Old Flame: Dante’s Story by Sam Mariano
17
Colette
When my eyes open,it’s because the mattress shifts and jostles me as Dante takes a seat on the bed. He’s still wearing charcoal gray slacks and a white dress shirt, but he has taken off the jacket and tie he was wearing when he got home. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. My gaze lingers there for a moment, but then drifts to the plastic bag on the bed next to him. My curiosity stirs. I was expecting my meds today, but the bag is too full for just a bottle of pills.
Before I can ask what’s inside, Dante asks, “How are you feeling?”
Groggy, but I don’t say that. “Fine.”
“I was going to let you sleep as long as you needed to, but Sonja is finishing up dinner and you need to eat.”
It’s dinnertime? Wow, I slept the entire day away.
Not that it really matters. I’m a glorified prisoner with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Sinking back down into the bed, I pull my blanket up over my head.
Dante tugs it right back down. “Come on, it’s time to get up.” He picks up the bag and opens it, peering inside.
“What’s that?” I ask, since he brought my attention back to it.
“I asked Vince to pick up some things you might need, remember?” He draws out a small orange bottle with a white lid and label, and relief pours through me. “Here are your pills.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for my medication, but Dante moves the bottle before I can grab it. He places the bottle on his nightstand, out of my reach unless I crawl over to his side of the bed. “Am I not allowed to have them?” I ask.
“You’re calm right now,” he points out. “You have to be careful with those, Colette, they’re addictive.”
“I don’t need to be told how to handle myself, Dante. I’m not a child.”
Ignoring me, he reaches into the bag for something else. I’m not sure what I expect him to pull out, but certainly not a pink and white rectangular box with a picture of a pregnancy test on the front.
Arching an eyebrow at him, I demand, “Are you serious? I know you Morelli men think a lot of your virility, but you just fucked me less than 24 hours ago. Even if by some slim chance you did impregnate me, it won’t show up on a home pregnancy test for at least a couple of weeks.”
Dante doesn’t look at me. He shakes his head, looking at his lap instead. “That’s not what it’s for. After last night it occurred to me—” He stops, perhaps considering how to word what occurred to him, then he looks me in the eye and says, “I just need to make sure every last trace of him is gone. I need you to take this to set my mind at ease.”
When I catch onto his meaning, I want to punch him right in the face.
I take the box, all right. I take it from his hand and fling it across the room as hard as I can. “Fuck you, Dante.”
“I have to be sure, Colette. If you’re difficult and you refuse a home pregnancy test, I’ll take you to the doctor.”
“Please take me out in public. I’ll scream my head off and tell everyone who will listen that I’ve been abducted by a madman.”
“You will not,” he says, not even mildly threatened.
“I am not pregnant. I don’t need to take a home pregnancy test. Not that it’s any of your business, because it isn’t, but Declan and I were always very careful. I told you I was on birth control. We also used a second form of protection.” His hands fist so I quickly conclude, “There is a zero percent chance I was pregnant when you took me from my aunt’s house. I don’t need to take a test.”
“I need you to take it,” he states, immovably.
“I don’t care what you need,” I inform him, point blank.
He stares at me for a long moment, so long that I start to feel a little guilty for saying it, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why he thought he could storm into my life, commit a murder, and we’d pick up right where we left off. I don’t know why he thought the foolish younger version of me who loved him might still exist. When he came to my shop and asked me not to marry my fiancé, when he asked me to come home and I said no, that should have been his answer. But Dante doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, and now here we are.
He seems to realize it the same time I do, because he stands, leaving the plastic bag on the bed with me. “Make sure you go downstairs and have some dinner.”
My gaze follows him as he heads toward the door. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes,” he states, offering nothing more.
---
Despite my claimthat I wouldn’t take the pregnancy test, I take it the following morning. I know it’s a complete waste of a pregnancy test, but Dante didn’t come home until late last night, and when he did, he stayed on his own side of the bed and didn’t touch me. I caught myself thinking about it off and on while I was alone, fast forwarding a month or so ahead of time, imagining the possible repercussions if I remain stubborn about not taking the test and Dante does end up getting me pregnant.
