A Veil of Glass and Rain (8 page)

When I was thirteen Eagan gave me the blue

guitar, so I asked my parents if I could take

lessons. My father found me a private teacher.

The teacher was young and enthusiastic. After

six months he declared me a “real talent” and

sent an email to my ever absent parents,

telling them that I absolutely had to attend a

good music school.

After my entry exam, the music school

professors decided to place me in an advanced

class. They also made me take piano and

singing classes. My parents, Eagan and his

parents were all positively surprised and

supportive.

For me it was perfect; not because I wanted

to become a musician, but because I was

starved for attention, and all of a sudden I had

plenty from the people I loved the most.

Eventually, life interfered and took their

focus away from me. So I had to face concerts

and performances alone, with only emails and

phone calls to encourage me.

When I turned sixteen, I decided that I'd had

enough. Eagan, of course, was the first one I

informed about my decision.

At the time, he was still attending university

in New York.

I didn't want to send him an email, but I also

didn't want to see his disappointed expression

on the screen of my computer, so I called him

on his cell phone.

“What? Why?” He asked.

“I'm tired. And it's not fun anymore,” I

explained.

“But you're so good!”

“How do you know? You've never been to

any of my performances.” My parents have,

and your parents have, I thought, but I didn't

voice my real feelings, for I wasn't searching

for a fight, I was looking for support.

“You're right. I'm so sorry, kitty-cat.”

“It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Don't say that. When is your next concert?”

“My
last
concert will be in July.”

“That's perfect. I'll be traveling across

Europe with some friends for the entire

summer. We'll be in Tuscany for a few days. I

can make a detour and come to your concert.”

Warm pleasure jolted throughout my skin

and my heart leaped. “Really?”

“Yes. You have to promise not to quit music

school, though,” he added.

“Fine. If you make it, I will not quit.”

He didn't make it, because his train was

delayed.

I found him outside the auditorium at the

end of the concert. I was wearing a yellow

sundress and clutching the handle of my guitar

case. Eagan offered to carry it for me, but I

shook my head, for he was already bearing the

weight of his huge backpack.

A part of me was glad he hadn't been able

to hear me play. The piece I had chosen was

an acoustic cover of one of my favorite rock

songs. The acoustic version was utterly

sentimental; it expressed perfectly the way I

felt about Eagan. After my performance, all

my professors and fellow students admitted

that they'd never heard me play with so much

feeling. I wasn't certain I wanted Eagan to

discover that part of my soul yet.

We embraced awkwardly. I noticed that his

eyes were red and tired. I also remarked that

he was tanned and that he smelled good, as

always. Of course, I didn't reveal my

sentiments.

It was a bright summer day. We went to a

park, we sat, we didn't talk much. After a

while, Eagan lay back and fell asleep.

I watched him rest for a few moments, then

I reclined alongside him. I placed my body very

close to his, so that I could feel his heat

through the thin cotton of my dress. His

handsome face was turned toward me and his

lips were slightly parted. Flecks of gold dotted

his beard stubble and his dark blond hair.

I braced one of my hands on his arm and the

other one on his muscled chest, then I leaned

toward his face, keeping my eyes open. I let

my mouth linger over his and breathed his

breath then, finally, I whispered a kiss across

the side of his mouth, then I licked his upper

lip. I waited. He didn't stir. So I closed my eyes

and brushed his lips with mine once more. I

became greedy. My tongue pressed between

his parted lips and stroked his tongue once,

twice and then again until I moaned and an

unbearable ache surged between my legs.

My fingers gripped his sweaty T-shirt. I kept

kissing Eagan until he groaned softly in his

sleep.

“I love you,” I murmured against his lips.

I moved away from him. I forced myself to

stand, I grabbed my guitar case and I left.

On the bus, I kept licking my lips; I tasted

him, the salt of his sweat, and a hint of

cinnamon.

I had kissed only two guys before Eagan; one

was a classmate in junior-high, the other one

was a student in my piano class. I didn't enjoy

those kisses.

Eagan's kiss, instead, even if he hadn't really

kissed me back, made me feel all trembly and

aroused.

After the summer we drifted apart. I wasn't

able to face him. I couldn't be his friend any

longer, for my feelings were corrupted; I

desired him too much.

Avoiding him was the easiest choice.

During the following years I kissed and slept

with numerous guys. I desperately wanted to

erase the taste of Eagan from my lips and to

remove his scent from my skin.

It didn't work.

When I turned eighteen my parents threw

me a big party. Bea and Arthur came, and so

did Eagan. He was accompanied by Felia and

her older brother, Neal; David's siblings.

The absence of David was a manifest entity,

and I feared Eagan's anguish and detachment.

All I received, however, was his sweet

attention. We joked and laughed. His smile

was genuine, while mine was a bit forced.

Even after two years spent apart my body

responded to his. My nipples were constantly

hard and my core pulsed painfully. It was a

torturing party.

