Page 82 of A Winter in New York

I feel like ananimal in a lair. I washed my face and brushed my teeth in the tiny cloakroom sink this morning, but I feel crumpled and stiff, half alive. I’ve been out for supplies, skulking around like a fugitive even though the place is still deserted. The street outside was too, just a dog walker in sight when I ventured across to the bodega on the corner early this morning. Their bacon, egg, and cheese roll was my breakfast, and I’ve stocked up on enough to get me through for a day or two. I know I can’t stay here any real length of time, but I don’t seem to be able to form a plan. My brain feels as if it’s surrounded with cotton wool, muffled and unable to think beyond the next half an hour. I’ve been sleeping, or trying to, and I’ve been remembering, or trying not to. Florida doesn’t appeal, despite Felipe’s recommendation. L.A. doesn’t appeal either—my mother didn’t find any happiness there and I’ve no reason to imagine I would either. I’m definitely not going back to London, I know that much. For today, and maybe for tomorrow, I’ll lie low here and hope my mind unfogs enough to work something out. I feel like a person on the cusp of falling. I see how homelessness can happen, how easily people can fall through the cracks when they don’t have other people around them to watch their backs. I’m not going to be homeless, I won’t let myself fall that low, but I understand the downward plummet, how easy it is to feel transient, and it’s sobering.

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It’s been another dayand another night, according to my watch and my aching bones. I have to get out of this place today. I’ve decided to leave behind the things I can’t easily carry, my gelato maker and other bits I won’t need immediately, and then try to contact Felipe when I get myself set up somewhere and have him send them on to me. I hate the thought of leaving my stuff, my gelato machine most of all, but it’s the only way I can face getting myself moving today. I feel at my lowest ebb, physically incapable of lugging my things through the snow.

I hear the lift doors out in the main hallway rumble open and sit perfectly still, even though there isn’t a realistic chance of anyone having discovered I’m here and coming to turf me out for breaking the rules. My heart pounds all the same as I hear heavy footfalls, and then I suck in a sharp breath because someone is shouting my name and banging on random doors.

“Iris! Iris, where are you?”

A key fumbles in the lock of my door and then it’s yanked up, and Gio stands framed in the opening and stares at me. I feel so many emotions crash over my head, I want to put my hands up as a cage to hold them off. Humiliated by the state of me. Embarrassed that I’ve been sleeping in a storage unit. Full of self-hatred for the letter I wrote him, and frightened. Not of him. I’m frightenedforhim, because he looks like hell.

“Gio.” I say his name because it’s all I’m capable of, and he shakes his head and holds his hand up to stop me speaking.

“I don’t believe this,” he mutters, his eyes running all overthe unit, taking in my temporary home. “This stops right now, do you hear me?”

We stare at each other, and a tear of temper rolls down his face and breaks my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing I’m crying too when I taste salt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Just get your stuff,” he says, and when I don’t move, can’t move, he does it instead, grabbing my things and shoving them into bags. “I mean it, Iris, get your stuff. Is this yours?” He holds up my pillow. “This?”

I’ve never seen anyone contain so much tension in their body. He looks in pain from it.

He picks things up at random, Felipe’s clothes, I think, and I shake my head, mortified, not knowing what to do or say.

“There’s a cab outside and you’re going to get in it. It’s going to take you back to the noodle house, where you’re going to unpack your stuff and sleep in your own bed like a grown-up, do you hear me?” He dashes a hand over his eyes, furious at his own tears, and at me.

“You’ll have a fridge and running water and you’ll be safe.” He turns away from me as he chokes the last word out and thumps the metal shutters hard, a harsh noise that reverberates around the quiet building.

I stand up and go to him, put my hand on his rigid shoulder.

“Gio,” I say, my mouth trembling with tears. “Gio.”

He turns to me and he’s in such a mess that we just hold each other, hard, and rock each other, because we’re so very wounded.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Stop apologizing,” he says. “Just stop. I can’t hear it today.”

He grips me by the shoulders and stares down at me. “You never have to run from me,” he says, his voice raw and ragged. “Do you get that? I’m so fucking mad at you I can’t think straight, but I’d never hurt a hair on your stupid, stubborn, beautiful head.”

He lets go of me and pushes his hands through his hair and then sits down heavily on the sofa. I sit on the other end, my hands pressed hard against my mouth, trying to pull myself together.

“I’ve spent the past two days thinking about you, and about Penny, and about Bella…” He looks sideways at me, still struggling to speak. “My daughter. For fuck’s sake, Iris. She should never have been caught up in this shit.”

There isn’t anything I can say to make it okay. I feel empty of any words anyway.

“Just go home,” he says, weary. “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re safe. Go home and get some proper rest.”

He picks my bags up and waits while I put my coat on and turn everything off, then we catch the elevator down onto the sidewalk, too exhausted to speak to each other. There’s a cab, just as he said, and he puts my stuff in and then turns to me, his expression bleak.

“If this thing between us is over, then we say goodbye properly.” He swallows hard and looks away down the deserted, cold street. “Take a few days. Look after yourself better than this.” He gestures toward the storage building and sighs. “I need some time to get my head straight, okay? I’llcome to your apartment on New Year’s Eve, and we’ll treat each other kindly, because I care about you too damn much for it to end on a sidewalk like this.”

I nod and get into the car, because I don’t know how to say goodbye properly to Gio Belotti. Not on this sidewalk today, in my apartment on New Year’s Eve, or ever.

36.

Ido as he’s asked. Ilet myself back into my apartment and drop my bags by the front door, and I stand in the quiet cold space I didn’t think I’d see again. I don’t know if it feels like failure or reprieve. I make tea and put the heating on, and I let the cat in when he appears on the fire escape. I go through the motions until I strip off and stand under the hot shower, and then it finally gets me. All of it. My mother’s death. Adam. The Belottis. Gio. I sit on the floor and wrap my arms around my knees, and the last three years swirl around me as if I’m surrounded by IMAX screens. Words and memories. Black dresses at funerals, kisses on rooftops, painted glass doors,MoonstruckMonday nights, vacuuming the same room three times, terrified I’d missed something, singing in the park, Maria’s perfume, Sophia’s curls, Bella’s fragile hands on piano keys, streets full of houses covered in Christmas lights, my mother looking into my eyes as she laughs down the lens. They all slide and clash against each other, jumbled and discordant, and I close my eyes and lay my forehead on my knees, battle weary.

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