Page 83 of Alone With You in the Ether

He was quiet for a second.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked her.

He was really asking, not like Marc. Not Marc, who’d “You up?”-ed her just the other night, making her feel dirty again, like a relapse. Aldo wasn’t Marc. He wasn’t like her friends, either, who would have asked her the same thing, only they would have been sarcastic when they said it. He wasn’t like anyone she’d known before, not like anyone who expected her to be a certain way. Not like all the people she’d been shielding him from, not for his sake but for hers, afraid he’d come to understand what she really was, what she’d been for years, what she’d always been. Afraid, always afraid, that this was still some splintered version of pretend, that she was only crafting a new version for him when she wanted to believe she was really herself. Afraid that now she was Aldo’s Regan, which meant that Aldo’s Regan could fade into obscurity; that her honesty with him was just another version of a lie.

“I want you to expect—no, I want you todemand,” she amended. “I want you to demand things from me, to tell me to make this work, to force me if you have to. I want you to bet on me, Aldo. I want you to make investments, I want your future.” The last part slipped out. “I want your future, Aldo. I want it for me.”

He glanced down at her, somewhere between surprise and understanding. The place that looked like amusement, but was really satisfaction.

“Okay,” he said.

Then he stroked her hair once, gently, and she thought:

Rinaldo Damiani knows how to love me, and I didn’t even think to put it on the list.

Aldo was never bothered by tedium, by the pained exit from LAX and the trudging and the monotony and the traffic, when he was doing it alone. Now, with Regan at his side, he was constantly making apologies, tripping over himself to reassure her—I’m sure our bags will be here soon, sorry the taxi line is so long, are you okay, are you hungry? My dad will feed us, I’m sure he won’t even stop to breathe before he’s shoving food at you, here taste this taste this—but thankfully she was in a good mood, smiling. Reassuring him; I don’t mind waiting, Aldo, everything’s fine, I can’t wait to see where you grew up. Her gaze drifted out the window across unfamiliar streets and she was quiet, unusually so, but her fingers slid across the backseat to find his, squeezing his hand.

“Are you—?”

“I’m happy, Aldo, everything is great, don’t worry about me. Don’t think so much,” and a kiss to his temple before she turned her gaze out the window again.

The drive seemed longer, the distance further, the traffic noisier. Everyone was honking and it stung Aldo’s ears. He checked Regan’s expression frequently, constantly, relieved to find a placid, pensive smile on her face as she wondered out her window, but then checking again just to be sure he wouldn’t miss it if it faded. Just to make sure he could fix it the moment an unpleasant thought crossed her mind, which it didn’t, but just in case it did, he never left her. She must have felt his eyes on her; she turned and kissed him twice, then shoved his face away.

“What are you so worried about?”

“You,” he said.

“Well, don’t.”

He didn’t have any reason to, either. They went first to his house, which he worried would be cramped and diminutive compared to hers, but she exclaimed over the intimacy of it, How cozy, Aldo, I love it, I love this. You really grew up here, just you and your dad? Yes, me and Masso, and my nonna was here often. Sweet, Aldo, really sweet, I love it, another kiss to his cheek, to his mouth, a tug at his belt loops. Now? Yes, now, she whispered into his mouth, I already behaved myself so well, five entire hours on the plane I didn’t touch you. She pulled him into his bed, the bed from his high school years, Did you sleep with anyone here? Yes, I wasn’t the perfect son and I didn’t always slink away behind the bleachers. The sun was streaming in, blinding him a little as she pulled off her shirt and twisted around to remove her bra. She climbed on top of him, pinned his shoulders down, whispered to him:

“I’m going to replace those memories, Aldo. I’m taking them back for me.”

It was quick, rushed, like scratching an itch. He’d promised his father they’d be there for lunch and they hurried to re-dress themselves, him fixing her hair and her adjusting his collar, reapplying her lipstick. You sure Masso will like me? Masso will love you, come here.

His father, true to form, was ecstatic to see them, rushing around half-shouting, Remember my son, I told you about my son Rinaldo, the mathematician? Oh, the genius, actually, Regan corrected with a laugh, and Masso radiated with pleasure. I’m happy he has a smart girl, finally someone who can keep up with him. How do you know I’m smart? Oh, I know, I can tell, you have a look about you.

“Aldo, I have alookabout me,” Regan echoed, preening with her hand in his.

Yes, I know, I saw it first. “Dad,” Aldo sighed, “you’re going to spoil her, aren’t you?”

“Regan, do you like mushrooms? Truffles?”

“Yes, I love it all, I’ll eat anything—”

“She won’t, Dad, she’s lying, go easy on her—”

“Be quiet, Rinaldo, the adults are talking.”

For nearly an hour Aldo was silent with relief, so enraptured and filled with satisfaction he could hardly say a word. Regan, by contrast, was chatty and exuberant, waving her fork around, telling Masso this and that and this.

“He’s the worst model, really, he moves around all the time—”

“Same when he was a boy, always moving, impossible to tell him to sit still.”

“Yes! But look at him.” Her smile was bright, teasing. “I can’t help it, I have to put him on paper, just to make sure he’s really real.”

They parted as Masso prepared for the dinner shift, promising to bring home more of the cheeses Regan had liked from lunch and telling her where to find the good wine. Don’t let Aldo pick it out, his tastes are too sweet and also make him cook or take her out, make sure she didn’t lift a finger. Aldo, who protested that of course he would never put her to work, was cheerfully ignored.

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