Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

I hear muffled voices, followed by soft laughter as two lovers make their way back into the hotel from the garden below. I watch as they weave through the cypress trees on the twirling path, stopping only to kiss. If you can’t be happy on the isle of Capri, I doubt there’s anyplace on earth you could be.

I go inside to my bedroom and pull the sheer draperies to the side, leaving the terrace doors open. I climb into bed and lie back on the pillows. The gauzy moonlight cuts a white path across my bed, like a bridal veil.

I put my hand on the pillow next to me and imagine Roman there. I can’t stay mad at him, and I don’t want to. Maybe I had too much to drink and the island alcohol triggered my forgiveness. Maybe I want romance more than acrimony. Whatever it is, I’ll call him in the morning and tell him about the cobblestone streets, the pink stars, and this bed, which seems to float over the ocean when the doors are open and the night breeze happens through. The anticipation of sharing all of this and more with Roman sends me into a deep sleep.

WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, I roll over and reach for my phone. I open it and text: Dear Roman.

The hotel phone rings. I go to the desk and pick it up.

“Valentine, it’s me,” Roman says softly.

“I was just about to text you,” I say.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay, honey. I got all your messages and I know how sorry you are. I totally understand. When you see this room and the view, you won’t even remember what it took to get here.”

“No, I’m really sorry,” he says.

I sit down on the couch. “About what?”

“I can’t come at all now.”

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

He continues, “There’s a problem with my backers. It’s serious.”

I still say nothing. I can’t.

“Valentine?”

Finally, I say, “I’m here.” But I’m not. I’m numb.

“I’m as upset about this as you are,” he goes on. “I want to be there with you. I still do,” he says. “I wish…”

Someday I know I will look back on this as the moment I stopped pretending I was actually in a real relationship with Roman. Who allows this sort of thing? I forgive and forget his cancelled dates and missed opportunities with such regularity, I believe that it’s part of working at our relationship. It’s our normal . Roman’s first obligation is to his restaurant. I knew that when we began dating, and I know it now, stranded here on Capri without him. I’m not surprised; I’m resigned. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I crawl back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I am a failure at love. Roman’s excuses seem real, I believe them every single time. The excuses can be grand: threats of imminent financial ruin, or silly: the sink flooded in the restaurant kitchen. The scale of disaster doesn’t matter, I take it in and accept whatever he throws at me. I pretend I can handle it while I seethe inside.

I feel terrible, so why not surrender to the worst of it? I search my heart and list all the ways in which I am a failure. I make a mental list. I’m almost thirty-four ( old! ), and I have no money saved ( poor! ), and I live with my grandmother (needy!). I wear Spanx. I want a dog but won’t get one because I’d have to walk it, and there’s no time in my life to walk a dog! My boyfriend is a part-time lover who spends more time at work than he does with me, and I accept it because that’s what I believe I deserve. I’m a lousy girlfriend. In fact, I’m as bad at relationships as he is! I don’t want to sacrifice my work for him either.

Roman Falconi makes promises and I let him wiggle out of them because I understand how hard it is to live a creative life, whether it’s making shoes or tagliatelle for hungry people. The phone rings. I catch my breath and sit up before reaching for it. Roman must have come to his senses and changed his mind. He’s going to make the trip! I know it! I pick up the phone. I tell myself not to blow it. Be patient , I tell myself as I breathe.

“Valentina?”

It’s not Roman. It’s Gianluca. “Yes?”

“I want to take you to meet my friend Costanzo.”

I don’t answer.

“Are you all right?” Gianluca asks. “I told him that you are waiting for your boyfriend to arrive and so he made time for you this afternoon.”

“This afternoon is fine,” I say, hanging up the phone after we agree upon a time to meet.

I pull my notebook off the nightstand and pick up the list of things I wanted to do with Roman on Capri. There it is, in plain English, a list of fabulous, romantic side trips and excursions, places to eat, foods to try, the hours the pool is open! I even wrote that schedule down.

Suddenly, I am overcome with sadness that I have to do these things alone. I begin to cry, the disappointment almost too much to bear. This place is so romantic and I’m miserable. Rejection is the worst, whether you’re fourteen or forty. It stings, it’s humiliating, and it’s irreversible. I take the box of tissues and go out on the balcony. The sun blazes hot orange in the deep blue sky. Boats, with their sails bleached white, bob in the harbor below. I watch them for a long time.

I think about calling Gram, but I don’t want her to waste this week worried about me, or worse, trying to include me in her plans with Dominic.

I see a family, two children and a mother and a father, on their way to the pool. The children skip along the winding path through the garden as their parents follow closely behind. I watch as they reach the pool. The children pull off their cover-ups and jump in, while the mother chooses chairs and arranges the towels. The husband puts his arms around his wife, surprising her from behind. She laughs and turns to him. They kiss. How effortless happiness looks from here. People, everyone else that is, find happiness by falling in love and making their own families. It will never happen for me. I know it.

I take a shower and dress. I load a tote bag with my phone, wallet, and sketchbook. I head out the door. I can’t stay in this room another minute; it’s just a reminder of who is not here. The thought of this makes me burst into tears, so I stuff the box of tissues into my tote bag.

The lobby is quiet since it’s early yet. I go to the front desk. I open my purse and pull out my wallet.

“Checking out?” the young man asks.

“No, no. I’ll be here for the week, as scheduled. I’d like to take Mr. Falconi’s name off my room. I want to put the room on my credit card instead, please.”

“Si, si,” he says. He swipes my room key and finds my information. He takes my credit card and makes the change on the bill.

“Thank you. Oh, and I’d also like to take a tour boat around the island.”

“Absolutely.” He checks the schedule. “There is one leaving in twenty minutes, from the pier.”

“Would you call me a taxi?”

“Of course,” he says.

The tour boat is not really a boat at all, but a skiff, with several rows of wooden benches painted bright yellow, upon which tourists, including me, sit four across. There are about eighteen of us, mostly Japanese, a few Greeks, a couple of other Americans, an Ecuadorian, and me.

The captain is an old Neapolitan sea dog with a white beard, a straw hat, and a beat-up megaphone that looks like it’s taken its share of dips in the Tyrrhenian Sea. As the boat pulls away from the pier, the thrust of the motor plows us to the surface of the water.

Captain Pio explains that he will show us the natural wonders of Capri as the woman next to me shoves her elbow in my face getting a picture of Pio with her cell phone camera. Soon, all the tourists are snapping Pio with their phones. He pauses and smiles for them. I think of Gianluca, who said that he hated all this technology. In this moment, I do, too.