The possibility that he would believe Declan might be the father instead of him opens up too many horrible doors that I can’t bear to think about. I know Dante, I know what he’s like, and I know there’s not a shot in hell he would let me have anyone else’s baby. I envision that future and find myself huddled in a corner, arms protectively covering my abdomen, begging him to believe me. Protecting our child—whom he would never hurt, if he believed it to be our child, but if he thought it was Declan’s? I’m not so sure.
So, by morning, I acknowledge that the best thing I can do is take the damned home pregnancy test.
He’s already gone and I don’t have a phone to take a picture and text him the negative result, but I used to have an actual camera and I didn’t take it with me when I left, so perhaps it’s still here. It didn’t occur to me when I took the test, but I’ve heard if they sit for too long, the result can change. It would be horrifying if Dante returned home late this evening and the warped stick told him Declan did get me pregnant.
Dante’s side of the closet hasn’t changed much. I notice that as I step inside and check the drawer we used for odds and ends, my old wallets that I didn’t want to let go of or a pair of cuff links he had stopped wearing. Essentially, it was full of stuff we should probably throw straight away because we’re done with it, but we can’t quite admit that.
It seems like the place he would put a camera if he found it while I was gone. I’m surprised as I root through it to find some of my things are still in here. I pull out a sparkly rhinestone costume bracelet I used to love—at least, until it caught on one of my favorite tops in Madrid and snagged the damn thing. When we got home, the damaging bracelet went straight into the closet junk drawer.
I can’t help smiling faintly as the memory replays, though. It wasn’t a good memory; I was incredibly annoyed at the time, but I loved traveling with Dante. I loved when he was relaxed and romantic. Those memories are the ones I replayed most often in our time apart, not because of the locations necessarily, but just because of how he was when we weren’t at home. I felt like a princess on the arm of a prince. It was no longer complicated by what he did for a living, there was no conflict—he was Prince Charming, dammit, and I was the luckiest girl in the world.
I slide the bracelet on my wrist and look at it for a moment, but now it feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone I can’t be again.
That makes me sad for a lot of reasons, but most of all because I’m not sure Dante will ever accept that, and even if he does, I don’t know how long it will take or what comes after. Will he eventually tire of not coming home because he doesn’t want to be around me? Will he finally give up and return me to my broken life? The thought doesn’t bring me much relief, but the idea of staying here and growing more and more miserable as Dante tries to cram me into a box I don’t fit into anymore sounds worse.
I shuffle through the drawer and rescue another piece of jewelry—a necklace he bought me at a shop in Athens. It had a hopeless knot in the delicate chain and I tucked it in here one day until I could take it to a jeweler and have them tug the knot out with their precise tools, since my fingers were too awkward to get the job done.
The last thing I find lodges in my gut like a grappling hook. A red Cartier ring box is pushed to the very back of the drawer. I draw it out and take the lid off the outer box. Inside is a smaller ring box, so I draw that out next.
I know what this is. Some part of me thinks I shouldn’t look at it, but I can’t resist. I crack the box open, and there nestled in a soft black bed is a beautiful, sparkling engagement ring. My heart breaks for all of us—the Dante who bought this, the Dante who tucked it away in the junk drawer after I left, and the Colette whose heart would have flown out of her chest if she’d ever actually received it. I don’t know when he bought the ring or what he was waiting for to propose, but I suppose he thought there was no rush. That was how I felt, too. We both knew where we were headed and we weren’t in any rush to formalize it.
Swallowing a sudden lump in my throat, I tuck the ring back into the box, then put the box back in the drawer. I tug off the bracelet and slide the pink jewelry box from Greece back inside, too. I can’t have any rescued jewelry when Dante gets back or he’ll know I got into that drawer, and if he knows I got into that drawer he’ll guess that I saw the ring.
I close the drawer feeling sicker and sadder than I have all day. Since there’s little else to do, I give up my search for the camera and climb back into bed.
