The silence that sat between us wasn’t painful like our parents would think, but it was content. The only sound filling the room was the ocean’s tide crashing against the rocks below, ringing through our window. Our little rented apartment sat on a cliff in Sorrento, Italy. It wasn’t extravagant or luxurious like what we had back home, but it was ours, and that was enough for me.
I lay in bed with him as the setting sun casts a warm glow into the room. As usual, he was on his stomach with a book, lazily flipping through the pages. I never understood his love for reading, but nevertheless, I sat silently with him, twirling his golden strands of hair around my fingers. He turned his head to glance at me, and even though my curls were flopping all around my face, he still smiled. I adjusted the pillows away from myself before pushing off the bed. A slight chill greeted me, and with little on except a tank top and frilly cream bloomers, that was anticipated. A low, displeased hum came from behind me, signaling that Malcolm didn’t want me to leave the warmth of our bed. But the letter from my mother, left unopened for weeks, had finally called my name. I grabbed the small envelope off our kitchen counter before returning to my spot.
“What is it?” Malcolm mumbled, his words muffled by the pillow under his chin. I opened the letter, finding a short note and a set of two keys.
My love, I know you’re enjoying your extended time in Italy. However, your father and I would appreciate it if you returned to New York. I’ve left the keys to a sizable brownstone on the Upper East Side. I hope you’re doing well. I love you so much
-Mrs. Daphne Lockhart
It was formal and precise. My mother couldn’t be more different than me. I could see her in the back of my mind, writing this letter perched at her desk with a fountain pen scratching at the paper. She was everything I couldn’t be. Malcolm had abandoned his book to peer over my shoulder; I could smell his Tom Ford cologne drifting into my nose.
“Justine.” His quick use of my name penetrated my ears, and I swiftly tucked the letter underneath myself. I knew what he was thinking—or what he was about to say. I adjusted to face him—his warm brown eyes invited me in like espresso on a cold morning.
“Malcolm.” It was his turn to leave the warmth of our bed. He paced the floor of our studio apartment. He was shaking his head over and over and over again. Malcolm wasn’t one for theatrics, but he was a bit touchy when it came to this. He released a shaky sigh before kneeling at the edge of our bed. Malcolm pulled me closer, and my legs wrapped gently around his waist. “Junie,” the nickname rolled effortlessly off his tongue as if what he was about to say wouldn’t wreck the little life we’ve made. He continued, “There’s other things out there to see! New York is a void within itself. I can’t go back. We shouldn’t go back.”
I gently shook my head. He knew this. My duty was to my family—to the Lockhart name. If my parents were to ask something of me, I would need to be there. Our extended time in Italy had been a daydream at best, a temporary break from real life at worst. It was never supposed to be forever. The same hands that my parents held onto, I used to caress Malcolm’s cheek. His face was cracked, his eyes shut at my gentle affection, and a small tear rolled down his chin.
No one had ever been able to read my eyes but him. So, unspokenly, he knew when he looked into them that our life was about to change.
He couldn’t leave, and I had to go.
— — — —
Our hands were sticky, with gelato sliding down our fingers. The summer breeze pushed the windchimes on the nearby stores, and windows were flung wide open, welcoming the air. Earlier this morning, Malcolm pulled me out of bed so we could spend our final day roaming the streets of Sorrento. The laughter coming from the beach filled our ears as we strolled on the boardwalk. The silence between us wasn’t content. We were both trying not to let each other go, but we knew our time had come to a close.
Later in the night, it was time for the plane to take me away from the man I called my home. Call what we had love or anything, but it was something. It was something because he held me tight when he knew I was leaving. It was something when we always reached for each other but never touched. It was something when the city of Sorrento stopped breathing right before our lips met in a final kiss. Malcolm and I were intertwined, sewn together—and that’s how I knew I would see his daydreaming eyes again.
“I will always love you, Justine Lockhart,” he mumbled.
“You’ll see me again, Malcolm Blythe,” I said, letting go of his hand to get swept up in the airport’s sea.
— — — —
The bar’s atmosphere was dingy, and a lingering smell of alcohol flowed from the lips of a man sitting beside me. I was paying little attention to him as the television glowing in front of me was broadcasting a show set in Sorrento, Italy. My mind was spirling to sweet peach and honey kisses and a small studio apartment on a long-forgotten cliffside.
And all I could think was Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm. My heart tugged at the idea of seeing him again; it had been four years. He was the boy of my dreams, but we could never be together then. Throughout the years, I started to believe we didn’t love each other anymore, as the distance was painful and impossible. We had found a different type of love on our respective sides of the world. It was something easy. It was something excruciating.
I had devoted my time to forgetting the magical daydreams of Sorrento and Malcolm by drowning myself in Upper East Side society. But this left a void similar to the one Malcolm mentioned a long time ago. I thought I could be enamored with life in New York, but a piece of my heart was missing.
“So, do you come here often?” The man beside me had broken me out of my trance. He was smiling lazily—I’m sure his spiked confidence was coming from the prominent stench of alcohol on his lips. But, this dreary bar had never seen me before. I stumbled upon it after my stilettos had given up on me, and a long day of tirelessly trying to fill the void made a girl want a drink. But it was time to leave because nothing made a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it. I stuck my hand out, signaling for my tab, and after paying, I lifted myself off the barstool. The man grabbed my arm and turned me around to face him. “Where are you going?” I peered into his glossed-over eyes. He wasn’t Malcolm. He didn’t hold the warmness and undeniable love in his body. No one could ever be Malcom, no matter how hard I searched.
“Nowhere you’re going.” I twisted out of his grip and made my way to the door. But before I could reach it, someone pushed it open from the other side. It felt like all the air had been ripped from my lungs—Malcolm Blythe stood before me. He looked so incredibly different. The clothes on his body hung loose, especially the white button-up that was baggier than necessary. His hair was a bit longer and ruffled, still framing his face, but his eyes were now tired. If I looked closely enough, I could still see his daydreaming eyes. I was speechless. I wanted to throw my arms around him, but I wanted to punch him in the face. But our separation was as much my fault as it was his—neither of us fought. His face was dumbfounded, and I didn’t notice his bag slipped from his shoulder; I was too caught up in the reality of Malcolm Blythe being in front of me. It thudded on the floor, breaking the silence.
“Kol,” I breathed—his shortened name felt so unfamiliar yet so familiar coming from my mouth.
“Junie.” He raced forward and scooped me into his arms. He twirled me around, my feet lifting off the floor, echoing my spirits. When he pulled back, his hands were on my cheeks, scanning over my teary expression. All I could think was—Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm.
I knew his eyes said, ‘I shouldn’t have left you all those years ago.’
Author: C. Alexandria
Designer, developer, and digital content creator.