Page 79 of These Thin Lines

As the metal latch turned several times, she pushed the door open, and the scent of verbena wrapped itself around her, bringing solace. The apartment filled her senses, and Vi sighed quietly next to her, leaning heavily on the wall, seemingly unable to move.

“C’mon, one foot in front of the other…” Chiara took both of Vi’s hands in her own, carefully pulling her along as one does a skittish animal.

Despite having been here just once the night before, the apartment felt familiar and comfortable. Chiara found the bedroom without really trying, another door, this one painted bright yellow, leading her to a queen-sized bed, pristinely made with the comforter pulled over it tightly. Even as she guided Vi in, slowly lowering her onto the mattress, Chiara peripherally imagined bouncing a coin off it and wondered who had taught Vi such precision, until her mind screeched to a halt in the understanding that this must have been Vi’s life. Either the vestiges of the myriad of boarding schools, or her father…

She knelt in front of Vi, who sat on the very edge of the bed, unmoving, as if afraid to mess it up, and Chiara’s heart squeezed as she reached for the laces on the polished Oxfords. One foot, then the other, just as she’d instructed earlier, and Vi still sat like a doll, following her movements with those haunted eyes, silent.

“Vi…” She trailed off, completely unsure about what she could say. Her mother had been disappointed in her. Lived that way and had died that way, leaving Chiara with enormous guilt and a lifetime of therapy bills.

Still, Chiara had been loved. No matter how much pain was in those eyes, they’d never looked at her daughter with anger. Sadness, yes, but never this much hatred. Chiara’s mother bore her disappointment like a weight that ultimately sunk her, like the waters of Lake Como, but she had never been cruel. This specific, very targeted viciousness that rendered one paralyzed in humiliation and despair.

So while Chiara understood what had happened between Vi and her parents for what it was, she could not comprehend the scars it left. And so she didn’t know what to say, how to alleviate whatever was eating at Vi and had left her nearly catatonic.

“Vi… I’m so sorry.” Useless words were falling from her mouth, even as her hands rose to caress the still-so-pale face, thumbs tracing the gaunt cheeks in an attempt to bring some color to them, even as her own desperation at seeing Vi like this clawed at her.

She thought perhaps she should be stronger. More indifferent, apathetic even. After all, this woman had betrayed her before. But Chiara had no such strength and no such skill as to turn away and leave.

They watched each other, amber on ash, and then a tear trembled on Vi’s lashes as she finally blinked and it was set free, rolling slowly down the tender cheek. Before it had a chance to reach Chiara’s fingers, she rose up and kissed it away, her lips lingering on the cold skin.

The gesture set something off in Vi, because suddenly more tears sprang from eyes that no longer looked empty, but instead so full of longing, it took Chiara’s breath away.

“Stay with me.” Barely a whisper among the wretched sobs. Still, Chiara understood and Vi seemed to be completely unaware she’d even uttered the words as she rolled into a ball on the edge of the bed and buried her face in a pillow, weeping in earnest now.

Goddess… How could she refuse? How could she leave her in such despair? Chiara took off her shoes and climbed in bed from the opposite side, this once becoming the big spoon. She held the shuddering body against her chest, absorbing all the grief and all the pain, murmuring nonsensical words of consolation as the ragged sobs tapered off into whimpers that slowly subsided as Vi’s breathing leveled.

Chiara stayed the night, her eyes unfocused, staring at the dark ceiling reflecting the shadows from the busy Greenwich Village street below, and wondered why she had never quite shaken off this emotion that lived in her chest. Why, despite all her attempts to stop, she had always been in love with Vi Courtenay, although she’d only truly trusted her for a single night and paid dearly for it.

She should probably be surprised by the revelation. Sigh or cry or laugh. Do something to mark this momentous occasion.

But Chiara was tired. And spent. Vi’s breakdown somehow seeping under her skin and taking everything out of her, stripping everything bare and leaving only the realization that, despite the years and the pain, Chiara loved Vi.

And what would it mean to allow herself to quit those, at best, feeble attempts to exorcize herself from this feeling, and simply let it be? As she had once before on that rooftop.

Could you walk into the same river twice? And if you did, would the waters be the same? Would they carry you to the same end?

* * *

The next morning,she chose to walk towards the townhouse on Mercer Street.

Her thoughts were buzzing inside her head, angry bees that had been disturbed in their routine, and so she’d asked the cab driver to drop her off several blocks away, to try to sort through everything that was on her mind and through the emotions rolling in her chest.

As she approached, she noticed a figure sitting on the stoop. Chiara realized that whoever said you should always expect more trouble so as to never be caught unawares, had been right. And she herself had been quite mistaken. Because this particular trouble, she had not expected.

Frankie Lilienfeld unfolded her long, leather-clad frame from the steps and leaned in, her face inches away from Chiara’s, smoke still playing on those smirking lips as she threw away an unfinished cigarette. Her voice, the lightly accented roughness of it, was harsher than Chiara remembered it when Frankie finally spoke.

“Hello, wife.”

21

IN A FARAWAY LAND OF UNWANTED CONVERSATIONS

Chiara Conti was exhausted. The previous night had left her emotionally battered, with Vi asleep in her arms, tears still drying on those haunted cheeks and Chiara’s heart responding with a painful contraction to each twitch and soft whimper Vi let out.

She’d looked forward to the morning; to an hour alone in her workshop, an hour to draw, to drink her cappuccino, to collect her thoughts, and to tuck away the scattered emotions that kept pulling her in all directions.

She was looking forward to making peace with her newly acquired knowledge that she was in love with Vi, and this was now something she would need to address, at least for herself.

Ideally, she would have liked to get all those things done before Vi and her team descended on Chiaroscuro for the long day of shooting and interviews.

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