Death Do Us Part

X. Giada

Gia

The good thing about even the most shocking and captivating news is that it eventually dies down. The fascination over my engagement is gone by the second week of classes, and I couldn't be more thrilled to go back to being just another student people pass on their way to class. I really missed the way everyone is too busy with their own shit to care what others are doing. It's one of the most comforting things about college, the fact that it's so unlike high school where everyone knows everyone else's business, and a scandal is all anyone can seem to talk about.
Months ago, the professors started to warn us about slacking off during our last semester before graduation. They told us it would be harder, more demanding and grueling, and they weren't kidding. I have so much homework, and so many projects due in the next two weeks, that I'm cutting my gym schedule and all social outings out of my routine until my workload is more manageable again.
Max, Val, and Tara, also bogged down with schoolwork, have been too busy to pry more information about Domenico out of me. They hardly ask about him, aside from the occasional question about what we talk about when he calls, which has become an almost daily occurrence.
I rage internally every time he calls, and annoyingly enough, he almost always manages to ring me up when I'm in front of my friends, forcing me to answer and put on my sweetest disposition to keep from raising suspicion. I've also had to change his contact name from the The Devil Himself, to his actual name for the same reason.
     All I want to do is vent to my friends about how much I hate him, and I can't. I have to act obsessed with the man and pretend to be giddy with excitement when he calls, and it's so frustrating and draining. Even more frustrating and draining than the silk that won't sit right no matter how I pin it.  
     I've worked with this material many times before, but each time I attempt a new project, it proves to be more challenging to make it work. My textile and my apparel design professors both agree it's one of the hardest mediums to work with, but it's one of my favorites because of how it flows and the elegance it adds to any outfit.
     Being that it's their job to steer me in the right direction when I'm taking risks they fear might not pan out, they've both suggested I pick fabrics easier to work on, insisting that it's more important that I get the layering, stitching, and shape right, than go for something bold and hard to complete.
     While I agree that those aspects are more important than struggling with a fabric I like the look and feel of, I'm a bit too advantageous for my own good, and I like to wow people. There's nothing that fills me with more pride than pulling off a piece when everyone is doubting me and trying to fill my head with their own opinions and suggestions.
     Staying true to my promise to cap my social life until this project is done, I turned down my friends invitations to a local bar for drinks. I'm also terrified that Domenico will track my ring to a bar, and call me with questions about how I got in. He can not find out about my fake ID. That would only give him something to hold over my head. He already feels like he should have unbridled control over me as it is.
     My stomach rumbles with hunger. It's past the time I would normally eat dinner. There are plenty of things I could whip together in the kitchen, but that requires effort and energy I don't have at the moment. The longer I stare at the pastel blue heap of shiny fabric clinging to the mannequin in all the wrong places, the more frazzled and upset I become. It falls flat where I don't want it to, pillowing or wrinkling in places that tells me I'll have to rework my entire plan for stitching and possibly trim more of it off.
     I consider scrapping the whole thing and starting with a fresh design and a new fabric, but that's just hunger and delirium talking. I don't have the time to make something entirely new, and I have nothing fitting enough in my sketchbook to replace this design with.
     I have to force myself to leave the failing project in my room and venture into the kitchen for brain food. To tired to put a real meal together, I wash and plate some veggies and strawberries in my fridge, add a handful of bagel chips, and a big scoop of humus.
     I sit at my kitchen table, missing my friends and wishing I'd just gone out with them since I'm making no progress anyway, but going out every time I feel stuck on an assignment is a slippery slope. Before long, I'm using stress as an excuse to go out every night. I hate to label myself a sloppy drunk, but where my friends were partying and drinking in high school, I wasn't allowed at parties, so I'm just now figuring out how to gauge my tolerance, and when enough is enough.
     I've gotten a lot better since my freshman year. I've heard enough horror stories of me puking my guts out and falling asleep in strange houses to let myself continue down that path. I might have also had to call Enzo to come save my ass a once or twice, so I try to exercise more control when I drink now.
     I don't get blackout drunk anymore, but I still wake up with the gnarliest hangovers sometimes. Waking up dehydrated and dizzy with a rolling stomach makes the perfect excuse not to go to class, which I've done a few too times despite my personal rule to only skip class for emergencies.
