Someone Exactly Like Me by Debbie Cromack

20

Nicco

Seeing her standing in front of my bed earlier today, I had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep myself from picking her up, tossing her onto it, and ravaging her. Then she was standing between my legs in nothing but a towel. And now, wrapping my hands around her silky legs, I’m going fucking insane.

Working my way back down her smooth, toned leg, I travel up her other leg, wanting to plant my face between them. She squirms a little, but doesn’t stop me. Her tiny breaths tell me she likes it. I’m so fucking hard right now.

When I reach the top of her thigh, a small sound escapes her. Sucking in a gasp of air, her eyes fly open and she sits up, clearing her throat.

“I, uh, thank you. My — my, feet feel a lot better now,” she says as she stands. “I’m getting tired. I think I’ll go to bed. What time are we starting tomorrow?”

I chuckle to myself. I love that I get her flustered. “Sleep as long as you like. We’re in no rush.” I stand, stepping toward her, wanting to kiss her cheeks and inhale her intoxicating vanilla scent.

She brushes quickly past me. “Okay. Good night then,” she says then goes straight to her room and closes the door.

I don’t know how much longer I can be around her and not fuck her. But I can’t. She won’t let me. With a burning need to relieve the pressure in my pants, I head to bed and take care of business, fantasizing about plunging inside her three different ways.

She looks so cute in the morning, no makeup, hair up in a mess on top of her head. Her long, sexy legs extend down from her oversized sweatshirt that hides the fact that she’s wearing shorts underneath.

We eat a quick breakfast and shower. Today she wears one of her flowered dresses and sneakers.

“I know they don’t look as nice as the sandals, but I want my feet to last the day and not hurt. I’ll put on my sandals when we go to your mamma’s house for supper.”

“Good thinking.” I guess my massage was too much for her to handle last night. “Remember your sweater, we’ll visit a few churches today.”

Once she has her sweater, I drive us to Aventine Hill where we spend the day visiting historic religious structures and churches. Our last stop before we leave is to the Knights of Malta keyhole to see the exquisite dome of Saint Peters Basilica through the shrubbery tunnel. Having visited all of these places many times myself, I’d lost my appreciation for the richness and beauty of it all. Watching her be truly mesmerized gives me a whole new experience and reminds me to be grateful for where I live.

On the drive home, she excitedly tells me some of her favorite sights of the day.

“Nicco?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve shown me some beautiful places and I’ve loved them so much.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

“But, I want to see your Rome. Places that have meaning to you. Like maybe where you went to school or places you went with Marco.”

“I’ll show you. Tonight, we go to Mamma’s and the house I grew up in. Tomorrow I’ll take you on my motorcycle to a few places and we’ll drive along the coast for you to see the beautiful ocean. There’s a beach we’ll stop at also.”

“That sounds nice. I look forward to it.”

When we get back home, we still have some time before we’re due at Mamma’s.

“I think I’ll do some writing out on the patio before we go to your mamma’s.”

“Okay, I have a song I’m working on. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. Do you want to have your cigarette first? I’d rather not be out there with you while you smoke.”

My heart sinks in my chest. Her strong dislike of my addiction continues to remind of how badly I want to quit. Fuck, these cigarettes.

“Yes, I understand. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

I head out to the patio, sit in my usual chair, and mindlessly engage in my ritual. As I light the tip of my cigarette with Dad’s lighter, I talk to him.

I miss you, Dad. There’s a woman in my life, but I don’t know for how long. I wish you could meet her. Mamma will meet her tonight. She’s unlike any woman I’ve met. She’s kind and loving, and so pure of heart. She’s nothing like Ana. I’m sorry, Dad, I’m angry with you. I needed you after Ana. I needed you and you weren’t here.

I need you now. I’m so confused about what to do with this woman. My feelings for her grow stronger the more time I spend with her, but she leaves soon. And I don’t know how she feels about me. There’s chemistry, but I know she’s scared.

