God, this is so awkward.

And dangerous.

What if someone saw Dante purchasing this? What if someone makes a connection and tells Ettore?

My vision is turning dark around the edges. I take another sip of the wine I don’t like and talk myself down from the brink of a panic attack. I’m being ridiculous. No one knows where the necklace came from. Only me, and now Jessica, and while she may be young and occasionally fiery, she would never intentionally or otherwise give me away.

My racing heart steadies.

But storm clouds are billowing on the metaphorical horizon. A sepia tint stains my once colorful world—a strange, ever-growing determination that my life is sliding into a dystopia. Dinners at home are equally awkward. Ettore joins us most evenings, where Jessica is barely civil, and Helena and her renovation plans dominate the conversation. The only upside is that Ettore barely tolerates his sister, and she distracts him from Jessica’s sniping comments.

Jessica doesn’t like him, and I’m not sure she ever will. But she’s always been indulged, and her life has given her no skills for hiding her feelings.

It’ll be better for her when she moves out. It won’t be better for me, but I’m a woman now so I have to act like one.

We try to go out regularly to see our father or just to do something normal. Except going out and doing something normal always involves Christian and that’s a double-edgedsword. Christian with his brown eyes that remind me of Dante, who calls me babe when no one is listening, and Mrs. Gallo the rest of the time.

On top of this boiling angst, Ettore has ripped my mother’s nature garden up and is building a huge garage in its place. And I don’t know why it makes me cry whenever I see it. It’s pretty trivial in the scheme of things.

But it does.

At least he has left her painting room in the attic alone. I might just lose my shit if he starts messing up there.

Holding onto the past isn’t healthy, but I’m not ready to embrace the changes yet.

Our wedding is in five days.The dress is ready. I don’t hate it, just what it represents. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up from this nightmare.

But I don’t.

I keep telling myself that I don’t have to trust Ettore, just my father’s trust in him, but that is getting harder the closer I get to the date. No amount of makeup can cover up the dark shadows under my eyes. I’m still grappling with the enormity of what has happened in such a short time. My mother is gone. My father’s moving out of the convalescent home and into a brownstone he’s having renovated to meet his new needs. My sister will have the entire top floor—I think she might even prefer it.

I would prefer to live there, too, given a choice.

I’ve only got five more days with Jessica.

The conversation that follows with Ettore is inane. He must check his cell phone twenty times. When we leave the restaurant and our driver takes us home, all I can think about is crawling into my bed.

His phone rings as we are pulling onto the drive. He answers it while I look longingly at the front door, thinking that this might be a good opportunity to make my escape.

“Yes, approved,” he says to whoever is on the line. “Keep me updated.”

When we exit the car, he’s smiling again.

Once we enter the home, he dismisses the driver and helps me out of my coat, his fingertips brushing over my shoulder and down my arm before he gathers my hand.

My head lifts slowly, almost reluctantly, to meet his eyes. An undercurrent settles between us, and apprehension crawls down my spine.

“You are so beautiful, Carmela.” He tips my chin and presses his lips to mine.

It isn’t horrible, but I have to resist the urge to flinch away.

He lifts his head, but his fingers linger against my skin. “I have something for you.” He leads me into his study. Leaving me in the center of the room where the plush rug is soft under my shoes, he rounds what was once Papa’s desk and returns with a slim jewelry case.