     I promised my parents I'd reward their decision to let me come here by working as hard as possible and making them proud. I'm not here to fuck around, but the temptation to just be a careless college kid calls to me. Maintaining balance between having fun and still making perfect grades is harder than it seems.
     My resolve to wolf down my snack and get back to work quickly slips away, and I start thinking very distracting thoughts.
     I should meet my friends at the bar, show up and surprise them. They'd be so happy I decided to come out, and we'd dance the night away and get free drinks from our favorite bartenders.
     I'm looking for a cute outfit to slip on when my phone rings on my bed. My head snaps behind me at the sound, my eyes zeroing in on Domenico's name.
     "Why now?" I groan, staring down at the screen as it rings and rings. I could let it go to voicemail, let him believe I'm asleep, but I think he knows better. He's picked up on my sleeping habits, and knows I'm  three hours behind whatever time it is in New York.
     From quickly learned experience, I know that he will just keep calling until I pick up, so I answer.
     "My day was the same as yesterday," I say, answering before we can get into our usual pleasantries, which is always followed by his demand that I tell him every detail of my whereabouts and activities during the day. It's more tiring to argue with him than to just tell him what he wants to know. He's only asking for the sense of control it brings him. I've come to realize this much. If I have to appease his silly little whims to make my already stressful day a little easier, I'll do it.
     "I've forgotten everything. You'll have to refresh my memory." He breaths out a little too deeply to be a normal exhale, a shallow intake of breath following like he's trying to control it.
     "I don't remember either. The days are just blurring together."
     "Try harder to remember." The strain in his voice makes it sound like he's lifting heavy boxes.
     "What if I can't?"
     "Giada," a sighs in a frustrated manner. "Don't fuck with me with now."
     "My psychotic business professor assigned more work even though we haven't even gotten our grades from our assignments or quizzes last week."
     "Ahh, I've heard teachers do that." He pauses and I hear a faint pant. "Wouldn't remember. It's-" he pause. "Been a while since I've been in school."
     "Way to remind me just how sick and twisted our age gap is old man." He chuckles in breathless way, two quick exhales following each other like he's struggling just to laugh.
     "I may be eight years older than you but-" The line crackles and rustles as if he's lost his grip on his phone. I hear him say fuck under his breath before more rustling. "You're of age."
     "Barely," I tease, not because I think of myself as barely legal, but just because I know it will bother him. He laughs again, but it's even more strained than the last one, and it's accompanied by more shallow breathing that I almost wouldn't hear if I wasn't pressing my phone to my ear so hard.
     "Did you just get into a fight? Why are you breathing so hard?"
     "I just got back for a run."
     "Is that what you do with your spare time? You run?"
     "Among other things," he answers briskly.
     "Like?"
     "What would you imagine?"
     "Making small children cry and pushing over old ladies to be honest, but I'm asking you because-"
     "Because?"
     Why am I asking? I'd rather not know anything about him, but the question just rolled off of my tongue.
     "Because you want to know more about me," he says for me when I fail to produce an answer.
     "Because I'm tired of being the only one to do the talking and telling. You call me almost everyday and make me tell you about everything I did, and you don't give me anything. Don't make this weird. I just want to know what you do when you're not bothering me and residing over hell."
      He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. It's followed by a long pause, some shuffling around, and then his breathing is slowing down. That must have been some run. It makes sense that running is a means of exercise he uses to stay so fit. He's got the physique of a man that works out often, lifts heavy, and does a lot of cardio.
     "I knit too," he says, tone returned to his usual low drawl. His signature infliction is not easy to replicate. When he speaks, it sounds like he's bored with you and trying to seduce you at the same time, but the latter might just be due to the fact that his voice is so deep it rumbles in your stomach when he talks.
     "You do not," I snort, refusing to picture the image of a man of his size making little blankets and doilies.
     "I don't," he confirms. "I do box though."
     "Not shocking for a man as violent as you are."
     "Boxing isn't all about violence. It's about strength and agility, balance and power. It's a good way to gain endurance and resilience, and it teaches good sportsmanship."
     "Why can't I picture you being a good sport after taking a loss?"
     "I don't lose."
     Something tells me that extends to more than just boxing and sparring matches. It would make sense why he's so desperate to always have his way. He's not used to not getting exactly what he wants, and not getting what he wants is as good as a loss to him.