She sees me as nothing more than a playboy. I have been, Dad. You wouldn’t be proud of me. I turned into the kind of guy I always despised. The kind of guy who uses women for sex but will never give them my heart. Ana ripped out my fucking heart, chewed it up, and spit it at me. I let her destroy me. I don’t want that kind of pain ever again. So, I shut off my heart, my feelings. But I can’t keep myself from Destiny. I can’t. I have to prove her wrong. I used to be a one-woman guy. I want to be the man I once was. For her, I can be and I will be. I want to give my heart to her. Fuck, I’m scared. Help me, Dad.

Sucking in long and deep, I hold the smoke in, a little longer than I should, then release it through my nose, blowing the last remnants out my mouth. I shift my gaze to the sky before going in to get Destiny. When I stand up to go into the house, she’s sitting on the end of the sofa, clutching her computer, watching me. I sit back down and wave her toward me.

“Come here,” I say, patting the top of my thigh when she comes out.

I wasn’t sure she would, but she approaches me and sits on my thigh.

“I’m writing a song for you.”

“For me? Why are you writing a song for me?”

“Because it came to me and now I have to write it.”

“Can I hear it?”

“No. It’s not ready yet.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “You seemed very far away just then. Were you writing lyrics in your head?”

I shake my head, looking down into her lap. “No.” Lifting my head, I meet her eyes. “I, talk to my dad a lot when I smoke.” I shrug my shoulders and shake my head again. That must sound ridiculous to her.

With the touch of an angel, she places her hand on the side of my face, locking her gaze on me. “I know you feel closer to him when you smoke. But you can feel close to him in other ways. Ways that aren’t harmful to you.” She moves her hand to cover my heart. “He lives here, and he’ll always be here.” She gently presses against my heart. The intensity of her gaze nearly brings tears to my eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat and push back unshed tears.

Rising from my lap, she pulls out a chair and opens her laptop. I go inside and grab my notepad, pen, and guitar, ready to let the lyrics and notes fall into place.

Destiny

On the way to his mamma’s house, my stomach churns. Not only does it feel strange going to meet his mom, but I have a feeling I’m not going to know ninety-nine percent of what’s going on.

When he opens the door, the smells of fresh pasta, baked ricotta cheese, and buttery garlic fill my nose, making my mouth water. We enter through the living room, sparsely decorated with a vintage sofa and chairs that are covered in a faded green and red vertical-stripped fabric. Voices chatter in the room beyond where we entered and he leads us there. As we walk into the kitchen, we’re met with a surprise, well a double-surprise.

“Ay, bro. I didn’t know you’d be here.” They kiss on the cheek then hug with a loud, manly pat on the back. “Angelina.” He kisses her on each cheek. “And my favorite nephew in the whole world.” He picks up the little boy in his arms and nibbles on his cheek as he growls. The boy giggles in delight. Putting down his nephew, he introduces me to each of them.

I receive and give cheek-kisses then squat down to the little boy’s eye level. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you, Franco.”

“Hello,” he greets me. “It’s nice to meet you, Destiny.”

When I stand up, Nicco’s mamma is waiting patiently.

“Mamma.” Respect mixes with joy in his voice.

She wipes her hands on her apron and reaches up to cradle his scruffy face in her hands. Bending down, he kisses her on each deeply wrinkled cheek.

“Mamma, questa é Destiny.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Destiny, this is my mamma, Antonietta.”

“Ciao, Antonietta. Thank you for having me.” I smile.

He translates for me, she smiles and nods, then comes in for the cheek-kiss. I guess that’s a good sign. Once we release, she says something as her hands fly around.

Whatever she said makes him laugh. “Mamma.” His tone shifts to playfully reprimanding.

He must see the puzzled look on my face. “She says you need to eat pasta, lots of pasta.” He chuckles again.

All I can do is smile politely.

“Don’t forget about me,” Giovanna sings her flirtation while batting her lashes at him.

Great, Giovanna’s here. As if I wasn’t already feeling nervous and uncomfortable.

“Gigi. I didn’t know you were coming.” Always the gentleman, he kisses her cheeks.

“Mamma told me you were coming for dinner.”

