Six months later…
Madison adjusts my lapel, then pats down the front of my coat. “Are you ready, sweetie?”
Sweetie. I will never get tired of hearing her say that. She is my sweetness too, and I cannot imagine life without her. When she speaks so, my heart cannot decide whether to beat a steady rhythm in my chest or stop altogether, for her words are always drenched with stability and possibility. Two things that are new to me. With my amore, all the things that make life worth living are woven together, creating the most perfect tapestry. Despite the fact that we had to fight so hard for it, our love flows now like a fine wine pairing on a tasting menu.
“Yes, amore, I am ready.” Before she can pull away, I catch her fingers in mine and kiss her knuckles, never letting my eyes leave her face. “And you? You have lots of nice things to say about me?”
She smirks. “I do, but I’ll save them for later, okay? Believe it or not, this ad isn’t about you.”
That said, she cannot keep her eyes off of me, and I welcome the caress of her gaze. In my leather loafers, pleated pants, V-necked shirt, and unbuttoned blazer, I look like a casual Italiano, but the best-dressed man in Vegas. For a funny contrast, Madison is wearing pink furry boots that almost match that bear coat she wore at Distill the night we first spoke of cherry popping. She also has on black tights, and a puffy vest, with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. This is a somewhat scathing indictment of American fashion, but it seems accurate to me. Besides, my Madison would look beautiful in anything. It matters not to me what she adorns her body with because I prefer her when she is wearing nothing—when we are skin-to-skin, blessing our love in the way God intended.
Our latest endorsement job involves shooting a short series of videos about American tourism. It is for a humorous YouTube channel, and we have been assured that the conversation will be heavily edited, so the filming process is quite informal. Ever since I received my second chance position in the Venom press box, my life has exploded into a cacophony of opportunity. It seems that I was in fact made for my new position. Endorsements have flooded in—some with me alone—some with us together as a couple. All in all, I am far better off now than I was before.
Mainly because I have Madison and not only do we share an epic love story, but also the promise of a future together. It is like we have both released the layers we once wrapped ourselves in to shield us from pain. Together, we can conquer any challenge.
We get settled into our chairs in the cozy little filming studio, the back of which is almost entirely taken up with camera equipment. Madison sits in the seat beside me, wriggling with excitement. Her lips curl into a stunning smile. She is so bright and happy these days, it makes my heart ache from fullness.
Something in my chest shifts. My life has come full circle to the point where all the darkness has been bathed with the purest light.
I am lonely no more.
“Okay, we’ve got all the props we agreed on.” The young man behind the camera makes sure that everything lines up perfectly. “You checked to make sure everything is in order?”
Madison and I both nod.
“Okay, we’re filming.” He hits record, and he and his co-host nod to us. With Madison by my side, I feel invincible. Time to get busy with this latest project together.
We have already filmed our introductions separately and done a bit of prep work, but most of this part will be unscripted.
Madison twists sideways in her seat to look at me. “So, Marco, just a few short years ago, you lived in Italy. What’s something that you think people should know if they’re going to visit the United States?”
I tap the side of my temple. “Ah, this is an easy one: pizza in America is not pizza.” Not only is it something that has bothered me ever since I arrived, but this is part of what we have both prepared to discuss on camera. “In fact, I have brought a real pizza with me today.”
Madison laughs. “So did I. Are you ready?”
We both reach for our props and take out a box containing something we define as pizza. Madison can’t stop giggling as she places the box in front of her, so I know that whatever she is about to show me, it will be very bad.
We count down from three together, and on “One!” we flip the tops of our boxes open. Mine contains a beautiful, personal-sized Neapolitan pizza.
Madison’s contains something that I would like to throw in the trash.
“What is this!” I cry, not even having to fake my dismay. “Oh, bellissima, non!”
“Pineapple, olive, and BBQ-sauce Papa John’s pizza,” she says, as if she is not uttering absolute blasphemy. “A little sweet, a little salty—it’s great. Yours looks like a pita that someone sat on before they added toppings. Did you know that the recommended caloric intake of most diet professionals is only 1200 calories? The daily needs of a toddler? Yeah, your tiny pizza wouldn’t even be enough to satisfy one of them.”
