Marcello Morocco. Vivienne Morocco. Antonio. Chiara. Enzo. Nico.
My name? Absent.
Not even as a +1. Not even a footnote.
The cruise I had dreamed about… gone.
Vivienne’s birthday in three days? He remembered hers. Mine? Never. Not once. Not ever.
I folded the tickets carefully, as if they could bleed.
Then I packed his bag. Polished shoes, ironed pants. Lined up deodorant and vitamins with the meticulousness of hotel staff.
Antonio barged in, no knock. “Ma, pack my stuff too. Chiara’s busy,” he said, sipping beer. “Don’t forget the twins. Nico wants his charger. Enzo needs the blue swim shorts. Snacks—don’t skimp, they get bored.”
He left, and I packed it all. Tiny shorts, rolled T-shirts, Chiara’s perfume tucked in a sock, snacks in ziplocks labeled with love.
I retreated to my room. Door closed silently.
Sitting on the bed, hands trembling, my mind wandered to the girl I had been at eighteen.
When Marcello wasn’t a man who kicked me in the knee, who left me off cruise lists, who had forgotten my existence.
Back when his words sounded like promises.
---
Fresh out of school, unsure of my own shadow, I stood before him.