She calls his mom, Mamma? Simmer down. I call Candi’s mom, Mom because I’ve known her since I was a kid. This is no different, not that it matters.

“Hi, Giovanna.” I really don’t want to kiss her.

“Oh, Destiny.” She tilts her head, forcing a fake smile. “How nice to see you again,” she says, lacking sincerity, as she purses her filler-filled lips and leans in for more of an air-kiss which is fine by me.

His mamma has made delicious stuffed shells, a salad, and the best garlic bread I’ve ever eaten. They all chatter in Italian during dinner and Nicco tries to fill me in on a few things they’re talking about. Watching Giovanna tease him and flirt with him turns my stomach, though it really shouldn’t. I don’t belong here. Unable to physically vanish, I sit quietly and eat my meal.

After dinner, I help clean up the dining room and kitchen while Nicco and Marco play with Franco in the living room. Nicco kneels down and lets Franco climb onto him, riding him like a pony. With each demand of, “Go, go, go” from Franco, he neighs and circles the room weaving in and around the few pieces of furniture. When he passes the sofa, he grabs a rose-embroidered pillow with his teeth and shakes his head around like a dog, causing Franco to erupt into laughter. I love his playful nature and watching him with kids. It’s a side of him I never would’ve expected. A side that’s quite sweet.

Giovanna walks in to join them while Angelina and I finish drying the last few dishes. His mamma pulls out a large tray of tiramisu, homemade no doubt, sets it on the counter and goes to the living room.

“How long do you have here to visit?” Angelina asks in somewhat broken English.

“Not long. I leave next Sunday after we stay at Ponza Island with you.” I wipe the plate in my hand and place it on the counter. “Thank you so much for letting us stay.”

“It is too bad you can’t stay longer. Sí, of course.” She smiles warmly. “We are happy for you to come stay.”

A boom of laughter explodes from Giovanna, drawing our attention. She’s clinging to Nicco’s arm, stroking her long hair. Marking her territory again.

I’ve never been great at keeping my emotions from painting themselves all over my face.

“Psh,” Angelina rolls her eyes and makes a hand gesture that doesn’t look at all complimentary. “Do not concern yourself with her. Even I know Nicco would never go so low.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “Nicco and I are just friends. He’s helping me with some research for my book.”

She turns her head to the side, lifting only one side of her mouth. “Friends? Is that why his eyes twinkle when he looks at you?” The other side of her mouth rises.

They do? I have no answer. All I can do is shrug and shake my head.

Once the dishes are done, she and I go to the living room.

“Does everyone want wine with dessert?” Nicco asks.

Me, Angelina, and Giovanna all say yes. He and Marco go to the kitchen to get the wine.

The three ladies chatter in Italian while I sit quietly, watching Franco entertain himself. Feeling a little out of place, I go help Nicco and Marco bring the wine glasses in.

As I approach the kitchen, I hear Marco. “It’s been four fucking years since Ana, Nicco. It’s time to let it go,” he half-shouts, slamming his hand on the counter.

“I know how fucking long it’s been!” Nicco spits, rage steaming out of him, the vein in his neck swelling.

Before I can sneak backwards out the doorway, Nicco sees me.

He says something in Italian to Marco and they drop whatever it was that had them both heated.

“I — I’m sorry. I just came to see if you needed help bringing out the glasses.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry you heard that,” Nicco says, forcing a smile.

“It’s my fault, Destiny. I apologize,” Marco says, handing me two glasses of wine.

Once we finish dessert, Marco and his family leave and Giovanna heads out as well. Nicco’s mamma turns on an ancient-looking TV and nestles into a worn chair that’s partially covered with a dark red knitted blanket.

“Come,” he says, taking my hand in his. He walks us down a dimly lit hallway, passing an open door on the right to a bedroom. “That was Marco’s room.” Walking a little farther down the hall, we enter a small room on the left where I feel like I’ve been transported back in time. “And this is my room.”

He guides me in and releases my hand. Walking slowly around the room, I take it in. He sits on the edge of his single bed.

