“When we’re done with this journey, I’ll answer any question you have. But this isn’t about me.”
“Like I’ll remember in twenty years.”
“I assure you that, if in six months you don’t feel like this is worth it, I will refer you on.”
“Or I could just ask Brisa.”
“I can’t discuss my other clients, and as I told your parents, if you feel there is a conflict of interest, then I can refer you on.”
“So, you can’t tell me how badly I’ve ruined her life and tell me how to fix it?”
“No one’s life is ever ruined to the point that they can’t be helped, Tris. They just have to want to get better.”
“How long did it take you to get better?”
“Ask me that when you know it’s time. Until then, how about you and I talk about what you need to make things easier as you continue on your recovery?”
“It’s not cancer,” I huff.
“And that shows me, under all the sarcasm and attempted manipulation, there lies hope, and hope makes me want to do a happy dance.” She pushes back in her chair.
“If you start dancing, I’m ending this session.”
She laughs. “Setting boundaries. I like it.”
We spend the late afternoon at the Golden Triangle of Art, visiting the Prado Museum, the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte, and the Museo Nacional, where I internally judge each piece and give each artist a mental health diagnosis.
Oddly, but not surprisingly, Momma Joe is better at the game than I am.
Currently, we are waiting for our food to come so we can stuff our faces then head back to the hotel.
“I was thinking maybe we could fly home for a couple days and, like, watch one of Amias’s games and maybe like just chill before the last concert there?”
Her face nearly splits in half, her smile is so big. “Of course, Tris, anything you want to do, as long as it’s relaxing.”
When my phone vibrates, we are interrupted with a text message. I wish I left it uncharged, as I normally do.
I expect it to be from my parents or sibling, or worse—and the real reason I hate to have my phone charged—a message from an “unknown” number.
Marcello finds ways to torment me via spoof numbers. Sometimes he’s less obvious; others are blatant. Add to that social media notifications and alerts, and it’s a wonder I’m even sane half the time.
When I look at the screen, I cringe.
Unknown Number.
If I have to see you getting face-fucked by rando’s fucking face, you get the same. Love is a war, one that you started, and I will win. (black rose emoji) ~ M.E.
M.E.. Even his initials are arrogant and asshole-ish.
Another pops up.
The painter/sculptor, Matteo Arias, fucks you, get that he has no preference. You’re but a hole. I will destroy him and you. (black rose emoji) ~ M.E.
I can’t help but send one back, which is why I hate this fucking phone and, yes, my lack of impulse control. A destructive tool in my hands …
I offered. He declined due to my age. Matteo has been a perfect gentleman. And you want to call out sexuality? You pretended to fuck a lesbian. (Middle finger emoji) ~ Not yours
Lesbian or not, she was a curious creature, and she looked a lot like this. (black rose emoji) ~ M.E.
A picture of a girl on her knees in front of him, obviously giving him head, pops up. It makes me sick.
The phone is snatched from my hands.
“Momma Joe …” I warn as she looks at the screen, appalled. Then she starts tapping the screen.
“Momma Joe, just—”
I’m cut off as she holds out the phone. “You listen to me, Marcello Effisto—”
“Oh my God,” Marcello squeaks.
“Are you recording me again?” a female voice asks.
“Have some dignity and get up,” Momma Joe snaps.
“Momma Joe.” I reach for the phone.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask as I look at him for the first time in months.
“Jesus, Tris, did you really have to—”
“Let me apologize.” I smile tightly, flip him the bird with one hand, and then hit end call with my thumb.
“I’ve never in my life felt so murderous.”
“Yeah, well, I have.”
“I should call his parents and—”
As if on cue, the waiter brings our food. “Let’s eat and”—I hold up the phone and show her the screen as I press block—“not worry about him again.”
I see how much this whole thing affects her. I feel guilty that she saw what she did and ashamed she knows what he and no one else besides my parents and his—Marcello—know.
“Don’t you let that little bastard drag you down that rabbit hole, Tris. Don’t you do that when you have come so far.”
“I won’t.” I fake-smile as I look down at the food that no longer looks appetizing.
“Bella regazza,” she says sadly. “You are—”
“Un-fuck him, Momma Joe. He can go to hell.”
She giggles, and I look up, surprised.
“Face-first into an HPV infestation.”
I smile genuinely. “Definitely.”
I look at my phone.
“Unless you’re going to text someone who loves you, or a friend, do not do it.” She points her fork at me.
“Good idea.”
I quickly scroll past messages that I have yet to read but will most definitely read, because holy shit, I thought mine were obsessive—he has sent just as many—and type out a thank you.
Thank you for bringing the card by. My apologies for not replying to the text messages and making you go out of your way. My phone was not charged. ~ Tris
The jumping dots tells me that he’s typing back, and the fact that it’s immediate makes me smile. Maybe he really does want to be my friend.
Thank you for falling asleep, your head to my chest. I should apologize for drifting with you, but I won’t. Your friend, Matteo
Oh, well, he likes sleeping with me at least. I mean, it’s just sleeping, but that’s actually the good part, the calming down, the feeling of being warm and safe.
Another message pops up while I reread the last.
Some people you meet and know it was more than just an encounter. Poems are written about it, art is made in its glory, songs sung due to happenstances. Your messages were sent with urgency. Mine is with trust in something deeper. O ~ Matteo
“Ohmygod,” I whisper.
“Something tells me snatching the phone right now to save you from a tyrant isn’t necessary?” Momma Joe asks, and I look up and smile. “Matteo?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah.” I allow myself to smile.
“Let’s eat, and then, if we don’t get too tired, we hit one more museum, yes?”
I nod, scrolling through his texts, smiling at his words and the fact that some of them are clearly translated wrong, like he thinks bipolar was.
“Bipolar?” he had said, holding out his phone to show me, seemingly proud of himself.
Yes, Matteo Arias, yes, I think so.
I wonder if he can handle all my ugly truths.
If he truly thinks he wants to be friends, I better make sure he knows the truth about me. Otherwise, he will be like everyone else and just know “surface Tris,” and I don’t want that, not at all.