Eagan asked me about my plans after

graduation, and I told him that I wanted to go

to Rome and study cinema.

He took my hand then, and leaned toward

me. “I'll run after you, kitty-cat.”

At the time I didn't want to believe him, but

my body did, for afterward I wasn't capable of

enjoying the touch of any other guy. My body

longed only for the promise of Eagan's taste

and scent.

9.

Imagination and desire bleed into my memory,

creating a lust spell that is driving my mind

and my senses wild.

I'm in the park with Eagan. I'm wearing the

yellow sundress, but I'm not sixteen, I'm

twenty; my breasts and my hips are a little

more rounded, and my hair is longer.

Eagan is not the guy from the past, but the

man of today.

When I kiss him, he kisses me back. As our

tongues touch, we both moan. He rolls on top

of me. His weight rests on his forearms, so as

not to crush me. I wrap my arms around his

neck and dig my fingers in his skin. I try to

pull him to me, because I need to sense his

warmth, as I feel cold. Eagan doesn't allow it,

though. So I deepen the kiss; he tastes like

the sun, like cinnamon and something else

that it's just him. It's delicious. My body bows

with pleasure.

Eagan breaks our kiss and pants against my

parted lips, “Like this, kitty-cat?”

He pushes my legs apart with his knee and

grinds his
thigh against my sex. The material

of his jeans, the soft cotton of my dress and

the lace of my panties create a pleasing

torment and a sweet friction. I cry out into his

open mouth, as he rubs his leg against my

groin again and again.

“Let go,” he whispers.

My fingers curl tightly into his hair. “I

can't.”

He licks my lips. “Say
yes
, Brina.”

“Yes.”

I bury my groan of pleasure into my pillow. I

shove my memory, mingled with desire, out of

my mind.

PMS really sucks. I already have cramps. I

feel sad, weak and horny. It's the second day

I've been spending in bed. I leave my room only

to get water and use the bathroom.

Before leaving the house this morning, my

sweet friend Clém has left cupcakes and, once

again, a pasta salad in the fridge for me,. I'll

try to eat something tonight, when she

returns, to give her some peace of mind.

Just thinking about food makes my stomach

lurch.

Unpleasant images spin and chase one

another in my head.

The argument with Eagan, about my

decision to quit music school, is making me

question everything. I'm majoring in cinema,

but I don't really know what I want to become;

a director, an editor, a music composer. The

options are numerous. But I can't even decide

a topic for a paper. If I don't make up my

mind, my friends will leave me behind. It's

already happening. Clém will become a

theater director. The twins will be musicians,

or music professors, or both. Even Marco,

who's always so relaxed, is already writing and

shooting his own films and sending them to

various festivals. They all have plans.

And then there's Eagan, who wanted to be

an artist and restore paintings. He's an

architect now, which is not exactly the same

thing, but it involves drawing and creating, so

it's pretty close to what he planned.

If I were a kid, I would be thrilled to have

Eagan so close to me; I would be eager to

meet his new friends and be a part of his new

life. I feel scared instead. I'm certain it will

break me to see him in a serious relationship,

and know that I'm not his family anymore.

These are all glum images, but I'm unable to

drive them away. I force my eyes to open. I

stare into the semi-darkness for a while, then I

turn onto my side to stare at my closed

curtains. I bought them in a popular flea

market called
Porta Portese
.

The curtains remind me of the ocean,

because their color is neither blue, nor green;

it's something in between. They dance slowly

in front of my tired eyes like waves of the sea.

I want to fall asleep again, but I'm afraid of

what my memory and my imagination will

invoke.

I can't resist. I close my eyes.

“Brina.”

Eagan's voice and his gentle touch on my

shoulder startle me awake. My vision is

blurred with speckles of green and blue light. I

blink rapidly until Eagan's handsome face

comes into focus. He's sitting on my bed and

he's smiling down at me.

“Are you real?” I ask sleepily.

He laughs softly. “Yes.”

I sit up and wrap my arms around is neck.

He hugs me back without any hesitation.

“What are you doing here?” He smells so

good and he's so warm.

“Your friend Clém called me.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She found my number on your

phone. She told me about, you know, your

cramps,” he explains.

“Guys normally stay away from girls in my

particular condition,” I mutter against the

hollow of his neck.

“I'm fearless,” he says.

“Shouldn't you be working?”

“You're more important.”

“I'm fine.”

“You want me to go?”

I tremble and hold him tighter. “No.”

“Good. Lie back down. I'll keep you warm.”

I do as he instructs, while observing him as

he toes off his shoes, and then he bends over

to yank off his socks.

A big part of me still believes that this is a

dream. But it all becomes very real as he

reclines on my bed and makes me turn onto my

side, so that he can position his body along

mine. He covers us both with my blanket, then

he links his arm around my waist and pulls me

back against his broad chest.

“Your friend really thought about

everything. She left her spare key under the

doormat for me,” he says. His breath tickles

my nape.