“You upgraded.” I smile. He looks huge sitting on the small bed.

He chuckles. “I did.”

Everything is perfectly tidy and looks like his mamma hasn’t changed a thing since he left home. Next to the bed is an old wood dresser topped with nine trophies and a picture that looks like it’s him and Marco as young boys.

“You played soccer?”

“Yes, football. I’m a very good player.”

“I see that.”

“Of course I don’t play anymore.”

There aren’t any decorations on the walls. Even through the house, the decor is minimal and humble.

“Is there anything else you would like to see? I will show you.”

I walk over to him on the bed and look down into his handsome face. Being here in his childhood bedroom, I can see the little boy behind his eyes.

“No.” I pause. “Thank you for showing this to me.”

He stands and I tilt my head up, keeping his gaze as he rises above me. “It’s my pleasure.”

We stand, silent, eyes fixed on each other in the quiet of the room.

“Nicco, who’s Ana?” I ask, keeping my voice hushed.

“No one. She — she’s no one.” He purses his lips as he glances down.

“It didn’t sound like she’s no one. But it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t.” The anger from earlier is gone, replaced by something more like sorrow. He exhales through his nose. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

Taking my hand in his again, he leads me back down the hall to the living room and must tell his mamma we’re leaving because she gets out of her chair.

He releases my hand and lowers toward her. When she reaches up and clutches his face in her hands, she speaks softly and tears come to her eyes as she smiles. After their cheek-kisses, she wraps her arms around his waist, burying her cheek into his chest. He cages her in his arms, resting a hand on her silver curls. My heart tugs watching this virile, shooting-to-fame, seemingly-sex-god so tender in the embrace of his mamma.

Unwrapping from him, she turns to me.

“Grazie, Antonietta.” As I go in for the cheek-kiss, she speaks.

“Per favore, chiamami, Mamma,” she says, then cups my face in her soft, weathered hands.

Clueless, I nod my head and smile, trying to be polite.

Nicco chuckles. “She likes you. She wants you to call her Mamma.”

“Oh.” That’s unexpected.

“Buona notte, Mamma,” he says as he takes my hand and leads us to the door.

“Buona notte,” she says, blowing us a kiss and waving.

“Buona notte, Mamma.” I wave back.

It’s close to eight o’clock by the time we get back to his house. We decide to do more writing, me on my book, him on his song.

I change into leggings and my sweatshirt then grab my laptop and go back out to the living room, sitting in the corner of the sectional I sat in last night. He comes over with his notepad, pen, and guitar.

As I type, he strums and jots things down on his notepad. Watching him create gives me inspiration.

He catches my gaze on him.

“I’m sorry, does my music interfere with your writing?”

“No. Not at all. I like it. It’s pretty, whatever you’re writing.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re really good with kids. I enjoyed watching you with Franco tonight.”

He jolts back, his eyes fly open, and his jaw lowers. Then his eyes move rapidly from left to right. Given his reaction and the expression on his face, I fear I’ve said something either alarming or upsetting, but I can’t imagine what.

He leans his guitar against the sofa and stands up, pacing and rubbing his neck.

What the heck did I say?

“You — you think I’m good with kids?”

“Yes, you are good with kids.”

He paces a little more, rubbing his hand across his forehead.

“Excuse me,” he says then grabs his pack of cigarettes off the coffee table and walks out to the patio.

Have I somehow insulted him? What’s going on?

I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen then tuck back into my spot, legs under me, and continue writing.

When he comes back in, he still looks flustered. I set my laptop aside and stand up, approaching him.

“Nicco, I’m sorry for whatever I said —”

“No. No.” He cuts me off, shaking his head and waving his hand. “Please, don’t apologize. I, um…” He pauses, rubbing his finger across his mustache. “Please, sit.” He goes to the sofa and sits, folding his knee up onto the cushion. I follow him, mimicking his body position so we’re facing each other.

“Tonight you asked who Ana is, and I said she’s no one.” He pauses. “That’s not true.” He looks down to his clasped hands, rubbing his thumbnail with his other thumb. Looking back up at me, he continues. “Ana and I were together, for a while. And, we…didn’t end on good terms.” His Adam’s apple moves up and down. Watching him struggle twists my heart.

