Summer Of Vows

The Leak.

Day two of the 'marriage.'

Day two of pretending it didn’t happen.

Elena woke to dripping. Not soft rain. The sharp, metallic kind that hit the floor like a clock counting down.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She rolled over in the small room above the workshop. Dark patch spreading across the ceiling above the bed. Water beaded, swelled, dropped into the bucket she’d dragged there at 3am. Nonna had warned her about winter leaks. She hadn’t expected them in June.

She lay there listening until 6:02am when the knock came. One rap. Not three. Not soft.

Matteo didn’t wait for an answer. Door opened. He stood there in the doorway with tools in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Black. No sugar. Same as yesterday.

“You heard it too” he said. Not a question.

“Obviously” Elena said. Sat up, blanket pulled to her chest. Hair a mess. She hated that he saw her like this on day two.

Matteo set the coffee on her nightstand. Didn’t look at her face longer than he had to. “Move your stuff. Room’s not safe. Ceiling could come down.”

“I like this room” Elena said. Arms crossed. Defensive over a leaking ceiling like it was personal.

“I understand that” he said. Rough around the edges. “But I'd like if you didn't get crushed by plaster.”

She didn’t answer. Just climbed out of bed and started pulling clothes from drawers. He turned around to give her privacy. Stared at the wall like it had answers.

“I can sleep on the couch” she said quietly.

“No” Matteo said. “You take the big room. I’ll take the couch.”

“The big room’s yo...” she said.

“Was mine” he said. “But not anymore.”

She stopped packing. “Matteo...”

“Don’t argue” he said. Still not turning. “Please. Just let me do this.”

Elena swallowed. Nodded. Even though he couldn’t see it. She moved her things. He carried her suitcase without asking. His knuckles brushed her doorframe. Once. Then he went back for the bucket.

He worked all morning. Shirt off by 8am. Back muscles moving under skin brown from sun and sea. Rope burns on his palms from the boat, scabbed over now but still pink. Sweat tracked down his spine. Elena watched from the doorway, pretending she was supervising.

She was part Italian and part Nigerian, the kind of mix that made tourists stop and ask what island she was from.

Her mother Sofia was Neapolitan, born in this house with the blue shutters.

Her father Daniel Ferreira was Nigerian-Portuguese, met Sofia in Milan when she was studying architecture.

Elena got Nonna’s bright green eyes and sharp cheekbones and her dad’s deep olive-brown skin that tanned to bronze by July and never burned. Nonna always said she had 'sun from both sides.'

Her last name was Bianchi-Ferreira on paper. Bianchi to Amalfi, Ferreira to Lagos. She hadn’t used Ferreira since Sofia died at 12.

Her hair was the thing Matteo noticed first and tried not to.

Extremely long, brown, wavy hair that fell past her waist when she let it down. In Milan she braided it tight to look professional. Here, with sea air, it went wild. Today it was half-up, the rest falling in thick waves over one shoulder and down her back. When she moved, it moved like water.

Her eyes were green. Bright, sharp green with flecks of gold near the pupil. Sea glass. People said they were too intense. Elena thought they were just honest.

She had an hourglass figure she’d spent years hiding under oversized sweaters in Milan. High waist, narrow ribs, full hips. Even in old jeans and a faded t-shirt, the shape of her was impossible to miss. Tan lines from one summer at 18 still ghosted her collarbone.

She was 24, 5’7 and she carried herself as someone who’d learnt very early how to take up less space in rooms that weren’t made for her. But when she was angry, she took up all of it.

Matteo noticed all of it.

Pretended not to.

“Don’t stare” he said without turning. Voice rough from sleep and sawdust.

“I’m not staring” she lied.

“You are” he said. Tightened a bolt. Water dripped on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. “You’ve been doing it since yesterday.”

Elena’s face went hot. “You’ve been leaving lemons on the table since I arrived.”

“They’re from Nonna’s trees” he said. Didn’t turn. “Waste not.”

“Right” she said.

Silence. Just tools and dripping water and their breathing in the small room.

“Hand me that wrench” he said finally.

Elena picked it up and walked over. When she passed it to him, their fingers brushed. Once. He didn’t pull away. She didn’t either. For half a second they both held the wrench. Heat from his skin to hers.

