Page 15 of Third Degree

As we strolled together, she broke the tension with quirky questions like my favorite candy, what I did for a living, if I actually enjoyed it, and even my all-time favorite movie. Those simple, everyday queries had slipped off my radar, lost in the comfort of my long marriage with Bea. We never really delved into such topics.

But now, with Gianna, it felt like a breath of fresh air, like uncovering the missing pieces of a captivating puzzle. It was an exciting departure from the mundane of day-to-day life, even though we both knew it wasn’t really a date.

I saw the road to the street that led down to my house. From the path, you could see the home illuminated in the night sky. For a brief moment, I thought about lying to extend our walk, but it was already late.

“This is me,” I responded, gesturing to where my house stood.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, a mix of sadness and shock crossing her features. Her lower lip jutted out ever so slightly.

And then I did something that was wholly unexpected.

“Do you want to come in for a drink?” Shit, she’s not even able to drink legally. “Water or something?” I added.

“Water sounds nice.” She folded her hands across her chest and looked up at me with hopeful deep-brown eyes.

We walked down the street to my house. Nutella bounded through the garden, illuminated by various fairy lights, her hair flopping around.

“These are so beautiful.” She drifted her hands around the gardening boxes.

“I have… insomnia,” I confessed to her. “It’s why I like to garden in the evenings if I can, so I installed these girly fucking lights so I can see. And fuck, if they don’t make the place look good too.”

“Oh yeah, because you’re old, you probably have vision problems,” she quipped. I loved watching the sides of her mouth turn up into the same infectious smile from earlier. One that it seemed like she didn’t often get to wear.

I laughed, and she grabbed my arm and tugged on it in jest, but the moment her sweet, soft skin touched my own, I knew we both felt the magnetism pulsating through us.

“I am—”

“Inside?” We both said the same time before she followed me into the house.

Her eyes widened in awe. “This is beautiful! Wow. I wasn’t expecting how cozy it would feel in here.”

She walked around the family room and ran her hand along the edge of the couch. I walked into the connecting kitchen to pull out two glasses, pouring water for her and gin for myself because I would need something stronger to mask the fact that there was a woman inside my house.

“Are these your boys?” she asked from across the room.

I walked over to where she was standing, seeing a photo of the four of us when the boys were in middle school. We were on the beach just in front of the house.

As I glanced at the photo and then back at her, I expected a surge of conflicting emotions to flood over me, yet none surfaced.

Surprisingly, there was a serene tranquility in the way Gianna observed the picture. She didn’t respond with the exaggerated empathy or sorrow that most people did when confronted with a photograph of a deceased loved one. In that moment, I found solace, realizing that she understood without the need for excessive displays of sympathy.

“Yup, that was years ago,” I replied, my voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and acceptance.

Gianna’s hand gently glided along my shoulder, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake before she continued her journey through the room. There was something indescribable about her, something that defied conventional words and notions. Her caring nature was evident, not through overt gestures but in the quiet strength of her presence—a presence that exuded a soothing comfort, like a balm for the soul.

She sat down at one end of the couch and pulled her feet up under her. I loved the way she felt at home and comfortable here. It was as if she was already meant to be.

“What’re your plans for yourself after you head back to Chicago?” I inquired, aware of her temporary presence in our town.

“God, don’t even get me started,” she exclaimed, frustration evident in her voice. “According to my parents, I am destined to get married and become the perfect stay-at-home wife.” Her words resonated with me, reflecting a familiar narrative in the culture I grew up in. Though she appeared Italian, I knew it was a mere coincidence.

“And is that not what you want?” I probed further, genuinely intrigued by her desires.

“No,” she declared, throwing her hands up in defiance. “I crave freedom. The opportunity to explore, to immerse myself in new experiences. I want to tend to my garden like an old lady. I want to read books until the sun dips into the horizon. I want to figure out… me.” A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her gaze fixated on the glass she held in her hands.

As her eyes lifted to meet mine, I detected a veil of sadness shrouding the amber depths. The weight of her unfulfilled dreams seemed to press upon her soul.

“You deserve more than to be a mere trophy in someone else’s life,” I murmured, my voice laced with a mixture of sincerity and allure. “You are meant to be the protagonist of your story, not a supporting character in someone else’s narrative, even if that is your family. Embrace your independence, explore the world, and discover the depths of your desires. Let your spirit soar, unencumbered by societal expectations. Be unapologetically you, and the world will kneel before your radiance.”

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