Standing up, he walks over to a tall, dark walnut bookshelf and opens a wooden box. He takes out a piece of paper and returns to the sofa. “One day, out of nowhere, she left. No goodbye, no explanation, nothing. This letter was in my mailbox.”

Slowly, he reaches out his hand with the letter in it and gives it to me. The tattered paper looks like it’s been crumpled and uncrumpled dozens of times. Gently, I unfold it and read.

Nicco,

I’m pregnant with your child. I don’t want anything from you. Your work and income are unsteady and your dream of becoming a big star is a fantasy that will never happen. Your life is going nowhere. You aren’t capable of being a good father or a good husband. I release you from any responsibility. Don’t try to find me, you won’t be able to.

~Ana

Despair and heartache shatter me. When I look up at him, the pain in his eyes steals the breath from lungs.

“I tried to find her. For a year, I tried to find her. But I couldn’t.” As he inhales deeply, his shoulders rise. His exhale is controlled, like he’s trying not to burst. “Somewhere, I have a child. A child I don’t know, I can’t hold or kiss or play with. And it fucking kills me.” He swallows, looking down into his hands, rubbing his palm with his opposite thumb.

I reach out, placing my hand on top of his, and lean toward him. “Nicco. I’m so sorry.” I squeeze. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” I pause. “As the child’s father, you have rights. And this letter?” I hold it up. “She’s wrong.” I shake my head. “She’s so wrong.” I lean in farther, locking my gaze on his eyes. “You’re going to be wonderful dad someday. And the woman who captures your heart? She’s going to be so lucky you found her.”

He stares blankly at me. Silence echoes through the room.

“Why do you have this letter? Why do you keep it?” I ask softly.

His swallow takes effort. “I keep it to remind me. To remind me of the pain. To remind me of the truth.” He breaks our gaze, looking down at our hands. “I keep it to remind me to close my heart so I can’t be a disappointment to anyone else, and I can’t get my heart broken again.”

Clarity smashes me in the face. My chest caves, goose bumps cover my skin, and pain lacerates my heart.

Tilting my head, I search his eyes. “Nicco, this is not your truth.” I hold the letter toward him, shaking my head. “This is not your truth.”

When I squeeze his hands, he pulls his lips in tightly, his eyebrows pinch together, and mist coats his eyes. He heaves an inhale and swallows, releasing a stilted exhale.

“How can you know?”

“I know,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.

His jaw clenches as his eyes shift, searching mine.

Rising from the sofa, he takes the letter from my hand and returns it to the wooden box.

“I think I won’t write tonight. I’ll go to bed.” He grabs his guitar. “Tomorrow you’ll not want to wear a dress since we’ll be on my motorcycle. Jeans will be good.”

“Okay.”

His tall body hunches, looking physically exhausted. I close my laptop and get up from the sofa then walk across the cool tile to my room.

He walks behind me, our steps slow, heavy. We reach my room and, as I turn to face him, he’s close. I step back and I’m against the wall. He leans an arm above me, smelling of stale smoke, and strokes my cheek with his thumb.

“Buona notte, mia dolce ragazza.” The phrase holds a depth in the fragility of his voice. “Thank you.” Moving his arm, he holds my face in his hands then kisses my forehead.

“Buona notte.”

Closing the door, I walk over to my bed, sit down, and lie back, taking in a deep breath. So much makes sense now. All I want to do is hold him in my arms and ease his pain.

Nicco

After a cigarette to calm myself, I go to my bedroom, having to consciously exert effort to move the weight of my legs. I sit on the edge of my bed, raking my hands through my hair. I hadn’t intended to ever tell her about Ana. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But when she said I’m good with kids, she knocked me fucking upside down. I felt safe telling her.

Having her in my childhood home, meeting Mamma, and hearing her tell me Ana’s words aren’t my truth, keeping her out of my heart is impossible.

Reminding myself that she leaves soon is fucking torture.