Then he took it. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention” she said. Too fast.

He drilled. She watched the way his shoulder flexed. The way his jaw clenched when the bit hit a hard spot. The way he licked his lips without thinking about it.

“Elena” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re staring again.”

“So?”

“So, stop,” he said. Not mean. Tired. “Before I forget I’m supposed to stay away.”

She stepped back almost immediately. Putting distance between them. “The ceiling?”

“Almost done” he answered. But he didn’t go back to work right away. He sat on his heels and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Looking up at her from the floor.

“You didn’t have to move” he said quietly.

“Yes, I did” she said. “You were right. It’s not safe.”

“I’m not talking about the ceiling” he said.

Elena’s breath caught. She didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t dare.

He went back to drilling. She went back to watching.

By noon the leak was patched. New plaster. Smelled like wet stone and his soap. He packed up tools without looking at her.

“You can move back in” he said. “Or stay in the big room. Your choice.”

Elena touched the new patch. Still warm. “You did this for me.”

“I did it because the house is falling apart,” he said. But his voice was softer than the words. “Not 'for' you.”

“Liar” she said teasingly.

Matteo went still. Didn’t turn. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? Because it’s true?” Elena stepped closer. Two feet now. “You moved me because you were worried. You made coffee because you knew I'd forget to. You fixed the leak because you couldn’t stand the thought of me lacking sleep.”

“I fixed the leak because I’m the one who knows how to” he said. Jaw tight.

“Keep telling yourself that” Elena said. Then she left the room before she did something stupid like touch his shoulder.

That night she stayed in the big room. Sea view. His bed. Smelled like him. Cedar, Salt and something she couldn’t name but her body recognized. She didn’t sleep. Just lay there listening to him on the couch downstairs. Heard him shift. Heard him sigh.

At 4am, she heard a knock. Soft. Three raps this time.

“Elena?” His voice through the wood.

“Yeah?” she whispered back.

“Wind’s picking up,” he said. “Storm’s coming. You good?”

“Yeah” she responded.

Pause. Then “If you’re not, you can sleep out here. Couch's big enough.”

“No, I'm okay” she said.

Footsteps retreating. Then stopping. “Elena.”

She held her breath.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Matteo."

Elena pressed her palm to the door after he left. Like she could feel the heat of him through the wood. Like she could feel the weight of what the words he left unsaid.

The next morning she found breakfast on the table. Eggs. Toast. Lemons cut into wedges. No note. No him. He’d left for the marina before dawn.

She ate anyway. Even though she wasn’t hungry.

Day three. He came back at dusk with a new light fixture. “For the kitchen” he'd said. “The old one flickers. Gives you headaches.”

“I never said I had headaches” Elena said.

“You squint at 7pm” he said. “Every night. Since you got here.”

Elena didn’t know what to do with that information. So she said, “Thanks Matteo” and went to her room.

That night the new light was warm. Not harsh. She cooked pasta under it. Tried to remember how mom used to stir the sauce. Counter-clockwise. Three times. Her dad, Daniel had watched from this same doorway when he visited from Lagos, saying “She cooks like you, Sofia.” He’d flown here when mom got sick. Sat in this kitchen three days straight, not speaking Italian, just holding Elena’s hand while Nonna yelled at doctors.

He’d stopped coming after the funeral. Too much Bianchi in the walls.

Elena blinked hard. He came in late, smelling like the sea and diesel. Stopped in the doorway when he saw her.

“You didn’t have to cook” he said.

“I know” Elena said. “I was hungry.”

“Alright” he said. But he sat at the table anyway. Ate with her in silence. Shoulder brushing hers when he reached for the salt.

Neither moved away.

After dinner he washed dishes. She dried. Their hands touched in the soapy water, thrice.

Each time, neither pulled away first. But the air only got heavier.

On the third touch, Matteo went still. Water dripping from his fingers. Elena’s from hers.

“Elena” he said. Low.

“What?”

“Nothing” he said. “Forget it.”

He dried his hands and left. Upstairs. Door closed.

Elena stood there with a wet dish towel and a chest that felt too tight. On paper she was Elena Bianchi-Ferreira. In this kitchen, she was just Sofia’s daughter trying not to burn the pasta.