I gasp in horror and clutch the box to my chest. “How dare you! This is a real pizza, with the best kind of crust. Real Italian pizzas are like this, not like your…” I jerk my chin toward her monstrosity in disgust. “Those olives are not real, either. Amore, I must be clear on this. And who is this Pappa John person? Is he like Luigi? Is he even human? Everything before you is a lie!”
Madison frees a slice of pizza from her horrible pie and takes a big bite. “Oh, my God.” She rolls her eyes back in her head and lets out a satisfied groan. Just hearing the sound coming from my amore’s lips infuses my veins with a bit of heat. I will not be jealous of that disgusting pizza. I refuse. No matter how much those sexy tones thicken my cazzo. No matter how I might lose myself each night when she makes those same noises while rolling my piercing along the ridges of her tongue. To distract myself, I take a vindictive nibble of my own much better offering.
Madison swallows. “All I’m saying is that if you invented the pizza, we perfected it.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Profanity.”
“If you say so.” She takes another bite and winks at me.
“There are many other things you do with food which I do not understand,” I tell her. “I am used to cauliflower. I know cauliflower. But here, it is not just a vegetable. It is not steamed or roasted and served with fresh, creamery butter. Non! It is crust, it is rice, it is… bread, probably? And noodles! I have seen this. Cauliflower is not a grain.”
Madison sets her pizza aside. “True. I think Americans are pretty much just big kids who need to be tricked into eating our vegetables.”
“This, I am not so mad about,” I admit. “It is simply confusing to me. Things look like one thing but get called another. Dust is called cheese. At Christmas, you eat the men with red-hot buttons, but they are so delicious!”
“Gingerbread men,” Madison clarifies.
I tap a finger to my temple. “Is it not strange to make your food into the shape of a person? Although, I am enjoying the cinnamon dots that Molly sprinkles upon the men of ginger.”
Madison chuckles to herself. “It’s kind of the opposite of the vegetable thing, actually. We have to trick ourselves into eating vegetables, but out of eating people. Only by feasting on our gingerbread victims can we be convinced to avoid eating people for another full year. After all, remember what we talked about on our first date at the M&M store? Americans enjoy eating things with faces.”
“Ah, si, the American sense of humor.” I turn to the camera and waggle my eyebrows. “Americans have stopped caring about many things. Because of this, their humor is very dark. It is their… how do you call it? Their engine of survival?”
“Coping mechanism,” Madison corrects. “And you’re absolutely right, Americans are not okay.”
I lean my elbow on the table and turn back to her. Our hosts are laughing behind their hands in the corner, enjoying every minute of this fake argument.
I take another bite of my delicious pizza, followed by a slurp of my Pibb Xtra. “While we are talking on this, there is something Americans get wrong about Italianos. A cultural difference. You see, in America, when a man flirts with a woman, he is often trying to get something from her. I have seen this with my own eyes, and for me, it is very confusing. In Italia, a man flirts with a woman because he likes to flirt. He enjoys experiencing her internal light and her softness. If there is more, very good, but that is not expected always. It is like a game. Not the same at all.”
“Oh, yeah?” Madison arches an eyebrow. “So when you started flirting with me, it was just because you wanted to talk and experience my soft roundness?”
“No, this is the confusion. I flirted to flirt.” I love how sure I sound now. I love how confident my amore makes me feel inside. One day, I will become a true American. “Also, I wanted to sleep with you because you are very bello, and I told you so. And everyone is telling me that I am too direct! How can being direct be so bad? Game-playing with women is bad. But game-playing with other men is bueno. So confusing!”
Madison slumps forward on the desk with her head buried in her arms to muffle her laughter.
My hot gaze drills into her. “See, you are going into a blush now, but we have slept together many times. I do not understand this. We are not ashamed because we are sex-positive.”
Madison lifts her head again. I’m right—her cheeks are violently red. “Okay, fine. Show me what it would have looked like if you were only flirting with me.”