     I'm only beginning to unravel Domenico and all of his mysteries, but I know I'm just beginning to scrape the iceberg. There's so much more that I can't see looming beneath him. It scares me, but also intrigues me the same way puzzles and challenges do, though I won't let him know that.
     "Everyone loses sometimes, in one way or another."
    "Not me."
     "If you say so."
     "I do say so."
     "Okay then."
     "Do you always have to have the last word?"
     "No, do you?"A silent pause as he assesses how to respond.
     "What are you doing?" My eyes flicker to my unfinished project. I don't want to talk about my failed skirt.
     "Having dinner," I stare down at my half finished snack.
     "At ten at night?"
     "I was really busy," I explain. "The time escaped me."
     "Is it rude of me to say I'm shocked you can cook?"
     "Rude, but typical coming from you."
     "What did you make?" He asks, tone holding a quality that tells me he doesn't believe me I can actually cook. He lets me know as often as he can that I'm a spoiled brat, so he probably thinks I'm useless in the kitchen, that I eat takeout for every meal.
     "I know you're asking because you think I can't cook, but I can, just so we're clear," I'm stalling to save myself the embarrassment of admitting I'm eating something that didn't require me to chop or cook anything.
"Fine, I believe you," he chuckles like he doesn't. "So what did you make then?"
"You're not allowed to say anything, so just keep your mouth shut. I'm pressed for time and I have a lot of homework to do so... I microwaved a frozen chicken teriyaki bowl."
     He can't contain his low chuckle, and it both annoys me and makes all of the hair on my body stand up, my skin prickling.
     "Sounds filling," he says, not sounding like he finds my idea of a suitable meal appealing. "At least it's not pizza rolls."
"You're not allowed to judge me. You're a man. You're probably not satisfied by anything less than filet mignon." He chuckles darkly again, amused by my assumption.
     "Is this what I should expect when we wed baby doll? Microwaved meals?" He's fucking with me, just trying to get me to snap on him for being misogynistic.
     "You can hire a private chef or you can eat air for all I care. I'm not cooking for you."
     "I already have a private chef. What if I want my wife to fulfill her duties and make all of my meals? What if I require more than that? A clean house and freshly pressed shirts? Massages maybe?"
     "My only duty is to keep myself from going to prison for your murder, so you're dreaming if you think I'm going to take your last name and become your fucking maid and live in masseuse." I'm trying to keep the edge from my tone, knowing it will only encourage him to chide me further.
     "I'm only joking," he laughs. "I have hired people to do anything I need. I wouldn't expect you to lift a spoiled little finger wifey."
     "Well good, because I wouldn't even if you wanted me to. I'd never lift a finger for a man I don't love."
     "Good luck getting a man to love you with that attitude."
     "Brace yourself because this might be a total shock, but my mission in life isn't to get a man to fall in love with me, so I think I'm okay with that."
"Well I guess I should stop trying then huh?"
"If what you've been doing so far is what you do to get people to fall in love with you, I'd say you could try maybe a little harder than you are now, or if you're taking suggestions, maybe try an entirely different approach. Like... try literally anything else."
His laugh is one of the few things about him that seems human. I'd expect a demon cackle to come out of his mouth every time he finds something humorous, but it's so warm in a way that fills your whole chest and stomach, in a way that makes you glad you said whatever you said to make him produce the sound.
"You're funny Giada." I don't like the unnerving way he says my name, like he's familiar with it. He says it often enough I'm convinced he just likes the sound of it rolling off of his tongue, and I don't want him to get comfortable saying it. Im also not used to him complimenting me if it's not in a backhanded way.
     "Thanks, I guess."
     "You're welcome, I guess."
     "So are these phone calls going to become a daily thing?"
     "Do you want them to be?"
     "Definitely not."
     "Then I'll call everyday. I'll even let you pick the time."
     "That's so generous of you, but definitely not and no mean the same thing."
     "The clarification is appreciated, but I did tell you before that I need to keep tabs on you."
     "What do you think Enzo is here for?"
     "I was under the presumption he was getting a degree like you, so he's distracted. He can't be with you every hour of the day. I could send someone of my choosing to accompany you everywhere, but I guessed this would be less annoying and invasive to your privacy."
     "Would you say your guesses are generally correct when you make then cause I've got news for you."
     "Goodnight Giada."
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