Between Loyalty and You

Chapter 10 (Elena's POV)

On Sunday morning, I changed my clothes three times before nine.

The first dress felt as though I was trying too hard. The second caught against the tender skin at my side.

I settled on trousers and a soft blue blouse.

Then I stood in front of the mirror wondering whether he would remember it from the morning we first kissed at breakfast.

That irritated me enough to leave the bedroom.

The apartment was already clean.

I cleaned the kitchen anyway.

We were meeting at a restaurant. He hadn’t asked to come upstairs. Still, I put away the cardigan hanging over a chair and moved my sketchbook into a drawer.

At half past ten, I bought fresh bread from the bakery downstairs.

At eleven, I checked the weather.

At eleven-seventeen, my phone lit up.

I smiled before I read the message.

Elena, something important has come up that needs my immediate attention. I’m truly sorry, but I won’t make it for our lunch date.

I stood beside the kitchen table, bread still tucked beneath my arm.

The screen dimmed.

I touched it to keep the words there.

Perhaps there was another message coming.

An explanation.

A different time.

I can come tonight.

Let me call you.

Nothing appeared.

I put the bread down.

It was a reasonable message.

That was the worst part.

People canceled lunch. Things happened. Work interrupted plans.

I knew that.

I read it again, trying to be the woman who could reply. Of course. I understand.

But I wasn’t standing in my kitchen with only one canceled lunch between us.

I was standing there with a week of empty chairs. With a letter I had written because I couldn’t bear another day of waiting. With the sound of his voice saying he would be there.

I had told him exactly what had hurt me.

He had listened so carefully.

I sat down.

On the table lay a scrap of paper where I had written the restaurant’s address before sending it to him.

Underneath, I had added a reminder to buy coffee.

Proper coffee.

In case he came upstairs afterward.

I folded the paper until the writing disappeared.

My phone rang at eleven twenty-four.

Luca.

I watched it vibrate beside my hand.

He might explain.

There might be a reason that made everything clear.

I reached toward the screen.

Then I thought of how quickly I had smiled when his message arrived.

How little it had taken to make me hopeful again.

I let the call end.

A message followed.

I know this is disappointing. Please let me explain.

Disappointing.

I looked down at my blouse.

I had pressed it the night before, working carefully around the buttons.

The word made me feel foolish in a way his cancellation hadn’t.

Another message arrived.

Can I call you in ten minutes?

I turned the phone face down.

At noon, I canceled the reservation.

The woman on the telephone asked whether I wanted another table later.

“No, thank you.”

“Another day?”

“No.”

She remained cheerful. I was grateful she couldn’t see me.

Afterward, I stood in the bedroom and unbuttoned the blue blouse.

I folded it neatly before putting it away.

That took more effort than it should have.

I changed into an old shirt and loose trousers, then sat on the edge of the bed.

My phone rang from the kitchen.

I stayed where I was.

Marta called just before one.

I nearly ignored her, too.

Then I saw her name and answered.

“Are you on your way?” she asked.

“No.”

A pause.

“What happened?”

“He can’t come.”

“Oh, Elena.”

“Something important.”

I hated the way I said it.

There could have been an accident. A real emergency. Something I would feel ashamed of resenting if I knew.

But he had left me guessing again, and I had no strength left to guess kindly.

“Did he say what?”

“No.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“He’s called.”

“And?”

“I can’t.”

Marta was quiet.

I stared at the wardrobe handle.

“If I answer, he’ll sound sorry.”

“He might be sorry.”

“I know.”

My voice broke on the second word.

That was what I couldn’t explain without sounding unreasonable.

I believed he was sorry.

I believed he had wanted to come.

I was no longer certain those things made any difference to how it felt to wait for him.

“Do you want me to come over?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“All right.”

“Please don’t tell me I should hear him out.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

I pressed my hand over my eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Have you eaten?”

I laughed once, though it hurt.

“Why does everyone ask me that?”

“Because you forget when you’re upset.”

“There’s bread.”

“Put something on it.”

By three, there were four missed calls.

I didn’t count the messages.

The previews kept appearing while I tried to read. His name pulled my attention from the page every time.

Elena, please—

I swiped the notification away.

A few minutes later:

I’m not avoiding—

I cleared that one, too.

I didn’t want to examine each sentence for evidence that I should give him another chance.

I had done that all week.

I had found tenderness in a promise to call. Hope in a plan for lunch. Enough courage to put on a blue blouse and spend a morning preparing for someone who had said he wanted to see my life.

Now I wanted the afternoon to belong to me, even if I spent it miserable.

I opened our conversation.

His message about leaving his tie at home was still visible above the cancellation.

For a moment, I remembered laughing in the kitchen.

Then I muted the conversation.

I silenced his calls next.

My hands were steady while I did it.

They shook afterward.

The evening came slowly.

I washed the dishes. Watered the basil on the windowsill. Tried to watch something and realized twenty minutes later that I couldn’t name a single character.

At six, I opened the drawer containing my sketchbook.

I hadn’t looked at his portrait since the night of our call.

The likeness was better than I remembered.

That seemed unfair.

I left the page intact and closed the book.

I couldn’t make myself destroy something simply because it hurts to keep it.

Instead, I placed it beneath a stack of work notes and shut the drawer.

My phone lay on the table.

For hours, every silence had made me wonder whether he had finally stopped trying.

I picked it up once.

More missed calls.

More messages.

I put it down without opening any of them.

I didn’t send an explanation. I had already written a letter. I had already stood in his study and told him what waiting did to me.

Anything I sent now would begin another conversation I wasn’t prepared to have.

Before bed, I took the blue blouse from the wardrobe.

There was a small crease across the front where I had folded it badly.

I hung it properly.

Then I set my alarm for work.

Monday would come whether he explained or not. Marta would need the condition reports. My supervisor would insist I sit down. Someone would borrow my pencils and fail to return them.

I wanted those ordinary irritations.

I wanted a day I could go on without waiting to hear what Luca had decided.

My phone lit up once more while I pulled back the bedcovers.

His name appeared.

I placed it face down and switched off the lamp.

For the first time since leaving his house, I had no intention of answering tomorrow.