“Okay, si, I will do this.” I shift in my seat to give her my full attention, so that my body mostly faces hers, although I stay at a slight angle for the sake of the cameras. “Ciao, meraviglia, so nice to meet you. I am Marco. What is your name?”
She tries to compose her face into a less bubbly, blushing expression. “I’m Madison.”
I suck in a breath and place my hand to my chest. “Madison? Is this true? What a coincidence, this is my very favorite name. Madison. Like the president I am studying for my citizenship exam. So sensual.”
Madison gapes at me, and her eyes dart toward the camera. “You think President James Madison was sensual? Have you even seen that guy? What is a woman supposed to even say to such nonsense? I see you Italians come by your Casanova reputation naturally. What a bunch of hooey.”
“Non, it is not! You must resist!” I exclaim. “This is the game! I must be so charming, and you must say, Non, I do not have time for you, Marco Rossi. You are a silly boy not worthy of my attention. You must be so bored with my advances. You must be the push to my pull. You must tighten the electrical connection between us bit by delicious bit. For then when we connect in the most intimate way, the line will finally snap. And explode.” I make a firework gesture with both hands.
Madison rolls her eyes. “What if I don’t want some stranger pestering me?”
“Non is not the same as not yet, cara mia.” I turn to the camera as well. “You see what I am saying? These aggressive and ignorant American men ruin the game with their selfishness, and women do not want to play it for they see right through it. I am still surprised that B-list Fuckboy, Latham Newberry, married Scarlett Sayzzz. Flirting is different here. I still do not understand. Which is why I must make a decision to no longer play. I must marry the woman of my dreams and give up on flirting entirely.”
Madison gasps in indignation and swats at me, but she’s laughing. “Watch it, mister, or I might change my mind before the wedding.”
I wink at the camera. “This is the game. You see? She loves me more than ever. American men take note. Marco just showed you how it is done. If you listen to me, you too might end up with your own blog.”
The production crew ends the segment there, and Madison and I gather our personal items before we find out the next steps for the release of the video on YouTube. After we say goodbye, I help my principessa in the car and we head for home.
Home. God, I like the way that thought no longer worries me.
On the way to the new house I purchased on the same street as Cash Denaro, I try to teach Madison a little Italian, which she butchers in the most adorable of ways. She teaches me funny American sayings that make no sense at all. Why would one hit a sack? Or speak of the Devil? Or pay both an arm and a leg for something? It is all very strange.
Do not even get me started on the bush. I still do not know what I am supposed to do with that thing. There are birds, this I know. But one is in the hand and the other is inside. It is bad when you beat the bush. Then it is bueno when you take the rag off of it.
But even when we get things wrong, it is alright. On our own, we make mistakes, and things are hard to understand.
But together?
Together, we are two wrongs making one right, and that is a phrase in English that I comprehend perfectly.
When I turn onto the I15, my amore leans over the gear shift and caresses my inner thigh until I am worried I might leave the roadway. “I have something for you,” she whispers, her gentle breath feathering the shell of my ear.
I reach out my hand, offering her my support and my love and my forever. “Anything you have for me, I consider the sweetest gift.”
Something hard and cold drops into my palm. When I look down, I chuckle. It is a remote. One I remember. With a quick inhale, I push one of the buttons and then let my finger hover over it like I might push it again. “Shall I clap, amore?”
She squeezes my forearm. “Maybe you should wait until we get home to start clapping. Remember what happened last time. Let’s just start slow and build.”
As I caress every line of her face with my heated gaze, I realize what this is. A binding of souls, a gentle promise of forever. My name. Becoming hers. Everything winding and twirling until it turns into one.
I put the remote in my pocket and then take her hand in mine. There will be time to finish what we have just started as soon as we arrive at the house. She settles beside me, and I have never felt so full and calm as I do in this moment.
A ghost of a memory creeps up, quiet in its approach, flashing behind my eyes without warning until moisture threatens to pool within them. The stones. And those who sleep beneath them. The people I love have sent me someone to call mine.
Their absence will haunt me no more. For they are at peace and so am I.
